JÀLÈ JÀIYÉ

 

JÀLÈ JÀIYÉ

Steal—and live the good life

The soldier steals—

not always for hunger,

not merely to keep death

from the cooking pot.

He steals to pack wife and children

into the peace of Canada,

far from the checkpoints

where he once collected

the price of passage.

The General builds plazas

from the wages of war,

raises mansions upon the graves

of boys he sent into battle,

and finances the sculpting

of a new body

for his latest heartthrob.

Everyone must jàiyé.

Everyone must enjoy.

The civil servant steals—

a little from pensions,

a little from contracts,

a little from files

that will not move

until their palms are greased.

He wants a house in his hometown,

another in Abuja,

and one more in London—

a shelter against the day

his own country

finally collapses upon him.

He must satisfy

the golden tastes of four wives

and keep twenty children

in private schools,

because the public schools

whose funds he swallowed

are no longer fit

for his own blood.

Everyone must jàiyé.

Everyone must enjoy.

The lecturer steals—

grants, marks, allowances,

the pages of another man’s book.

He needs a larger car

and a roof against the rainy day

which forty years of teaching

could never provide.

And when money is scarce,

he steals what money cannot buy:

the innocence of young women

sent to him in search of knowledge.

He marks their bodies

before he marks their scripts,

plucking flowers

from gardens entrusted

to his care.

Everyone must jàiyé.

Everyone must enjoy.

The domestic servant steals—

a piece of meat today,

a cup of rice tomorrow,

a handful of seasoning

hidden beneath her wrapper.

There are hungry mouths at home,

school fees waiting,

an ageing mother

whose medicine cannot be bought

with loyalty.

And so, in her custody,

the pot of soup

that once lasted three days

now vanishes before evening.

Meat develops wings.

Condiments learn to walk.

Everything entrusted to her

takes flight.

She, too, must jàiyé.

She, too, must survive.

The students watch

the footsteps of their elders

and learn the national curriculum:

Take what is not yours.

Hide your tracks.

Display the proceeds.

Call it grace. Omo Ologo!

They live inside laptops,

fishing across the oceans

for the pensions of lonely women

and the savings of grieving men.

They manufacture love,

package affection,

and sell imaginary futures

to strangers desperate for warmth.

Soon, the champagne pours.

A luxury car appears.

The street applauds.

Mama Omo Ologo thanks God

No one, not the man in cassock, asks

what labour produced the harvest;

we only admire

the size of the barn.

Everyone must jàiyé.

Everyone must enjoy.

Jewellery flashes.

Brazilian hair dances.

New breasts rise.

New buttocks bloom.

Dark skin is scrubbed and bleached

until it is paler

than an Icelander’s winter.

The money comes

from countless beds—

from officials entrusted

with the nation’s treasury,

from cocaine fortunes,

from Yahoo proceeds,

from powerful men

who buy young flesh

with the future of other people’s children.

Bodies become investments.

Desire becomes commerce.

Shame is renamed hustle.

Everyone must jàiyé.

Everyone must enjoy.

The king auctions honour

to the highest bidder,

trading the dignity of the throne

for enough money

to enlarge his harem

and fill his palace

with glittering toys

he neither needs nor understands.

One plot of ancestral land

is sold to ten different buyers;

ten receipts bear the royal seal,

ten families inherit one quarrel.

And when the cheated

run to the law for justice,

they find the DPO

seated beside the throne—

an accomplice in uniform,

his silence already purchased

with a portion of the proceeds.

The crown that should protect the people

has become an instrument of fraud;

the police station that should defend them

has become the palace annex.

The king must jàiyé.

The DPO must collect his share.

And the people must pay—

first for the land,

then for justice,

and finally for the privilege

of being cheated.

And the politician?

Ah!

He does not merely steal

from the nation.

He steals the nation itself.

He steals the hospital

and flies abroad for treatment.

He steals the school

and sends his children overseas.

He steals the road

and travels in a convoy

of armoured vehicles.

He steals electricity

and surrounds his mansion

with generators ,lately solar farm 

He steals the people’s security

and hires armed guards

to protect himself

from the people.

He buys, in foreign lands,

everything he was elected

to provide at home.

Then he returns

to ask the hungry

for another mandate.

Everyone must jàiyé.

Everyone must enjoy.

The tragedy is no longer

that thieves live among us.

The tragedy is that theft

has become our common language—

spoken in barracks and ministries,

in lecture halls and bedrooms,

in servants’ quarters

and chambers of power.

Each hand takes

according to its reach.

Each mouth condemns

the thief above it

while swallowing

what it stole from below.

The small thief envies the great thief.

The great thief fears the greater thief.

And the honest man is mocked

as a fool who missed his chance.

We no longer ask,

“Is it right?”

We ask,

“Is it my turn?”

We no longer dream

of building a country.

We dream of escaping it

with enough of its ruins

to live comfortably elsewhere.

Thus, piece by piece,

transaction by transaction,

we auction the Republic—

and with every theft

we build a private paradise

inside a public hell.

One day,

when there is nothing left to steal,

we shall gather at the banquet,

dressed in gold,

lifting glasses of champagne—

only to discover

that we have eaten the seed,

sold the farm,

poisoned the river

and mortgaged the unborn.

Then we shall understand:

No one truly jàiyé

in a Republic of thieves.

For when everyone steals

to live well,

no one is left

to build a life worth living.

- Babafemi Ojudu

Abuja, 11th September 2026.