More Than Pretend - Chapter 2
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER TWO 👇🏾
Chapter Two
Nimi
Port Harcourt, Nigeria
I sat alone in my office—a haven of calm amid the bustling governor’s mansion in Port Harcourt. Its walls were decorated with various artifacts: a commendation plaque from the Nigerian Economic Summit Group, framed newspaper clippings, and even an old placard from my activism days at Obafemi Awolowo University. Yet, among these, it was a simple wooden frame that drew me in. A photograph of my late wife, captured in eternal laughter. Her joy was a poignant backdrop to my phone’s ever-updating screen, a messenger of my mother’s fragile health. It felt like the guidance of two women, one from the past and another in a hospital bed, was leading me through difficult times.
My phone buzzed. I glanced, anxious for updates on my mother’s health. Stable for now, it read. I pressed the screen off and forced a composed expression as my team filed into the room.
“Afternoon, everyone. Please, have a seat.” I gestured toward the plush chairs that encircled my desk. Every person who came in belonged to a distinct part of our state's social and political landscape: healthcare, education, and infrastructure.
“As you all know, we have our campaign kickoff next week. We’re here to ensure that it not only resonates with our people. It should also reflect what we’ve achieved in the past four years,” I said. I tapped a few keys on my laptop to project a PowerPoint slide titled ‘Four Years of Progressive Governance.’
“We’ve invested in education, revitalized rural communities, and spearheaded economic reforms. This isn’t the time to back down; we need another term to solidify these gains.”
Greg, my campaign manager, nodded. “That’s true, sir. You’re the youngest governor in our nation’s history. People see you as the face of a new Nigeria.”
My communications director, Ifeoma, chimed in. “While your youthful image is an asset, people also need to know about the schools we’ve built, the healthcare policies we’ve started, and the jobs we’ve created. You’re not just a young governor, but an effective one.”
“And that’s what should define our campaign. Transparency, effectiveness, and a commitment to sustainable development,” I emphasized. My eyes briefly settled on my phone.
“Does that align with everyone’s understanding?” I asked, already knowing the answer. Everyone in the room nodded in agreement. But my mind had already drifted away—imagining my frail mother in her hospital bed, wondering if she would be proud of what her youngest son had achieved.
Scanning the faces of my team, I asked, “Before we wrap up, any concerns or questions?”
Uche, my advisor on healthcare policy, cleared his throat. “Your Excellency, I think it’s crucial to highlight our recent success with the free maternity care initiative for low-income families. It directly impacts a large voter base and shows immediate results.”
“Excellent point, Uche. We’ll include that in the kickoff speech,” I responded, and made a mental note.
“Sir, how about the infrastructural developments? The Port-Harcourt-Aba road project should definitely get a mention,” offered Adebayo, my chief of staff.
“You’re right, Adebayo. That road is a lifeline for local businesses. We need to spotlight how it’s creating real economic opportunities.”
“And the youth employment scheme, sir,” added Chijioke, my chief of staff. “They need to know that you’re fighting for them.”
“Agreed. Youth employment is a cornerstone of our governance; it ties into everything we do, from education to economic reform.” I nodded, pleased by the thoughtful insights. “That will be all.”
“Thank you, sir,” they chorused. They left the room while I dealt with the complicated governing responsibilities.
As the door clicked shut behind the last team member, I turned my seat around to face the window that looked over the state’s capital, Port Harcourt. The campaign, governance, and visions for a better Nigeria were all crucial. These weren’t just policy points; they were fragments of the lives we were collectively working to improve.
A few minutes after the door closed behind my team, it swung open again, this time with a flourish that could only belong to one person—my Aunty Enitan. She sashayed into the room in an Ankara gown that could have passed for a work of art, its vivid patterns clashing gloriously with the muted earth tones of my office. The cut of the dress complemented her voluptuous figure.
“Ahhh, Nimi, you’re alone. Good. We need to talk,” she began, settling into a chair without waiting for an invitation.
“Aunty, to what do I owe this unannounced pleasure?” I asked, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice.
“We need to talk about your campaign strategy,” she declared, her eyes narrowing with concern and determination.
“Actually, we just wrapped up a meeting on that,” I countered.
She waved her hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, the roads, the schools, the hospitals. Those are all good, but what about you, Nimi? What about the man behind the mission?”
“Excuse me?” I was puzzled and a little wary.
