A Decade of Democracy: The Proverbial Elephant

Various opinions have indicated what a decade of democracy in Nigeria means to diverse individuals. Like the proverbial elephant visited by some blind men, one cannot but be overwhelmed by the many-sided, manifold interpretations of “10 years of democracy in Nigeria” as given by these individuals. Happy reading.

Adamu Bebi

Profile: Adamu is a Special Adviser to the Personal Assistant to the Senior Special Adviser to the minister of state for enjoyment matters and sundry. Prior to his appointment, Adamu was a tanker driver with a long-distance haulage enterprise and a leading, staunch supporter of his state governor during the electioneering in his local government.

His take on democracy:

“I zink democracy has come to stay in our country wezer we like it or not. I just want to use zis offortunity to imflore my feofle and pellow citizens to be fatient wiz government. A journey of a zousand mile starts wiz a step.”

Romanus Uwaeke

Profile: Romie (as popularly called) is a graduate of Sociology and Anthropology from one of the state-owned universities. After fruitless job searches, Romie now runs a private phone call centre.

Hear him:

“Abeg Oga. Which kin yarn be dat one? You dey ask me about 10 years of democracy in Nigeria? As you see me so, I be graduate. I leave school 4 years ago. Since that time, I waka tire I dey look for job. Na hin I come think make I no waste time dey look for wetin I no fit get, na so I start this phone call business. God dey bless me I don put phone charging business join am. Demo what? Na ‘dem all crazy.’ Me I no send this government or this country. Abeg, bros make you carry this your interview go somewhere else. Make you no disturb my business.”

Senator Ojuoriolari Olowolagba

Profile: A retired school principal, Senator Olowolagba who once lived in a commune facility with his wife and 6 children before his (s)election to represent his district is now a proud owner of several vehicles and real estates which dot exotic portions of the FCT. He is often rumoured to be a stooge of Alhaji Lateef Omilabu, his state political godfather.

He has this to say:

“Thank you. You see, we have made progress. This is not where we were 10, 15 years ago when we were still in the iron grip of the military dictators. For many us, our monthly pensions were more of privileges than rights. We were dying in our thousands. But as fate would have it, I can tell you confidently that things have improved. And in confidence, I can also tell you as a senator of the federal republic (sitting up, with his voice lowered and an impish grin on his face) things have more than improved. I now have a chieftaincy title to my name, I married my third wife just last month and I go for regular medical check-ups abroad, among other goodies.”

Mrs. Adeola Martins

Profile: Mrs. Martins works with a human resource development outfit.

Her contribution:

“Excuse me; I don’t think I want to indulge you. Are you a journalist of some sort? I don’t want my comments to be that of one of the numerous faceless Nigerians whose opinions only adorn your newspapers but never count. However, if you may know, this government sucks. Do you say we have a government, when I generate my own electricity and water, provide security, send my kids to expensive private schools, patronise expensive private hospitals and many more? Spare me; I’ve got better things to attend to.”

Chief Edosa Omoigbe

Profile: Chief Omoigbe is a foremost newspaper publisher.

He speaks:

“My brother, I will say it can only get better. Democracy is good for business. Going by the copious congratulatory messages placed by political hobnobs preening their political benefactors (for the most frivolous reasons which range from coronation, marrying a 5th wife to 419 days in office); we’ve never had it so good. In addition to that, our bank accounts now burst at their seams courtesy of “open letters” warring factions of socio-political organisations flood our newspapers pages with.”

Madam Aminat Usman

Profile: Madam Aminat owns a stall at a local market where she sells foodstuff and other sundry items:

She expresses herself:

“Me I thank God for this democracy o! Before before, na only big men fit use telephone but now people like me fit say ‘hello’ too (she laughs heartily). I just want dis government make dem no forget we poor masses. Things too cost. Make dem reduce price for petrol and kerosene, give our pikin free schools and drugs for hospital. We also need cheap cheap house, water and light. If dem do all these for us, we go happy and our lives go better.”

Ronald Uhkile

Profile: Ron, a barrister also expresses his mind on “Democracy at 10 in Nigeria.”

In his words:

“You’d agree with me that within the last decade as compared to the hitherto years of ignominy, Nigerians have been privileged to express their fundamental human rights. Political activism and “oppositionism” (whatever that means, these lawyers sef) have taken centre stage. Though the high-handedness employed by the two democratically elected presidents in dealing with some issues still portray we’re not yet there but we’re making progress. Our election tribunals have experienced “rejuvenism” and the court has made ordinary people’s votes count and indeed is the last hope of the common man (only God knows how many times that phrase has been mentioned in the last 2 years).”

P.S.: Barrister Ron fails to mention how he was transformed from an ordinary, “charge-and-bail” lawyer to one who can now change his grimy cloak and wig, move to an upscale office downtown and replace his rickety, smoke-puffing, 1985 model Honda Accord car. All thanks to the several election petition briefs he has to hold for aggrieved election candidates or those instigated by him.

