There was a time – now embalmed in the sepulchre of national amnesia – when the word ‘diplomat’ evoked a statesman, not a showman. He was a figure of quiet gravitas, fluent in the dialects of discretion, clothed not merely in tailored suits or babariga but in the invisible regalia of statecraft. He did not arrive at foreign missions with a convoy of sycophants or a playlist of Fuji, Apala or Afro‑Calypso beats. He arrived with poise,…
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