In a development that has left the Foreign Office reaching for the good gin, Britain has extended a stiff upper lip and a lukewarm handshake to the release of hostages held by Boko Haram. The extremists, presumably tired of counting rivets on their AK-47s, have freed a number of captives, prompting Whitehall mandarins to dust off their “Commonwealth Spirit” bunting and declare this a triumph of diplomatic fortitude.
Let us be clear: this is not a victory. This is a grimly negotiated pause in the ongoing theatre of horror, dressed up in the language of resolve because admitting helplessness is simply not done. The Prime Minister, still warm from the photocopier, has issued a statement praising the “unwavering commitment of our Nigerian partners” and the “shared values of the Commonwealth.” One imagines those values include an unwavering commitment to keeping the mineral rights flowing and a shared determination to pretend that centuries of colonial meddling have no bearing on present calamities.
Boko Haram, for their part, have released a video in which they gesture politely and assure us that this is a gesture of goodwill, though they neglect to mention the ransom or the prisoner swap that likely greased the wheels. The hostages, hollow-eyed and gaunt, are now in the care of medics who will perform the necessary restoration of their bodies before the media circus begins. It is a familiar dance: first the release, then the photogenic reunion, then the op-eds about the strength of the human spirit, and finally the quiet resumption of the conflict as though nothing happened.
The Commonwealth, that curious assemblage of former colonies and their mother country, is wheeled out as a symbol of unity. But let’s not kid ourselves. The Commonwealth is a bit like a gentleman’s club that forgot to close: it lingers on, serving tea and platitudes while the world burns. If this release signals anything, it is that Boko Haram has figured out the pricing structure of Western compassion. A few hostages freed, a few statements issued, and everyone goes back to their corners to reload.
Meanwhile, the families of those still in captivity wait. They wait for a phone call, a coded message, a miracle. But miracles are in short supply, outsourced to the private sector where they are repackaged as “strategic outcomes.” The Foreign Secretary, a man whose smile has not moved in a decade, assures us that “every effort will continue until all hostages are home.” This is the sort of platitude that sounds heroic until you realise it is the same thing he said last year and the year before.
The gin in my glass is warm. The ice has melted into a sad puddle of memories. Outside, the news cycle churns, already bored with this story. Tomorrow it will be something else: a hurricane, a scandal, a celebrity divorce. But for now, we raise a glass to the hostages, to the Commonwealth, and to the grand tradition of pretending that everything is fine when plainly it is not.
Britain welcomes this release as a sign of resolve. I welcome it as a sign that somewhere, in the midst of the madness, there are still people who believe in the power of a stiff drink and a well-crafted statement. Cheers.