Professor Jade Ososalo

Profile: Professor Ososalo a seasoned poet, writer and human rights activist, is a fellow at the Nigeria Institute of International Affairs.

He bellows:

“You call this a democracy? I’d rather define this as autocracy devised in the dungeons of military aristocracy. Democracy stems from the mutual agreement of a people thereby producing binding terms otherwise christened a constitution. Our “constitution” is a lie against itself and the people whose testament it is meant to represent. It was spuriously and cunningly cooked by design and forced than our throats when military shenanigans decided to transit and change uniforms from khaki to babariga. Tell me, what has changed? What’s the disparity between then and now?”

Olaniyi Kolawole

Profile: A veteran journalist, Olaniyi is the Chief Press Secretary to one of the state governors.

His take:

“The problem with a lot of Nigerians is that they are determined to see no good thing about this government. They take the slightest opportunity to slight government and its workings. Without gainsaying, this regime has relentlessly doled out dividends of democracy to all strata of the society without prejudice or discrimination and is still positioned to do much more in subsequent terms of which we’re sure of a return. We appeal to all impenitent critics, opposition parties and so-called activists to be very careful so as not to pull down this nascent, democratic experimental set-up. Our plea is neither a sign of inaptitude nor compromise but of reason as government likewise will not stop at crushing all evident enemies of democracy.”

NB: All above-mentioned individuals are fictitious. Near semblance or real existence of these is mere coincidence.

Her Excellency, Mama Ebe

We all called her Mama Ebe. It was much later I got to know “Ebe” is the abbreviated version of her last child’s name, Ebenezer. She was the cleaner assigned (by the maintenance outfit) to manage and see to the cleanliness of the staircase hall of our end of the office building. A woman of diminutive but plump stature, at an initial encounter, Mama Ebe would come across as someone with not so much of a fascinating personality. However, on a close study I must confess I have met not many individuals like this cheerful, pleasantly optimistic, hardly literate, elderly woman (probably in her late fifties).

The ever-cheery cleaner did not consider it a bother to greet or pass a word of admiration (or prayer) to people, passers-by and colleagues for the umpteenth time within a day. Even when we marched across the floor area she would have painstakingly cleaned during her mopping sessions, she would graciously remove the patches of stains without any complaint, murmur or scurrilous scowl on her face as was usual of other cleaners. Instead, Mama Ebe would step aside with a big, warm, hearty smile on her face to allow passage for the pedestrian and with a compliment to complement (pardon pun):

“Enjinia, iyawo ati omo mi nko? E ya’se o.” (Engineer, how’s your wife? And baby? Have a splendid day at work.)

“Enjinia, Oluwa a bukun fun wa. A o ni p’ofo. Yio dara o.” (Engineer, God will bless us. We won’t be losers. It shall be well.)

“E kaabo. E rora sa. Alaafia o.” (Welcome sir. Peace.)

In her characteristic manner, whether she was cleaning the window panes, sweeping and swabbing the floor, dusting the balustrades or sitting idling in her make-shift abode tucked under the staircase, her sonorous voice could be heard within the vicinity as she either hummed or sang most times, hymns.

Many a time when most of the cleaners had either closed for the day or skulking somewhere (within the premises) avoiding duties, Mama Ebe was customarily seen doing multiple rounds of cleaning even when it seemed not necessary. This baffled me and I made a mental note of casually asking her. The opportunity was made available when I had to make a trip to Mama Ebe’s end of town which coincided with her close of work. In her amiable manner, she asked if I was going her way as I reversed out of the parking lot. Mama Ebe stayed in a semi-slum part, uptown. In spite of the inconvenience encountered navigating through that end of town, I willingly gave her a lift.

After exchanging some pleasantries, I led off the “interrogation” in vernacular as we headed towards the suburbs.

“Mama, hope you had a good day at work. Please if you don’t consider it a bother, why are you often cleaning the staircase hall many times daily even when it appears it is not required?”

Mama Ebe beamed in her typical fashion accompanied by a chuckle that could only come from the depth of a heart that is at ease.

“Enjinia, ise ti won sanwo e fun mi ni mo n’se.” (I’m doing the work I’m being paid for).

“But Mama,” I interjected, “you do it with more than required commitment, at least compared to what your colleagues do.”

She sighed and replied. I tried as much as possible to translate and sum up:

“Engineer, you see, that’s why I’m a cleaner. What you observe as clean is not always so. Often times, though my physical eyes may be feeble, I can observe through my third eye as every speck of dust, every mote of debris travels and settles on the floor or window panes. And since it’s my duty to get rid of these I do it without hesitation. More so, I’ve learnt early in life that never let a mole of task accumulate to become a mountain of duty, which is more difficult to handle. In the same vein, frequent removal of specks of dust will eliminate having to remove almost permanent stains from floors and windows if the dirt is left to accumulate. So you could see I’m even making my task easier when I clean frequently. This I do with utmost commitment not because I’m better paid than colleagues or I seek a wage increase. Neither am I doing this to spite nor put other workers in bad light. It’s a standard I’ve set for myself. It’s my own definition of excellence. After each round of cleaning, I step out of myself and critically look at the work done. I query: If I were the employer, would I be satisfied with the quality of work done? Remember, what’s worth doing at all, it’s worth doing well. It’s only at one’s duty post, one could be judged lazy or otherwise.”

