They called me “Special Assistant on General Matters.”
That title sounded grand until I realized what it really meant: I did everything and got credit for nothing.
My name is Dare — though, in the office, everyone called me “PA.”
The Chief never remembered my real name.
He once asked me, “Remind me again, are you the one from Iseyin or Ilaro?”
I’m from Ibadan. But that didn’t matter.
To him, I was just another suit that ran errands and took the blame when things leaked.
How I Got Here
I was 29, fresh from serving, when my uncle introduced me to the Chief.
He was the Honourable Commissioner for Lands — a man who spoke with the calm confidence of someone who owned both the office and the people inside it.
He smiled at me that day and said,
“Work hard. Be loyal. Keep your mouth shut, and you’ll go far.”
I believed him.
The first few months were easy — drafting letters, attending meetings, escorting him to events. I loved the power that came with proximity. Journalists called me “sir.” I sat at tables where decisions about millions were made. I even signed documents I didn’t understand — “on behalf of the Honourable Commissioner.”
But then came the brown envelopes.
The Silent Transactions
At first, it was “appreciation money.”
Then “mobilization fee.”
Then “facilitation allowance.”
Each time, it came with a smile and a warning: “Don’t record this one, PA. Just handle it.”
I handled it all — from signing fake attendance sheets to supervising “monitoring visits” that never happened.
The Chief always said, “Don’t worry. Everyone does it. Just make sure you don’t get caught.”
And that’s the secret no one tells you: Corruption isn’t taught — it’s absorbed.
You don’t need to be told what to do. You just watch, learn, and repeat.
The Day It Cracked
It was a Thursday.
The Chief was due to award a land allocation to a “foreign investor.”
Only the investor wasn’t foreign — he was the Chief’s brother-in-law with a freshly registered company.
I was the one who prepared the documents.
I saw the address.
I saw the date the company was registered — just a week before the bid.
My conscience fought me that night.
But how do you argue with a man whose picture is on every billboard in your city?
When I tried to question it, Chief laughed.
“PA, you want to learn politics? This is how things are done. You think government is for saints?”
The Envelope That Broke Me
A few days later, a widow came to the office.
Her husband had died waiting for the compensation the ministry promised after their farmland was seized for a “government project.”
She came with her two children, holding the death certificate.
She waited outside for six hours.
When I told Chief about her, he waved his hand.
“Those ones again? Tell her we’re processing it.”
There was nothing to process. The money had been shared months ago.
She didn’t know that I was the one who delivered the last envelope to Chief that week — ₦2.5 million in cash, packed neatly and labeled “Land Compensation Batch 3.”
When I handed it over, I saw him smile and say, “PA, loyalty pays.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept hearing that widow’s voice:
“Just help me, sir. My children haven’t eaten since morning.”
The Final Straw
Two weeks later, a journalist leaked part of the land deal story.
The Chief called me in, furious.
“Who told them?!”
“I don’t know, sir.”
He stared at me, eyes sharp. “If this thing spreads, you’re the scapegoat. You understand?”
I understood.
That evening, I received a call from an unknown number.
It was the same journalist.
He said quietly,
“PA, I know you’re tired. Help me tell the truth.”
I wanted to.
But I also knew what happened to people who told the truth.
My Confession
Three months later, I resigned.
No one noticed.
I’ve carried every envelope, every secret, every fake signature — and I still see that widow’s eyes whenever I close mine.
Sometimes I wonder: if all the PAs, assistants, clerks, and aides in government told the truth at once — would Nigeria collapse, or would it finally be rebuilt?
Maybe someday I’ll tell the journalist everything.
For now, I’m writing this, anonymously.
Because under every agbada, there’s not just greed — there’s also fear.
🕯️ Moral:
Not everyone who steals wants to — some just can’t afford the truth.