“Nimi, you’re a widower, and all the voters see is a man married to his job. If you want to be re-elected, people have to see you as a family man. A man with love in his life and hopefully children. Stability.”
A twinge of annoyance flared up in me. “Aunty, my performance these past four years should be enough proof of my capabilities. I am the youngest governor Nigeria has ever had, and the work should speak for itself.”
“Ah, youth!” she exclaimed, as if it were a seasoning missing in a bland meal. “Youth doesn’t keep you warm at night; youth doesn’t sit with you at family events. People want to see that their leaders are strong.”
Her words cut through my practiced stoicism. For a speedy moment, I felt the loneliness of the spacious house, the echoing silence that sometimes caught me off guard when I reached for my late wife’s touch. “Aunty, you know how I’ve struggled since losing Adeola, and with Mum’s health issues... I don’t want to bring another person into this complex web of mine, only to potentially hurt them, too,” I finally admitted, a rough edge creeping into my voice.
My eyes snapped to Aunty Kemi as she leaned forward, her voice dropping a notch. “Nimi, it’s because I love you that I’m saying this. Being vulnerable in the eyes of the public doesn’t make you look strong. It makes you a target.”
Her words hung in the air, creating a noticeable tension that tightened around us like a coil. “So you’re saying, just put on a show for the world and bury my feelings? That’s not who I am, Aunty,” I retorted, my words tinged with resentment.
She exhaled, her eyes not wavering from mine. “I’m not saying bury your feelings. I’m saying govern them. You think the people want a leader whose personal life is as rocky as the economy we’re trying to fix?”
Her words stung, in part because there was some truth to them. But also because she was the closest thing to a mother I had left, and here she was, challenging the values I thought she’d helped instill in me. “And what would you have me do? Start a love life as a campaign strategy?” I snapped.
“Having a solid relationship is not a campaign strategy. It’s a life strategy,” she countered, her eyes sharpening like a hawk’s.
“Aunty, I’ve spent four years making serious changes in this state. Yet you make it sound as if all of that is insignificant because I don’t have a ring on my finger anymore.”
She shook her head. “No, it’s because you don’t have peace in your heart. And you can’t govern effectively without that. Even if you win this election, then what? Four more years of loneliness?”
The air tensed further between us. My phone buzzed again—another update on my mother. Yet, it was her sister in front of me, filling the room with a different maternal energy, albeit one that annoyed and challenged me. “You think having someone will fill the void Adeola left or replace the worry for Mum?” I shot back, nearly whispering as I fought to keep my emotions in check.
“It’s not about filling voids, Nimi. It’s about making room for new possibilities,” she said, her voice softening but still unyielding. “Don’t you think it’s time to weave someone else into your story?”
Before I could answer, my phone buzzed with a message—my brother, Tein, informing me that Mum was being discharged and would need home care. Another variable in my already uncertain equation.
“As you can see, Aunty, there’s a lot on my plate,” I said, gesturing to my phone.
“Yes,” she mumbled, her eyes filled with disappointment and unconditional love, “and plates are best carried with more than one pair of hands.”
As she left my office, her perfume lingered in the air. I felt the echo of her words, and it made me question whether my habit of keeping to myself contributed to the complexities of the human heart.
Taking a deep breath, I leaned back in my plush leather chair, my gaze shifting from campaign posters to the photograph of Adeola that graced my desk. There she was, radiant as ever, her smile captured in a frame of timeless mahogany. I reached for the picture, and my fingers brushed over a note she had written, carefully tucked behind the frame.
Dear Nimi, don’t forget to be you. The world needs your light.
Laughing softly, I couldn’t help but think how she had always been my grounding force, the still point in my chaotic reality. My eyes caught sight of another frame containing a photograph of my mother. Her eyes held that familiar fire, reminding me of the strong, vibrant woman she once was.
I stood up and walked toward the window. “It’s not easy, is it?” I said aloud to the emptiness, addressing the internal dilemma I seldom spoke of. Mental health was a taboo topic in my world of politics. Yet here I was, silently battling with it. With grief, in the only way I knew how, silence. “Is it possible for a leader to be a beacon of strength while recognizing their own vulnerability?”
My phone vibrated, displaying a message from my campaign manager, a quick nudge back to the whirlwind that awaited me.
“Well, Adeola,” I said, “how about this? I’ll never claim to be without flaws or fears, but I’ll always strive to be the best version of myself. How does that sound for a campaign promise?”
And maybe, just maybe, that was okay.