As we got to her neighbourhood, Mama Ebe insisted I pay her a visit and more importantly drink a glass of water all to express her gratitude. I indulged her. I parked by the road entrance leading to her quarter – vehicular access was almost impossible. Judging by the avalanche of greetings from various neighbours, Mama Ebe was certainly a well-known and respected figure in this hood. She equally responded with much zest showering her usual prayers.

After opening the door to her apartment, she stepped in murmuring obviously a word of thankfulness to her Creator. I was inquired to take a seat in the living room while she got some drinking water. Obviously, the not too spacious living room did not spell any jot of affluence or form of magnificence going by the scanty furniture, unpainted walls, bare floor and an old piece of electronic. But one could almost grab a feeling of tangible tranquillity and decency. Though the fabric of the curtains and furniture was almost worn out, they were clean and evidently well-maintained. Other items in the room (wall photos and calendars, books, a cupboard and utensils) were also neatly arranged. I took my leave after drinking a glass of water she served in a manner that was befitting only for a king. Unknown to her, this grateful woman had made a lovesome lasting impression on me.

Ergo, months later, it was with great shock and a seared heart I received the news of the death of Mama Ebe as a result of a late diagnosis of severe diabetes conditions. I cried at the demise of a woman who taught me excellence is not copyrighted to the heights or berths of nobility but it can also be redefined and expressed on dirty floors and window panes – the duty post – of an uneducated, benignant woman. Their bona fide “Excellencies” are those individuals – grand or lowly, schooled or crude, enabled or disabled – who daily make every effort to accomplish not just what is obligatory but also go the extra mile in doing more than required in spite of the incentives or limitations.

I also learned from Mama Ebe that fulfilment may not necessarily be experienced through wealth accumulation or possession of goods. Howbeit, it will never elude a self-contented heart, affluent or not.

May her ebullient, contented and excellent soul, rest in peace.

The Nigeria of Our Dream (I)

This a sequel to The Nigeria of Our Making

“That one day this country of ours…will find dignity and greatness and peace again.” – NC (1899 - 1973)

The year is 2064 AD. The pulse of the epic crowd can be felt. It is one of hyperbolised but true elation, nationalism and oneness. Eye-catching and almost blinding are the colours, grandeur and fireworks that grace the Eagle Square. Seen on the mammoth-size videosonic boards is the equal stateliness and pomp that deck other venues – the Tafawa Balewa Square (TBS) in Lagos and the Liberation Stadium, Port Harcourt.

The promenades, cultural displays and high precision arrays of sentinels could not have made one more proud of res publica and country. The state box is studded with a regalia of intimidating personalities and dignitaries: 47 heads of states, presidents and prime ministers (both past and serving), 13 Nobelists, 4 kings from the oil-rich middle-east region, 3 monarchs from Europe and Asia, the UN Secretary-General with a convoy of officials from various UN departments, the Roman Catholic pope sandwiched by a fleet of cardinals, World Bank executives, international business moguls, state governors and innumerable luminaries.

The national event being celebrated is the 150th anniversary commemorating the amalgamation of the former realms delineated by rivers Niger and Benue and their resulting fusion, coalescing distinct regions of diverse landscape, culture, history and people into one nation, christened Nigeria. Even the vestiges of the artificer of the name would congregate in the grave to marvel at the turn of events for a nation that was previously marked for doom and perdition.

Through my mind’s eye, I try to imagine the possibility of what otherwise could be happening on a resplendent day like this – probably a disintegrated Nigeria where resulting seceded nations are still battling with issues that had plagued their mother nation right from origination: Corruption, insecurity, lack of essential amenities, civil wars, dire leadership with equal ominous followership, resource control, notoriety and other menaces.

With tears of ecstasy cascading down my cheeks, I consider ‘self fortunate to witness a day as this, more so at the twilight of my years as an octogenarian. I am still astounded at how the formerly ignominious Nigeria metamorphosed into a feted nation. Just yesterday, the headlines were flooded with news, rating Nigeria as one of the choicest destinations for foreign investments with a robust GDP (the fifth largest in the world), huge foreign reserves, a life expectancy of 93 years, state-of-the-art transport systems, healthcare facilities that are now the envy of once industrialised nations à la Germany, France and Italy. Not surprisingly, the Nigeria story has become a case study for many developing nations of how to transform from a failed state to a blooming nation.

