Long ago, the elders of Umuofia warned that when a man dips his hands into the communal pot and takes more than his fair share, he brings disgrace not only upon himself but upon the entire village.
They said that if a child steals meat from the soup pot, it is not enough to slap his hand, he must return what he took and clean the pot so that others may eat in peace.
But in today’s Umuofia, the looters no longer hide in the shadows. They dance in the marketplace, pockets full, while the town crier looks the other way. They ride in luxury, move with bodyguards, grace social events, make grand donations, and some are even revered.
A few days ago, a respected former Elder stood before the people and revealed something that, in any well-ordered village, would have sent the elders clutching their walking sticks in outrage. She spoke of how the head of the School Nutritional Program, an office entrusted with the nourishment of children, approached her with a bold and shameless scheme.
The plan?
Create ghost secondary schools filled with ghost students so that real money could be stolen from the king’s treasury. In Umuofia today, even spirits are entitled to school feeding grants
In a place where integrity still held value, such a revelation would have set the talking drums echoing across the land. The Igwe’s guards would have scrambled, the marketplace would have been filled with whispers, and the elders would have summoned an emergency council meeting.
But in Umuofia?
Nothing happened. Not a single feather ruffled, not a single calabash shattered in protest. Even the goats in the marketplace chewed their cud in silence. The people simply shrugged, as if someone had merely announced that the sun would rise tomorrow.
It is said that when a dead rat is left too long under the sun, the smell of rot becomes normal. This is what looting has become in Umuofia—a stench so constant that people no longer notice it.
The former Elder did not stop at exposing the ghost school scandal. She revealed that she had conducted an audit of the School Nutritional Program and delivered it to the Igwe himself.
And what became of that report?
It was placed beneath the great anthill of forgotten things, where all uncomfortable truths go to be buried. No one saw it, no action was taken, and the ghosts continued to eat at the expense of the living.
If a person presents evidence of outright looting, not suspicion, not rumor, but hard facts, and those in power yawn, what hope remains for recovering the loot?
Where is the audit report?
Who received it?
Did the talking drums misplace it on the way to the palace?
Or did it, like so many of Umuofia’s missing funds, simply vanish into thin air?
Umuofia has no shortage of institutions meant to fight looting. There are councils and offices dedicated to tracking stolen yams, reclaiming missing coins, and bringing thieves before the Igwe.
Yet when a scandal of this magnitude emerges, these very institutions remain silent. Have they gone on a spiritual retreat? Have they been offered too many kola nuts and lost their appetite for fighting looting? Are they not given enough resources to fight? Or have they simply decided that looting is no longer worth challenging?
There is a great difference between the ordinary farmer, who shakes his head in resignation, and those who swore an oath to protect the village from looting and plundering. When the very people appointed to guard the granary become friends with the yam thieves, famine is never far behind.
Umuofia was not always like this. It was once a land of honor, where a man’s word was his bond, and the fear of disgrace kept even the most ambitious rogue in check. If a village reaches a point where stories of conspiracies to set up ghost schools at the highest levels millions no longer shake its foundations, then the question must be asked: Has it made peace with looting?
If the fight against looting is to be revived, the anti-looting councils must act. The missing audit report must be found. Those entrusted with investigating looting must wake from their slumber. And those who have lost their hair must demand answers.
Because in a village where looters dine freely at the king’s table, it is only a matter of time before everyone else is left eating from empty plates.
Da Yie!
