The Prince's Trust

Dear sir or madam…

Well, that might be a difficult way to prove my point.

And what is my point?

Not all of us Nigerian princes are a threat to you…

I have tried to write this on a computer that was not connected to the web, but I realize now that I will have to use the World Wide Web in order to make my message clear. Too many of us are judged for things we have not done, and things are getting worse for all of us. There is a reason why I have decided to write this in the woods; there is also a reason why I am no longer in Nigeria.

Let me explain…

Many of us Nigerian princes have a sad tale to tell of having so much money from oil and mineral extraction that we have no way of handling all of the wealth we acquire.

My story began in the nineteen-fifties, just before the nation was about to be liberated from the cold hands of the oppressors who exploited us for so many years. For a very long time, royalty that was not based in Europe was ignored and, quite unofficially, not allowed to exist. My mother and father had made a point of telling me all through my childhood that I was the son of the best and brightest who ever lived in Africa.

“You have the blood of the proudest of the proud in you. You have the heart of a lion, the brain of a fox, and the guts of a crocodile! Be patient, and so much more will be yours!”

These may not seem to be compliments to all of you who read this, but for a child raised in my circumstances, it was very moving to hear such things. Our community was a set of homes on the outskirts of Nairobi and there was not much that we could look on with pride. Our teachers and elders would instruct on the histories that remained untold; our parents would also be telling their stories about what their childhoods were like; our friends would boast about what they would do when we finally had a nation all to ourselves. Our dreams and ambitions were very big. There was so much to do.

And those oppressors did eventually leave. It was a beautiful day when we finally flew our own flag, and determined to take our own destinies in hand. I was a very young boy – maybe I should say “man” – when the last foreign flag was removed from the last building they left for us, and I remember all the details and joy of that moment. We had such hopes and dreams and ambitions…

Apologies to you for this… There are no tears on my keyboard and I was hoping to keep my emotions in check. No such luck, as is said.

When we finally had control of our own nation, my family went to work doing what they should have been doing for many years and generations back: making money. My father seemed to have “the gift of gab,” as is said. He could talk and talk until his audience simply gave him what he wanted, needed, and deserved. I once saw him negotiate over the price of land with a group of farmers one day. He spoke and spoke about how we were all making sacrifices and that the land was something that should be shared by all. I left him there to speak to those men. It was late in the day when he returned home with his security guards – yes, we still needed them – and he had acquired the property. There was no other word on the negotiations necessary. And this went on for several months until he finally passed away from stress and the pressure of his role as leader and business expert.

My mother was no different. Oh, how often I would wonder where she had disappeared to when I would come home from the university and she was out. There were many rumours and slanders shared by neighbours; jealous comment was made on how she had made contact with our oppressors before our independence and was simply continuing the same “expected behaviours of her class” with other men. I never believed the rumours, and it was easy to see that others who wanted to spread such lies cringed and became cowardly when challenged about the stories. My father was often out negotiating late over many nights with the ones he believed had shared such stories. I never heard anything after I graduated from school and he passed away. My mother, may it bring peace to her, soon passed after his death, meaning that she followed him to the grave in a brave act of self-sacrifice that would change my life forever.

This might seem difficult to believe, so let me explain things: if either my mother or father still lived, I was not heir to any title or money. They would be the ones to “handle the purse strings,” as is said. She was the last one I would have to wait to pass before I received the title that was rightfully mine. And what a brave thing for her to do! To die like a martyr for a cause in her own home after a lifetime of sacrifice and love still makes me teary-eyed and sad (more tears are on this keyboard once again). It was a simple matter for her to take those pills the day after her husband died and leave a note explaining why she did what she did. How thoughtful of her to do so while I was still in the home and could explain it all to her neighbours and the various authorities who knew us so well. An amazing act of love…

Now, I had better end with an explanation as to why I am tapping this out. After recent events in my country, I had to find a way out of that constant cycle of stupidity. I do not think that it is fair to blame those of us who made use of opportunities offered to us for escape. What else could we have done in such circumstances? Do not believe everything you read in the news feeds and on television about how the coup was “an inevitable action” that could only happen in a nation “where the rich line their own pockets for their own sake”.

Such horrible slander…

I will provide more details about my location and plans when I find a means to keep the secure and legal. Such proceedings take time and I hope to hear from you once you read my sad story and wonder how such a man could remain isolated from his home in a foreign land during the coldest time of the year.

I am but a humble servant of my nation…

I thank you.

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