At the moment, Nigeria is a stout source of credit to many countries including the US, UK, South Africa and Australia. What is more, the Nigerian naira has attained a world currency status seconded by the Chinese yuan and the US dollar. Over the years, Nigeria has also evolved to be one of the most prominent exporters of agricultural products like cassava, palm oil, cocoa, cotton, cereals, rubber, groundnut and other mineral merchandise (coal, tin, columbite, iron ore, steel, limestone, kaolin, etc) while the one time (in)famous resource she was known for as the 7th largest exporter – the crude oil – (which fouled her environment, stained the hands of her politicians, jeopardised her future while bringing more damnation than boon to her citizenry), now meagrely contributes to its foreign exports. Interestingly, a country that once groped in darkness both literally and figuratively, currently exports electricity in modules. Other export products include much sought-after, made-in-Nigeria clothes, shoes and processed fruits/foods. Nigeria-manufactured cars are likewise in high demands worldwide especially brands like Geria, 9ja and Tiwantiwa.

Besides, the literal heart of Africa is an outsourcing destination for all manner of human resources. A couple of years ago, Silicon Valley entered into a bilateral exchange programme with the Ikeja Computer Village (ICV) in Lagos, Nigeria. In addition, the Zaria Security Academy (ZSA) (in Kaduna) popularly known as The Phoenix also in conjunction with Nigeria Institute of Policy and Strategic Studies (NIPSS) has been rated as an international top-notch centre for state security/intelligence personnel training in the same league with the Scotland Yard and CIA.

Seven of Nigerian universities are sitting pretty on the world-top-50 list with enrolment featuring almost 50% international students. Incidentally, among the Nobelists sitting in the state box is the Nigerian Nobel Laureate who clinched the coveted prize for his revolutionary discovery in the field of Medicine by founding a permanent therapy to an hitherto incurable virus.

Over the last 13 years, tourism has boomed to the extent that most Nigerian states now place embargoes on traffic of international tourists that flood their domains enriching their coffers, annually. In a similar manner, the Nigerian entertainment industry has not been denuded of accolades and exceptional achievements. The organised Nigerian movie industry, Nollywood has secured 8 Oscar Academy awards to its credit while its own annual, red-carpet movie laurels ceremony is a superlative event, no aspiring or contemporary star would want to miss. In the last two decades, not a few Nigerians have dotted the Orange and Pulitzer lists winning scores of prizes in all available categories.

As I continue to muse over the triumph story of how a quondam inglorious people traced their steps back from notoriety, bedlam and vice to honour, eminence and glory, I can see the Grammy-award-winning Nigerian musical group (a crop of young and brilliant individuals) mount the state podium to render the Nigeria national anthem in order to jumpstart the ceremony. With national pride exuding from and obviously visible on the face of every individual named “Nigerian”, we all rise to give harmony and meaning to the words that express the aspirations of long-gone visionary leaders, a call to service and fostering brotherhood, and an unrelenting occupation geared towards nation building.

I can feel a tug at my shirt. I believe it should be my 4-year old great-grand daughter seeking attention as she is wont to…………

*********************************************************************************

“Honey.” I could faintly hear the familiar voice as the tugging continued.

“Honey, c’mon. Wake up and put off the generator. It’s late already.”

My wife jerked me back into the present urging me to switch off and rein in the generator so I could retire to bed.

Could what I just dreamt of be a reality?: I self-queried as I reluctantly swayed from the couch launching outside to locate and silence the noise-making, smoking-transuding monster-machine called a generator – a companion we have had no other choice but to live with it since the Nigeria electricity company has long-decided to now supply electricity in kilo-dark hours.

To be continued. Watch out for subsequent parts.

If I were a Girl

Relationships (particularly the ones that provide a unitary emotional platform for opposite genders) have always been a phenomenon – sometimes marvellous and most times baffling.

I casually queried Rita (not her real name) a colleague, why she chose Beyoncé Knowles “If I Were a Boy” (from the “I am…Sasha Fierce” 2008 album) as her mobile phone ringtone.

She giggled and asked “Have you watched the video? You guys seem to have all the fun at the expense of the girl’s feeling.” Suddenly, her disposition changed.

“How do you mean?” I questioned.

“You won’t understand.” she replied obviously trying to hold back some emotions.

Then I knew we had a serious issue at hand. I often don’t attempt to dabble into private issues particularly one that borders round matters of the heart. However, seeing Rita snivelling probably made me probe her for more information. Although initially reluctant, she poured out a very interesting, touching (nonetheless, not unusual) story – one of infidelity, perfidy and misadventure.

Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to divulge the contents of our discourse; however, certain mind-boggling questions about a man-woman relationship once again, came to the fore. I’m aware this is a sensitive and complex matter but there are clarifications to be made particularly from the men-studded side of the divide:

Why is it that ladies endure making a relationship work while most men would enjoy the pleasure of experimenting?

Why would women love whole-souled while their male counterparts will skirt the edges of marital allegiance?

What is that beguiling thing about “the other woman” that makes a man want to leave the quilt and solace of a committed heart in an adventurous search at the expense of betraying an unyielding love and breaking a heart full of warmth and affection? What is alluring about the gaze of her eyes, the soft touch of her fingers, the lusciousness of her lips or the warmth of her bed?

