Angst of a Generation in Transit: I Remember

I belong to a generation of Nigerians I would like to refer to as ‘transitional’. We were birthed at the threshold of a country’s descent from the sturdy, high grounds of magnificence as it began another into the peaty waters of obscurity. Our predecessors were spoilt and overwhelmed by the rents of an oil-rich nation to the extent a government arrowhead had to declare they had no idea of what to do with the wealth in the nation’s coffers! The forerunners imperilled the emergence of an African power, by engaging in an unprecedented squandering of public till, civil wars, coups, counter-coups, ethnic, political and religious vices.

Terms a la austerity and ‘structural adjustment’ that were hitherto alien to a top-notch nation eroded the middle class stratum and commenced the eventual journey into socio-political and economic anarchy. I can remember clearly, economic situation was so bad in the early 80’s that families had to queue up to receive rationed essentials like groceries, toiletries and basic food items. In fact, many families had to lock these items up in bedrooms in order to ensure shrewd consumption.

I was born, schooled and lived a better part of my growing up years in the city of Ibadan – a city that premiered the first TV station in Africa, the first tallest building in Nigeria, the first university, and many infrastructures, investments and industries of great impact. It was home to several conglomerates, famous book publishers in the league of Evans, Longman, Heinemann, and Spectrum and research institutes like CRIN and FRIN with the sage, Chief Obafemi Awolowo dictating the velocity of development for the western region, using Ibadan as the launching pad. Tunji Oyelana, Wole Soyinka, Mike Adenuga, Akinwumi Ishola, Mike Nwangwu, Reuben Abati, Bayo Faleti and many other prominent personalities had their roots in this city of copious hills and valleys. At the moment, Ibadan is a shallow apparition of its once brilliant self. The same could be said of not a few cities in Nigeria.

Growing up, our aspirations were anchored on values that have no semblance with what obtain in present times. During pre-high and high schooling, what we prided ourselves on was the type of books read (academic, fiction and non-fiction) and the number of times they were re-read. Amongst favourite authors, series and titles were Mabel Segun, Sidney Sheldon, Charles Dickens, Nick Carter, D.O. Fagunwa, Stephen King, Akinwumi Ishola, Enid Blyton, Kola Onadipe, Danielle Steel, Adebayo Faleti, Eddie Iroh, Enid Blyton, Mills and Boon, Béllò àti Bíntù, Archie, The Hardy Boys, Táíwò àti Kéhíndé, Bumble Bee and African Writer series, Ògbójú Ode Nínú Igbó Irúnmalè (A Forest of a Thousand Demons) My Father’s Daughter, Eze/Akin/Sani Goes to School, Silas Manner, etc.

Electricity supply was almost constant. Our sanity was in one piece as we were saved from the noise and pollution from generating monsters. Generators (often referred to as ‘plants’) were used only by the society’s high and mighty. Television was not sophisticated but was fun, learning and entertaining with super-engaging (local and foreign) soaps, comedies and cartoons like Matlock, Wonder Years, Famous Five, Terrahawks, Basi and Company, Checkmate, The New Masquerade, Bàbá Geébú, Flaxton Boys, Fraggle Rock, Ifá Olókun, Some Mothers Do Have Them, Jolly Train, Fawlty Towers, Friday night Indian movies, The Village Headmaster, Òyìnbó Ajélè, Super Ted, Mirror in the Sun, Ilé Ìwòsàn, Schools Debate, Voltron, Rent-A-Ghost, We Can Tell You A Story, Kóòtù Asípa, Atom Ant, Do Your Thing and of course the ever-scintillating, Sesame Street.

Other indoor activities meant making our toys from paper, cardboards, newspapers, crayons (I remember the big, fat wax ones) and other materials. I had an indoor, self-built aquarium which was seeded with fishes I caught myself. Headrest and TV covers were knitted during our pastimes. House chores were apportioned and done without delay.

Outdoor activities were fun, likewise. We got our hands dirty on a farm, reared pets and livestock within premises that were not completely paved and heavily spotted with both crop and ornamental vegetation. Parents had interests in what we did and happened to us – school assignments were done with prompt supervision. We were not left alone to our own devices – when parents had to be absent, an older relative was always around to take care of us. Holidays were spent in rotation from one cousin’s to the other. Birthday parties were fun with jollof rice, moinmoin in abundance and Green Sands Shandy drink to go with. Souvenirs were toffee candy, whistle-shaped sweets, cabin biscuits, plastic miniature animals like gorillas, elephants, etc.

Both public and missionary schools served as the melting point where the wards and children of the society’s lofty and lowly shared common experience. Teachers were revered either out of respect, fear or both.

Manners were explicitly imbibed with ‘Thank You’, ‘Please’ and ‘Excuse me’ being regulars during conversations. We were taught to leave our seat for standing elderly either in a bus or a public waiting area. You dared not eat without a glass of water in close proximity. And of course, talking with one’s mouth full is often accompanied with appropriate punishment. If we had to eat in between meals, parents or guardians must be in the know. Being hard working, truthful and trustworthy were not negotiable. In fact, they were values to be proud of.

