By Omoh Giwa
Dear Mussolini,
Il Duce, patron saint of one-party states, connoisseur of fascist aesthetics, eternal exhibit in Hades’ museum of dictatorship. How fares the afterlife? I hope you are enjoying your seat in Hades’ special lounge for dictators, sipping molten brimstone from the skulls of disobedient journalists. I imagine you must be bored sometimes, after all, eternity is long and tyrants, however great, need fresh entertainment. Allow me to provide you with news from Nigeria, where your spirit finds fertile soil and your legacy, yes, your exquisite, authoritarian genius, blooms like a weed in an abandoned farmland.
I must first commend you, Duce, for the timelessness of your craft. Though your earthly life ended dangling upside down in Milan, your ideas continue to march, goose-step and all, across continents. You would be thrilled to learn that here, in my dear country (once self-styled the Giant of Africa, now more of a tired, asthmatic elephant, still an elephant regardless), we have a leader whose brilliance rivals even yours. Indeed, some whisper that he is not merely imitating you but surpassing you, as a diligent apprentice outshines his master. Should you feel flattered or insulted? I leave that to your ghostly vanity.
Like you, this man began as a voice of the common people, a socialist of sorts, preaching justice from the roadside pulpits of activism. He was once the thorn in the side of past presidents and heads of state, just as you harassed poor Luigi Facta with your brash charisma. But genius, Il Duce, cannot remain in the gutters forever. Just as you rose with your March on Rome, so did he stage his own parade, our very own tropical version of your historic march, ushering out one government and installing his cronies with calculated precision. Ah, how you would have smiled to see it: a performance of democracy so convincing that even cynics applauded.
And like you, he understood the power of the press. You had Il Popolo d’Italia; he has his numerous media machines so dazzling that even you would squint at their brilliance. Where your headlines bludgeoned opponents, his headlines serenade them into silence. He does not shout; he whispers, and the whole country (the rascals in the East do not count) nods in hypnotic agreement. Truly, Mussolini, he has refined your art of propaganda into something more subtle, more elegant, an aria instead of a marching song.
But the crown jewel of his imitation is not mere rhetoric. No, the masterpiece, the brushstroke that has made me wake you from your eternal roasting, is his creation of what I can only describe as a one-party Eden. He began at home, in a state that some mischievous tongues claim is not even his by birthright. What does it matter? Did Romulus and Remus not claim a city built on stolen soil? He conquered it anyway, stamping his vision on its streets, its skyline, even its monuments. They say the great landmark in the heart of the city is named after a fictional character. Lies, all lies! Every syllable screams his greatness. You, who demanded statues, would understand.
Having domesticated his state, he expanded outward, gently tightening his grip on other regions. He rode into national consciousness on a white horse, or rather, on a ragtag coalition, convincing the hungry masses that he was their saviour. You would have admired his strategy, Duce: promising bread while collecting bakeries, distributing hope while siphoning harvests. He opposed the Umbrella party that his media informed us had plunged the nation into its deepest darkness since the days of chains and colonies. Benevolent America even offered us a military base as consolation during that bleak period, but our leader, wiser than all, rode in and saved us. Was it bread or circuses he offered? No matter, the crowd cheered.
Then came his greatest triumph: the slow but deliberate suffocation of opposition. He did not ban them outright; that would be too crude, too reminiscent of the 1920s. Instead, he turned rivals into jesters, coaxed (some say intimidated) them into his fold, or better yet, allowed them to decay under the weight of their own irrelevance. One fiery politician once believed he could challenge him. Poor man. With the gentle assistance of political thugs (forgive me, crime fighters), the fellow was intimidated into submission. Today, he is not an opponent but a spokesman, proof that our elder statesman can turn lions into lapdogs with nothing but a whistle. Even you, Il Duce, must admit this is artistry.
Of course, Mussolini, we ordinary citizens bask in this brilliance. True, the boot on our necks sometimes presses a little too heavily, but we wear it as a necklace of honour. True, our garri now tastes more of saltwater than cassava but what is hunger compared to the glory of national stability? We rejoice when dissenters are silenced, for who needs the distraction of many voices when one voice, steady and unwavering, tells us what to think? You would call it unity; I call it paradise.
Yet, I write to you not only to praise but to beg. Whisper to your apprentice, from whatever smoky chamber you occupy, suggesting that he may kindly lift his boot, not entirely, of course, but just enough that we may swallow without choking. We do not oppose his one-party utopia. Heaven forbid! We simply ask for a gentler grip. A nation of hungry men, as you know, is unpredictable and it would be a tragedy if his masterpiece of control were spoiled by something so trivial as famine and poverty.
So, Il Duce, guardian of authoritarian legacies, accept this humble report from one of your distant admirers. May your restless spirit find joy in knowing that while your body rots in Italian soil, your methods flourish beneath the African sun. If immortality lies in influence, then congratulations; you live on, thriving, reinvented, applauded by those who do not even know your name.
Yours obsequiously,
Omoh Giwa
Department of English, University of Lagos
P.S. If Hades ever allows you visiting rights, come stroll our streets. You will see your shadow everywhere, in our monuments, in our silences, in our hunger. And perhaps you will agree with me: Nigeria is your unfinished symphony, finally reaching its crescendo
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