You’d call me a “woman wrapper” or an ardent woman flag-waver but it doesn’t change the fact of the obvious within our society: More men are wont to (or often succumb to the temptation of) “trying out” other seemingly “greener pastures” on the plains of promiscuity (Ladies, can I get a witness?). Why? Answers any one?

As for many of us that are fortunate to enjoy relationships/marital unions with little or no infidelity hiccups, congrats! Let’s keep on waving the commitment banner but lend credible, real advice to the troubled soul.

I’ve adapted Beyoncé Knowles’ and titled mine, “If I Were a Girl” (Pardon my clumsiness - I'm not a musician or lyricist). This is dedicated to all ladies out there who’re doing all to make their relationships work. You’re not just girls. Just hold on – he’s coming back home!

Beyoncé’s

[Verse]
If I were a boy

Even just for a day

I’d roll outta bed in the morning

And throw on what I wanted then go

Drink beer with the guys
And chase after girls
I’d kick it with who I wanted

And I’d never get confronted for it

Cause they’d stick up for me

[Chorus]

If I were a boy

I think I could understand

How it feels to love a girl

I swear I’d be a better man

I’d listen to her

Cause I know how it hurts

When you lose the one you wanted

Cause he’s taken you for granted

And everything you had got destroyed

[Verse]

If I were a boy

I would turn off my phone

Tell everyone it’s broken

So they’d think that I was sleepin’ alone

I’d put myself first I’d gladly be a wuss

And make the rules as I go

Cause I know that she’d be faithful

Waitin’ for me to come home (to come home)

[Chorus]

If I were a boy

I think I could understand

How it feels to love a girl

I swear I’d be a better man

I’d listen to her

Cause I know how it hurts

When you lose the one you wanted (wanted)

Cause he’s taken you for granted (granted)

And everything you had got destroyed

[Bridge]

It’s a little too late for you to come back

Say its just a mistake

Think I’d forgive you like that

If you thought I would wait for you

You thought wrong

Mine

[Verse]
If I were a girl
Even just for a while
I’d stay in the bathroom all day
Doin’ all my facials and ‘cures
Shoppin’ with the girls
Enticing the guys
But surely I ain’t gonna do those
‘Cause he will come and lose to blows
And I want him for keeps

[Chorus]
If I were a girl
I’d never cease to wonder
Why I always love whole-souled
It’s difficult to be a girl
‘Guess I’d talk less
Cause tatty words pester him
And I don’t wanna lose my love
Even if I’m taken for granted
‘Cause I don’t want everything destroyed

[Verse]
If I were a girl
I’d keep a tab on him
Askin’ all for his location
‘Cause I know he ain’t in no biz meeting
I’d gladly be a wuss
Letting his excessive whims
‘Cause I know that I’d be faithful
Waitin’ for him to come home (to come home)

[Chorus]
If I were a girl
I’d never cease to wonder
Why I always love whole-souled
It’s difficult to be a girl
‘Guess I’d talk less
Cause tatty words pester him
And I don’t wanna lose my love
Even if I’m taken for granted
‘Cause I don’t want everything destroyed

[Bridge]
Yeah right now I wanna come back to you
I’ve realised my mistake
I know it ain’t easy to forgive
I’ve been keeping you waiting
Please forgive

More than Typos (Vol. 1)

This is a collection from signposts/boards, handbills, stickers, billboards, banners, adverts, newspapers, magazines etc. acquired in recent times cutting across all sorts of people, events, vehicles and places. These are more than typographical errors. It highlights the folly of having little or no education, neglecting or not paying attention to details.

I’d have complemented them with appropriate photographs but a not-too-toothsome experience of almost being lynched sometime ago taught me photography-oriented reporting genre might be a mission only for the felo-de-se. You need to be a sharpie particularly on Nigeria streets. A friend of mine was once assailed by a policeman during his stint (actually, more of a stunt) as a street diarist. What he (my friend) lost in his camera he gained in a black eye. Let me spare you the details. Enjoy “More than Typos”, the first in the series.

“COLD ICE WATER AVAILABLE HERE.” Thanks, but I need hot ice water.

“Because He Leave, I Can Face Tomorrow.” What happens if he stay(s)?

“**** Nursary and Primary School.” I bet you don’t wanna send your kid there.

“2006: My Year of Supernatural Brakethroughs.” Surely, you’ll need a load of brake pads.

“WELLCOME” Boldly written on a massive doormat at the entrance of a bank!

“Horn B/F Overtaken.” I’m speechless.

“Awelewa Food Canteen. We Sell Rice and Bins….” It couldn’t be served better.

“The God of Impossibilities Ministries.” What a G(?)od!

“We Are Specialise In All Kind Of Japanese Car Like Toyota, Mustubushi And Others.” Also tells you what we can do to your vehicle.

“TO THE CONVINIENCE” Found in an eatery. But I think Microsoft Word spelling check still works.

“VEHICLES ARE PACKED AT OWNER’S RISK.” Where are they sent to?