I am not attempting to sound like a grumpy, old fellow that had seen it all, but alas it is painful to witness how this endowed nation plunged into the abyss of subversion having savoured remnants of the “good, ol’ days”. Ours is a generation that was handed a country that was set on a journey with no clear destination or road map. At the moment, we are caught in a web of psychological confusion, mental frustration and economic agitation as we live in a contradiction of what we grew up learning and the present complexities of an incredibly materialistic, self-centred, insensate and hollow society.

I remember!

Independence Day: Before the Celebrations

Almost half a century ago, the colonial frontiers of the British government were rolled back and the freedom to attain sovereignty was accorded the geographical enclave called Nigeria. 49 years ago, Nigeria had all the makings of an uplifting tale: an emerging socio-political and economic African (and possible world) power with all the trappings that made the not-too-willing colonial masters break their siege on Africa’s most populous and promising nation at that time. The extrapolated trajectory of this country’s future made even the most affluent nation in Europe and the Americas green with envy. Everything looked possible, but alas 49 years thereafter everything went awry.

Many Nigerians reminisce the emotion of great delight and patriotism that engulfed them as they watched the British sentinels lowered the Union Jack while the green-white-green striped flag climbed in its stead. With the rising of their symbol of independence rose the promise of a future with endless possibilities. 49 years later, most of those senior citizens could only stretch their memory band to relive the ‘good old days’ in order to escape the misery of the present as they continue to gape at and question what went wrong with a country that had it all. For many Nigerians who never witnessed this symbolical event, they might have been saved from such agonies of past-present comparison (or better put, contradiction). Howbeit, the horizon holds no promise for them either. 49 years subsequently, a nation that was expected to dictate the socio-political velocity of a continent is still bugged down with the basics of starting a journey to nationhood.

As a young Nigerian, though I may not have been opportune to live in the ‘good old days’ but I have heard, read and before my very eyes, seen how a country with utmost potentials crescendoed to lofty crest of fete and how it unfortunately descended to the miry trough of discomfiture. Ours is a land where the only thing that is predictable is dashed hope, where certainty only spells uncertainty and the future indeed is what it is – futuristic! Of a truth, we may have enjoyed occasional stints of resplendence and (inter)national honour that once in while prop our self-pride and patriotism as Nigerians, often times the norm is that of failed governance, collapsing institutions and infrastructures, shame, sectarian violence, political murders and assassinations, malformed morals, corruption and other brothers in arms. Week in, week out, searching for a pint of good news is akin to looking for a pin in a haystack. Even those events we usually fall back on (like watching our national football teams play) in order to temporarily drown our despair have conspired to add to our gloom.

Of course, I ca n hear the ‘positive’ Nigerian telling me if I look around enough, I would definitely find reasons why I should roll out the drums on the eve of another Independence Day celebration. While I may not be the most optimistic, patriotic Nigerian that constantly hopes against hope in the face of almost a failed nation, I have often times stuck my neck out for my dear country in spite of realities that do not support this stance. True, I can count (on my fingers, though) a number of instances and individuals that have brought our dear country to brilliant limelight as they stamped their clout on the world stage.

Indeed, what shall I say of literary giants à la John Pepper Clark, Dan Fulani, Ken Saro Wiwa, Wole Soyinka, Ben Okri, Chinua Achebe, Helon Habila, and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Mention must be made of music icons in the league of Fela Kuti, Stephen Osadebey, Batili Alake, Àsá, King Sunny Ade, Beautiful Nubia, Dr. Victor Olaiya, Lágbájá, Dan Maraya Jos, Bobby Benson, Comfort Omoge, Tunde Nightingale, Sir Victor Uwaifo, Roy Chicago, Onyeka Owenu and many others. I shall not forget to list many accomplished individuals in their various fields of endeavour and who through intelligence, initiative and industry have brought pride to our collective existence as a nation: Adeoye Lambo, Oluchi Onweagba, Mary Onyeali, T.O.S. Benson, Samuel Ajayi Crowther, Hakeem Olajuwon, Nuhu Ribadu, Philip Emeagwali, Dora Akunyili, Aminu Kano, Nwankwo Kanu, Richard Mofe Damijo, Okonjo Iweala, Wande Abimbola, Sheikh Adelabu, Gani Fawehinmi, Aliko Dangote, Ben Enwonwu, Justus Esiri, Murtala Mohammed and many others. In fact, the list is endless.

However, on scrutinising this catalogue there exist a couple of discouraging issues. The very obvious is the fact that these names are always recurring in our register of (inter)national honours. That is pointer to the reality that we (as a nation) have not moved forward and if we had, many a time we have retraced our step backwards from a much desired destination. Secondly and not too evident: most of these people achieved based only on their individual efforts that exclude an enabling environment that should be a given in their homeland. This can be extended to explain the reason why many Nigerians have resorted to self-help: A situation where every individual battles to meet their needs in order to ensure continued existence. Therein lies our problem (and probably, solution) as a nation.

