Again, you wonder. Why are Niger Delta states not looking like Dubai, Qatar or any of the oil-bearing nations around the world? As I write this, a question kept ringing in my ears: Ask their governors?

My blood is the water of many rivers. My blood is oil sought after. I am the mother of many children, yet without a soul to succour me in my aging years. I was the damsel violated in the morning. Viciously assaulted in the noon hours. Rapaciously raped by capitalist mandarins at the setting of dusk. A virgin yesterday I was. Pretty. Beautiful. Alluringly enchanting. I was untainted, chaste and full of morning innocence.

Then he came and sought me out. At Oloibiri in 1956, he came. He told me there is treasure in my blood. He said of all the damsels, I was the best. Succulent. Supple. Sultry. He pledged he will not harm me. I believe him. With his proboscis so long, he drilled through my arteries. He sucked my blood, even my life, which he sold to merchants and buccaneers in marbled offices in New York, London and elsewhere. He has sold over $600 billion worth of my blood. He bays for more. My strength is failing now; yet he insists he wants some more. But Oga na Master, so I obliged him some more.

With my blood, castles are built in Paris, Lagos and Abuja. Estates are bought in South Africa, New York and United Kingdom. Private bank accounts swell in Cayman Island, Isle of Man, in Switzerland, and in Honduras. Yet, my own children, even the children of my youth, are abandoned in the lurch: hungry, angry, full of rage. With my blood, Presidents buy new jets. Governor build factories in foreign lands. The rich feasts on my blood and gets richer. He sucks my blood the more and grows pouch in wrong places. The rich man and his madam bloat in circumference. Liposuction in Spain. Tummy tuck in Germany. They feast on me and grow fat, even sick. Constipation in the morning. Nausea at noon. They take medical trip to London and Saudi to get a cure. Estacode and all, from my sweat.

I die every day. I gasp for breath. I’m drained. Weak and weary. In Ogoni, Ogbia, Oloibiri, Burutu. I die in instalments. I die from the sting of Master’s technology. My face pales in Koko, Fukuma and Ajapa. I bleed in Molume and Ogidigbe. I am deflowered in Forcados; molested in Agge and the intervening creeks of Letugbeme. My tears wet the flora at Foniweitoro; bleached by the activities of my taskmaster. Night and day, I cry but my tears could not stop his pry. He won’t hear me. Wicked and mean, this man. My visage creases in pain. Furrows of frustration grace my face. But this could not stop the taskmaster from burrowing deeper into my flesh.

Day after day, he comes for more. To him, oil money is sweeter than honey. Bonny Light, my pride, now sells for over $73 per barrel. From me, they drill over 1.4 million barrels daily. Unofficially, they drill more for black market. For each barrel, I lose a pint of blood; a whiff of fresh air. It doesn’t matter to him. The market is huge and ready. For every smell of dollar, I get the fury of his proboscis. He drills his long pipes into my veins at Igbematoru via the meandering creeks from Apoi to Orogun. He sucks my blood including the drops locked in the inner crevices of Kokori, Emeyal, Ogbia and Imiringi. A pint here, a barrel there. And I’m undone.

In Abuja, they share my blood in naira, dollar, euro. PTDF account. Marine Float account. TSA. They share my sweat in Ghana-must-go sacks. They award more contracts, make more babies; satiate their hedonistic passion. SUVs as routine gifts to Oga’s missuses and endless list of courtesans. A few billion naira for their lipsticks and mascara and general wardrobe makeover. And holidays in the Island of St. Vincent. It’s all my sweat, my blood. Yet, the road to my community is bad and terrible; unsafe at any speed. The water we drink, once fresh, is now brackish, made so by the sludge from the taskmaster’s proboscis.

And here I’m with my children; hopeless and without hope. We attempted a protest, they cried treason. In Odi, mortal shells bombed our homes. Homeless, forlorn, and broke, my children drift to the streets. They resort to self-help in their demand for equity and fairness. But every protest is met with brute force. They call my children terrorists; economic saboteurs. Yet, the real terrorists and economic saboteurs are in Abuja. They reap from where they did not sow. They call my children thieves, but he’s the biggest thief one who steals from the national till to build personal castles.

Now, I am left bare and dry. They promised clean-up. But this drags for years. Slow and sluggish. Not at the same speed they share and steal money. Not at the speed they drill through the creeks for more crude to make more money. This is my story, my plight, my agony. I am the Niger Delta region. Rich in crude. I’m the dollar swamp of the nation. The sustainer of Nigeria economy and lifebuoy that keeps the nation floating. Yet despoiled and forsaken. This crude paradox is hard to swallow. But that’s my story. The story of deprivation in the midst of plenty.

Again, you wonder. Why are Niger Delta states not looking like Dubai, Qatar or any of the oil-bearing nations around the world? As I write this, a question kept ringing in my ears: Ask their governors?