“NO KING HAS GOD.” Indeed!

“Bye Your Recharge Cards Here.” Goodbye, recharge cards!

“Remember Sixth Feet.” Should I forget the fifth one?

“ALL VISITOR ARE TO COLLECT GATE PASS.” Hmmm! The multiplicity of one – all in one.

“Make Piece With God.” How many?

“**** DIVISHIONAL POLICE COMMAND.” Shion sir!!!

“Your Heeling Awaits You.” That’s a place to avoid.

“VULGANISER. POMP UR TIRE HERE.” I dare you to “vulganise” and “pomp”.

“I Shall Live In Abundance Prosperity.” Choose one.

“BARB YOUR HERE HAIR.” This is my favourite! The sign writer must either be confused, absent-minded or both!

“ALL STAFF MEMBERS SHOULD DISPLAY THEIR IDENTITY ID CARDS.” Indeed!

“BUY YOUR ICED BLOCK HERE.” I never knew (brick or sandcrete) blocks are iced for sale.

“Recharge Your Cards.” What would I do with my phone line?

“BUY YOUR FROZEN CHICKEN AND TORKEY. WE SELL IN KILOS.” Torkey? You also sell that in kilos?

“FOR SELL” This was a plaque placed on top of a car.

“SHARGE YOUR FONE HERE.” Excuse me!

“Hajj Know One Knows Tomorrow.” Figure that out.

“Original Spear Parts Available” Sorry, I need dagger parts.

Jungle Justice in the Jungle

My official redeployment to Aba came at a time (if truth be told) I considered a change (from my almost-becoming-irksome stay in a quiet little village tucked somewhere in the Niger Delta) would be well received. Not that what I opined mattered much, I was “whisked” according to my wish and as a matter of urgency to my new place of assignment with less than 12-hour prior notice. I could not even carry out any proper handover or necessary preparation. Posting in the secret service or other security outfit would have been a cinch compared to mine. Already accustomed to the profession of a peregrine engineer, the nomad in me was delighted to move on. Attached to one of the most prominent projects in Nigeria nothing could have been more welcoming or alluring. So pack my baggage I did: Aba here I come!

An initial impression of the city at entrance made my heart sink. Approaching the city core via Ogbor hills presented an aerial view of a city planned and developed with only one thing in mind – bedlam! Descending the hills into Aba-Ikot Ekpene road made my heart not only to sink more but also to shrink. The massive mounds of dirt lining both sides of the carriageway drainage (and reducing the right of way) were offensive to sight. More bewildering is the ease at which residents and roadside shop owners carry on with their duties in this untidiness. True to my observation after my week-long stay here, the situation does not differ anywhere in Aba (except for a couple of well-monitored GRAs). Common denominators remain: Crater-size pothole-infested roads (with insufficient feeder roads); tout-controlled parks; mounds, ridges and hills of refuse dumps; lawlessness (I was told everyone here is a law to him/herself); disorderliness; self-preservation at its smuttiest; exasperating traffic congestion; etc.

I have always been of the opinion that Lagos is the zenith in the comity of anarchic cities and if you can survive in Lagos, you can do so anywhere else. Alas, I was wrong. I am sorry to let Lagosians know they have no credible claim on chaos and madhouse living. A visit to Aba will convince many. Aba has showcased an unimaginable order of lawlessness. It is mind-blowing. Words will fail to describe.

I must not fail to mention the usual and often seen activity that dots Aba metropolis: At anytime, you could be stuck in traffic for the most unthinkable reason – touts, drivers and/or other road users are having a scuffle ahead of you. There is no free flow of traffic until they have their fill. Do I hear you inquire about the police? They cannily look the other way. I was told here, the hunter might become the hunted if he does not mind his business. Howbeit, the police have some other toll-inclined duties they do with scrupulous dedication.

Also top on the list of outlawry is reckless and lawless driving. Indeed, I make bold to say once more, Lagos drivers might want to consider registering for a 1-hour crash programme in irresponsible driving particularly in okada manoeuvring. Moreover in Aba, as far as motorcyclists and their passengers are concerned (if they are at all), the new FRSC law enforcing the use of crash helmets is only meant for faint-hearted motorcyclists – if you are an adept hasty driver here, no type of crash helmet will save you from impending disaster that will eventually occur as a result of unruliness. So why waste time (and money) using crash helmets in its various forms – calabashes, paint buckets, factory helmets, etc.?

Aba is well-known for its commercial activities. However, as I moved through the major and popular Cemetery, New and Ariara (international?) markets I was taken aback by conditions of infrastructures in these places – horrendous roads, non-functional drainage systems (if and where provided), refuse dumps and shambolic shanties called shops. During the last few days it rained lightly in these areas. I tried to extrapolate how these conditions would be in the approaching rainy season. My mind shuddered at this realisation. We make money from our major cities in Nigeria by almost squeezing life out of them. The least we could give in return is to make these cities fit for habitation.

