Testimony of the year




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Still in 2018, Miss BUSH rounded off her undergraduate studies at Jackson State University in style: first class. Pronto, she got another scholarship to run her Master’s at Kent. 2018 is leaving me with the mindset that God is a BUSH Lover!

How else do you contextualise my first state government appointment, and by a governor I did everything to stop? Don’t get it twisted, this wasn’t my first state appointment. It is only the first I have accepted. Only God would have asked Gov. Udom Emmanuel to make me Board Member of Primary Healthcare, the core of my innermost passions.

Although 2019 is coming like some master key, I cannot tire of declaring 2018 my year of the decade. It has brought back my swag, my substance, my belief. Apart from restoring the years eaten by locusts, caterpillars and company, the year has also re-highlighted and re-illuminated the pathway to the glorious, even if constantly shifting, future. 2018 has signaled that the future is closer than ever was and than ever would be.

Alas! this Year of Glory would have been asterisked as at best a tragicomedy. This is my testimony, in thanksgiving: Lord, take the praise, the honour, the adoration, the glory, the everything for intervening last weekend. The time is three dot five small minutes since it clocked three, this Friday afternoon in Uyo-Nigeria. I’ve just come downstairs to catch a ride to the studio (for a 4-6pm show, AKWA IBOM CALLING) en route BUSH HOUSE NIGERIA Corporate Headquarters where a couple of visitors were waiting.

Finding the driver is not around, I jump into the car and zoom off. Thinking about it now, the first premonition which evaded my hypersensitive nature was the ten minute journey taking all of forty – no thanks to the political rally in that part of town. At the office, I explain my quandary to people who had been waiting for hours. Thankfully, they all (but one) graciously accept we reconvene fifteen minutes after the airtime.

The naysayer is too young to understand my explanation. Named after me when he was born, Michael is now eight years old. Having not seen me in years, he clung on to me. We, the two Michaels, lost five minutes to-ing and fro-ing while Mummy Mbuotidem stood there watching, with a (serves-you- right) smirk on her face.

Realising that blandishments cut no ice with the precocious lad, I asked him to join the thin studio entourage and me in the car. By this time, all we had was ten minutes. Down the road, with five minutes left, we couldn’t drive beyond a certain point. Again, rally-related security or the lack of it!

Frantic, the two staffers (including the one with Michael at the back) dash out of the car and speed off on foot. In that madness and with four minutes before the signature tune would come on air, I disembark, thinking I am all alone, lock the car and hurry off. Fast forward to 6pm: programme is over but as always happens one or two persons have come to see me; one even insisting I ride with him. Only God stopped me from taking that ride, since this being the first time I have driven myself to Comfort FM I didn’t even remember I drove!

Walking out of the building, I emerged to blaring music just as a Comfort staffer walked up to invite me to their end of year party. I apologised to him, but the man on the microphone giving his opening remarks on sighting me immediately announced that I be brought to sit with his family and him. Quietly, sulking inside, I took back the apologies and strolled to the seat.The Station Manager, Mr. Eddy Ekpenyong, my professional mentor, is someone I never say no to.

I spent thirty minutes until something from God started scratching my butt to leave. So, I concocted one excuse which ‘Sir Eddy’ accepted. Phew! at 6.48, nearly three hours since I had left the car, I screamed, horrified over the whereabouts of Michael. Then, I remembered the car!

All hell broke loose: I got one of my teamsters, Thespian Steve, to run to the car. I half-ran, half-walked in tow. Meanwhile newspaper, social media and beer parlour headlines were forming in my head: Michael BUSH kills boy for more fame, Popular media chief finally spills blood to join big league, BUSH washes face with child’s blood, etc. My heartbeats ran amok when twenty metres from me, I saw Steve lift the child from the car and lump him on his shoulder!

‘Has the worst happened?’ I asked my God. As usual, He didn’t answer or so I thought. Eureka! Since I can’t find the words to express the redness of my heart, let me simply say with thanksgiving God bless God!

Osinbajo preaches hope, as Villa chapel holds end-of-year thanksgiving



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