Messiah. That was what your citizens were calling you. It started with a lone statement by someone on Facebook—a joyous citizen, one of the many who have benefited from your well-thought-out policies—and within weeks, the name had spread like the pandemic the country just came out from. Messiah. Such a glorious name for the President of Nigeria.
You finished signing the sheaf of documents, shifted it to your right, and reached for the next pile. Just then, your private and secure phone rang. You were surprised because you knew that only three people had your direct line: the Vice President, the Chief of Staff, and your wife, the First Lady of the Republic.
The caller was an unknown person, and it baffled you that such a security breach was possible. You picked the call, transferred it to the speaker, and opened the file of documents.
“Hello Mr. President,” a cold, male voice said, “or should I say Miss President?”
Your blood froze instantly; there was only one person in the world who knew the secret of your past. There were only two secrets you would take to your grave: how you came to be the president of the country and who you really are.
“Uh… who is this?” You did not intend to stutter, but your voice betrayed you because you were well aware of who the person on the other end of the line was.
“The tremor in your voice tells me that I should have addressed you with the latter. So let me address you properly: Good afternoon Miss President. I trust you are doing well? I am calling you because I want you fulfill the promise you made before you were turned into the person you are today,” he replied. There was a sinister tone in his voice that chilled your blood further.
“So you still remember my name? Yet you forgot the promise of ten billion dollars you made that would be effected once you became the vice president? It’s been two years now. Why have you not fulfilled your promise?” he thundered. You darted a look at the door, hoping that your Chief of Staff would delay the meeting you had with him. No one would know of this.
“All I’m asking is a little more time. It’s just been three years since the country came out of the Covid-19 pandemic; there is no way I can bring out such a huge amount of money without raising eyebrows,” you pleaded. Yes, the President of Nigeria should not be weak, should not beg anyone, but every rule had an exception.
“That is your headache, madam. By this time tomorrow, I’ll send you the address you will bring the money to—in person. If you fail to show up, then your citizens will know the trickster that is in Aso Rock. Good day.” He clicked off, leaving you totally cold and scared.
It had been a tough battle gathering the money given the poor state of the country’s economy, but you had to do it. That was the only way you could continue with the dream you had for your nation, a dream that forced you to sacrifice the most precious thing to you—your natural identity.
As the car drove out of Aso Rock, your mind flew back to how it all started. You’d been burning with a desire to change your country, and you had the ideas too. But one thing stood in your way—your sex; you were a bloody woman! And most Nigerians would not vote for a presidential candidate that had a woman as a vice president. And being relatively young and unknown, the only way you could rise in the Nigerian politically sphere was to become a man—literally!
So you had flown to the US, and after spending millions of dollars of your inheritance, you became a man; your body became that of a man but your heart would always be that of a woman.
Your doctor, a Nigerian, had discovered who you were during your electioneering campaigns; and after one of your political rallies, he had paid you a visit. That was when he made his terms clear: you would give him ten billion dollars after you became the Vice President, or your dirty secret would become public knowledge. A bargain you readily agreed to, because you did not want any problems once you became the President.
You recalled how easy it had been to do away with the former president. You had slipped a pill into his gin and the reports had said that he died of myocardial infarction.
The car was stopped by a dark, burly man who looked like he was sent to the world to beat up people. He came to the glass of the backseat where you were and told you that Dr. Martin would be with you shortly.
Two minutes later, Martin opened the door of the backseat and slid in quickly. He flashed his signature smile and said, “Hello, Mr. President.” His voice was laced with sarcasm. “Do you have my money or should I go ahead and tell our beloved country the truth about who our president is? Wait, since you’re here, that means that the money is with you.”
“The money is in the van behind this car,” you answered. “Now, where are the documents?” He reached out of the window and a manila folder was handed to him. He dropped it on your laps. “Everything is in here, I take it?”
“Yes, all the dirty details are inside there.”
You nodded, looked at the inside mirror, and met your driver’s eyes—the signal was clear. In one fluid motion, he turned and shot a bullet into Dr. Martin’s head. The other guard, who had gone outside immediately Martin came into your car also shot Martin’s huge friend.
You heaved a weary sigh of relief and told your driver to take you home.
You were at the window of your penthouse in the heart of Abuja, looking down at the hungry pressmen who had been on your neck for the past two days. You’d wanted to make your death as inconspicuous as possible, but it had taken just one reporter to look up and spoil your plans.
You made a mistake in killing Martin, you realized the following day. It was your Chief of Staff who had roused you from your sleep and informed you of the damaging news online. When you saw the news, you gave up on your dreams instantly. There was no way around it.
Within hours, the nation was in disarray; there were two factions—one clamoring for your immediate resignation since you’d deceived everyone. The other faction wanted you to remain in seat; a transgender also had the right to be the president of the country, they argued.
But with such a division you knew that you had lost the battle. Your vision was to have a united country that would challenge other countries in the years to come. But as you looked at the mass of people below you, you realized that they weren’t ready for you.
Yes, you were their messiah, but you knew that every messiah had to die for his people to see the light. Yes, that was why Jesus had willingly died. Strangely you saw yourself through the eyes of Jesus, and knew that the window you were was your cross and the people below were the people who were there at the foot of Christ’s cross at Golgotha.
And like Jesus did, you muttered a prayer: “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.”
Then you jumped, and truly became their messiah.