Surviving in Aba might include being in possession of the following (these are not luxuries): A savvy and tout-like driver with local knowledge and map of the road network (especially of streets and cul-de-sacs not on the map) stamped at the back of his mind (I want to use this medium to thank my pilot-driver, Austin). An air-conditioned four-wheel drive SUV will be more than handy to avoid sweating it out when stuck in traffic and manoeuvring through hills and valleys of gullies called roads. If you (or your company) can afford it, service of mobile police attaché (not women-beating ones) will provide not security but prevent frequent stops by same to “check” your vehicle particulars. The only way to ensure your security here is to be circumspect. Lastly, a generator in good working condition to supply electricity to douse excessive heat and prevent giant-sized mosquitoes from feasting is a necessity.

Aba (like many other Nigerian cities) is akin to a modern day jungle.

Now to the crux of this article: On my way to work this morning, Austin (my driver) made a sudden turn, off Aba-Port-Harcourt motorway to show me an atrocious sight – an utterly burnt human body! I could not take a second look at the gory spectacle hence I told him to leave the spot. With much gusto he explained to me how this is a common sight in Aba. Once you are caught pilfering, the immediate, undisputed and unwritten judgement meted out by your captors is incineration – without any ado. Thereafter, everyone goes about their normal business leaving the burnt corpse either to putrefy (causing awful odour and adverse health effects) or be carried away by a non-existing environmental service. It is generally believed here that an individual must work with his hands in order to cater for himself and the opportunities abound to do so. Considering and acting otherwise will spell doom for shop lifters whenever caught.

I could not believe at this age and time such penal measures still exist. I bombarded Austin with a salvo of questions: What if the person is innocent? Is the possibility of being framed considered? What action do the policemen seen around take when such a suspect is caught? Is the local/state government aware of this? How do residents take this development? All Austin did was to smile matter-of-factly telling me “Oga, that one na Aba for you. Welcome to Aba!”

I never knew jungle justice still exists in the jungle! Indeed, a welcome to Aba cannot be more intriguing.

Lighthouse is 3!!!

This article was scheduled for posting, 8th January 2009 (3 years exactly after the first online posting on Lighthouse). However, as usual the “thief of time” robbed me. No grudges, after all I’d get it posted eventually.

I’d remember clearly the urge and feeling I had exactly 3 years ago – I was stuck between my prison-size bed and desktop. The night before, I had a chat with Molara Wood who encouraged me to float a blog after reading hers and learning how to develop one (she might not remember this). Howbeit, I daunted the reluctance to stay in bed and I wrote and posted my first article (a line of poetry) online – for the first time!

My writing then was scurfy and tawdry. I was one of a lacklustre writer (not that I’ve been any different – let me try to be modest) but reading through my postings over the years, I’d say to myself “Boy! You’ve come a long way.” I’ve since learned that the way to “knowing” is by “doing” and “doing” more. The best way to write is by writing and writing more.

Over time, my articles bothered round various issues ranging from age to banking, comedy to leadership, love to urban legends with the most frequent on human development, society and Nigeria – a country I’m passionate about. My articles have featured in various newspapers, blogs, online journals, portals, etc and edited for a weekly TV series (coming soon).

More than a thousand days after the first posting, the objective of Lighthouse has remained unchanged:

“To provide thoughtful provocations all geared toward insightful and purposeful living, presented in a cynical, humorous and/or abstruse manner in order to guide to the ports of purposeful achievement.”

The name was fashioned after a literal lighthouse whose purpose is to guide passing ships against running into shoals or other obstructions. Over the past three years, I’ve tried as much as possible to provoke insightful thoughts in my readers regardless of the manner it’s presented – profound or sarcastic – with the goal of guiding them through issues of life, from my perspectives.

Writing has availed me the opportunity to vent my pent-up thoughts, discover a previously terra incognita part of me and most importantly establish forever-cherished contacts.

A writer’s world can sometimes be incomprehensible, exhilarating and uninteresting, all at the same time. I’ve had my fair share of a writer’s block the acme of which was experienced in 2007 – not a single article was posted then. The light of Lighthouse was dimming. Lighthouse was almost going the way of most blogs: Oblivion Avenue. No thanks to conducting an academic research/fieldwork, joggling between two continents, preparing for a wedding and changing location. Nonetheless, the Goddess of Blogville smiled on me. Lighthouse was overhauled and revitalised in 2008.

In 2006, I had a total of 7 posted articles. As aforementioned, 2007 was a year of writing drought while 2008 recorded an unprecedented number of posted articles – 25, without missing any month out on posting from March to December (July and August had the highest number of postings: 5 each). 25 postings in 10 months might not call for celebrations on certain blogs (I’ve read blogs with over 60 postings in a month!) but as far as Lighthouse is concerned, this is a feat (considering my schedule and other responsibilities) and I’m rolling out the drums!

Incidentally, my first posting on Lighthouse articulated in poetical lines the first time I experienced a natural phenomenon. The article was titled “The First Time.” (I started out on this line of creative writing but it’s arduous. I’ve evolved to be more of a casual, social affairs commentator with occasional fiction writing). As I write, I try to ponder how many times I’ve done things for the first time and how the accompanying emotion feels like.

As Lighthouse steps into another year, I look forward to doing things, meeting people, writing on new perspectives, visiting places, reading books (and probably doing other things you may get to know as events unfold) – for the first time!

My physical and mind registers are filled with many articles yet unwritten. As a senior friend of mine once prayed:

“I wish ‘self pen that glides well on paper and fingers that strike the right keys.”

Long live the art of writing!
Long live blogville!!
Long live Lighthouse!!!

As another Year Goes by

It is exhilarating to see the 365-day long loop being completed – while another prepares to commence. What is exciting about the coming of a new year despite the fact that nothing really changes – June remains the sixth month of a year, there still exist seven days in a week and the Creator of time nonetheless refuses to extend the 24-hour day by a minute? I believe the closing and advent of a year avail us new opportunities, fresh starts, anniversaries, chances to consolidate on the gains of the previous year, etc.

This annual closure and commencement can be likened to a moving train. At its point of departure, a train is boarded with passengers. At every train-stop, it drops off some of its passengers while picking new ones, most importantly it refuels. This it does till the full cycle is completed – back to its first point of departure to pick passengers afresh. Drawing from this analogy, as we end and commence a new year we usually (resolve to) keep good habits, healthy relationships and attainable goals while dropping the not too beneficial and viable ones. In the same vein, the transition between the old and new allows us to “refuel” for the journey ahead. We tend to ruminate on how to forge ahead in the coming year, strategising on making the best of opportunities while mentally, physically and spiritually preparing ourselves for new challenges.

In this outgoing year, I have had my fair share of lost/wasted opportunities, disappointments, failed/uncompleted projects, deaths of loved ones, working with difficult people, betrayals, etc. Similarly, I have witnessed the good times – I have grown successes with my hands, added value to myself, increased my mental and psychological capacity, established worthy relationships, tried to empower the less privileged, and many more.

As I write this, I discover I have always been caught in a web of delusion even as this year ends and likewise in years past. I have relentlessly dreamt of and yearned for “the better life” which always seems elusive. Within the quoins of my mind, I see and aspire for that illusionary “better life” – where the pastures are greener, the rivers flow still and the heavens drop fats. I have always been of the opinion that the next month, next year and probably the next decade will convey “the better life” come my way. The closer I get to walking into this life, the more subtle, vague and indefinable this mirage becomes. It keeps evolving (or am I changing my mind about what I desire?) and frustratingly eluding.

With the chimera of “the better life” in focus, I discovered I have denied ‘self of many chances of enjoying life’s precious moments believing better prospects lie ahead. I have failed to communicate with loved ones opining there will be opportunities to do same in the future (only to find out later they are no more). Many a time, in the bid of attaining “the better life” with its attendant hustle and bustle, I have lost touch with the essence and stillness of the person within – the real me. Alas, there is no better life than now – no greater moment than the present, no better opportunity than the instant. In fact, El Dorado or Utopia can only be witnessed when an individual makes an inward journey, halting at “life-stops” dropping off “expired passengers” while picking up beneficial ones. It is also expedient that one “refuels” in the course of this life’s journey. These life’s timeouts culminate to be the very life we desire – that “better life”. The greatest wealth and riches lie within. The zenith of heights is the depth of a soul that is ebullient of life.

As another year goes by, I have decided to live by the moments – taking time out to enjoy/endure each opportunity/disappointment that comes my way. This is not a call to reckless living, disregarding the “rainy days”. Howbeit, in the process of doing so life must be lived by the moments. The tomorrow we dreamt of yesterday is today. The future is now! Carpe diem – live the present! Life is short. In fact, it’s a dash as expressed in Linda Ellis’ The Dash:

I read of a reverend who stood to speak
At the funeral of a friend
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
From the beginning…to the end

He noted that first came the date of her birth
And spoke of the following date with tears
But he said what mattered most of all
Was the dash between those years

For that dash represents all the time
That she spent alive on earth
And now only those who loved her
Know what that little line is worth

For it matters not, how much we own
The cars…the house…the cash
What matters is how we live and love
And how we spend our dash

So think about this long and hard
Are there things you’d like to change?
For you never know how much time is left
(You could be at “dash-mid-range”)

If we could just slow down enough
To consider what’s true and real
And always try to understand
The way other people feel

And be less quick to anger
And show appreciation more
And love the people in our lives
Like we’ve never loved before

If we treat each other with respect
And more often wear a smile…
Remembering that this special dash
Might only last a little while

So when your eulogy’s being read
With your life’s actions to rehash
Would you be proud of the things they say
About how you spent your dash?

Stop postponing your living. Live the life – make that phone call, admit that fault, face that challenge, go on that vacation, write that email, picnic with friends and associates, enrol for that course, make that donation, write that exam – now!

The best of your years is ahead of you - and it begins now!