Individual efforts, self-help/-government can only ascertain individual achievements and most assuredly a disjointed and disorganised society where everyone aims to preserve self. Everything rises and falls on leadership! Until we get the leadership project right, we may continue to wallow in abject failure as a nation and possibly proceed on a retrogressive trail. As Nigeria prepares for another general election to change leadership batons at various levels of government, this serves as the ultimate poser: ‘What manner of leaders do we desire?’ Of a truth, a leader cannot be different from the society and process he emerges from. We must tinker the process that produces leadership. It will be foolhardy to expect our situation to change either by expecting a credible leader to emerge by chance or through our usual laidback attitude. In fact, it is folly!

While we may not be able to correct the leadership errors of the past that have maintained us in a state of doldrums and subnormality, we do have the opportunity to determine our future by addressing the national leadership of the present. A word of advice to President Umar Musa Yar’Adua: As he prepares either a we-have-reason-to-celebrate or this-is-a-sombre-time-for-reflection Independence Day celebration speech, let him be aware that the onus lies on him to determine how we celebrate next year (and many more) Independence Day.

Being honest and possessing an amiable mien are not the fundaments of leadership. You can be the meekest and most incorruptible individual and still be an off-beam material for headship. Theodore Roosevelt once said: “The best executive is the one who has sense enough to pick good men to do what he wants done, and self-restraint to keep from meddling with them while they do it.” Moreover, courage is a principle he may want to adopt. A leader must always have the courage to act against an expert's advice. Whoever is providing leadership needs to be as fresh and thoughtful and reflective as possible to make the very best fight. Most importantly, vision is key to the success (or otherwise) of a leader. A leader is a visionary and not just a propagandist of mere agenda or beautiful catchphrases.

While I am still in a confused state of either ‘counting our blessings’ as a nation or switching to a reflective mood on Independence Day, I would want to implore Nigerians who are jaded by the present conditions to take active roles in determining the quality of leaders that will take over the reins of affairs in the coming years. If we fail to do so, I will be saved the hassle of writing anything different from this, in the years to come, except maybe changing the ‘49’ to ‘89’.

Dear Sir

The New MD/CEO
Inter-Lagoon Bank PLC
Plot 419, Distress Avenue
Victoria Island
Lagos

18th August 2009.

Dear Sir,

Thank you for your SMS and subsequent email assuring me of your bank’s financial stability after the CBN’s ‘Hammer of Thor’ struck the bank’s executive ménage relieving its directors of their most lucrative positions and the CBN’s consequent ‘dole out’ aimed to address your insolvency.

You may want to know that I received your missives in good health as I have developed a thick tegument and a vibrant lion’s heart to trounce such occurrences. Who could do without these anyway, if survival is vital in a country like ours? I am convinced without the minutest of doubt that both the SMS and email were not meant for measly customers like me because the information was disseminated en masse for a commercial purpose. Sir, be aware that this memo is neither to spite you nor ‘our’ bank. In fact, your new role in cleaning the augean stables is one no one will envy or touch with a long pole. I can only wish you the best and pray you succeed.

My no-brainer position in your bank’s scheme of priority customers have been reiterated many a time and via diverse means. Not a few instances abound. Whenever I have issues, your ever-sassy customer relation officers only warm up to me (or do otherwise) as a function of what my account balance reads at the particular instant of time. Moreover, several times when many individuals (including my humble self) highlighted (often times on the pages of newspapers and through various means) unwholesome bank practices, manipulated share prices on the floor of the Nigeria Stock Exchange, unrealistic profit declarations that do not match with realities of our economy (particularly in the manufacturing sector), unhealthy inter-bank competition and rivalry, unsustainable banking operations and expensive corporate governance lifestyle, debasing marketing strategies and many more; we were treated like an infant’s fart.

I also remember with pain when all banks went on rampage to secure our meagre funds through all means devisable. I joined the bandwagon (against my convictions) to purchase your bank shares and many others. Alas, I had my investments reduced to a paltry figure. During the run, I observed with dismay how you gave loans to your cronies to cash in on short-term gains because you issued their share certificates without delay while those of long-term investors like us are still in transit many years after. Their voracity eventually crashed the stock market. It seems to baffle me why would and should I ever matter to you or your bank at this point in time? As a matter of fact, it leaves a suspicious taste in the mouth.

As much as I would have loved to play a role (major or minor) in rescuing ‘our’ bank out of its present financial ‘kettle of fish’ and doldrums, regrettably I am handicapped beyond imagination. My salaried job which is presently my only source of income has merely guaranteed me peanuts with a safe abode under my mattress or sometimes my pillow. Unfortunately, the prevailing global financial meltdown (which the CBN once claimed we are immune to) has done exactly that to my remuneration – melted it. My salary now perfectly fits into my back pocket. You would agree with me that it would not make any smidgen of sense to drop this trifle into your bank coffers where predators, waiting (in the forms of VAT, hidden bank/transaction, ATM and other undefined charges) will further ravage whatever is left to nothingness.

Other businesses that could have brought me immense prosperity and whose subsequent returns could have accrued to your bank’s purse never saw the light of day. No thanks to the stringent conditions given by the bank which snuffed life out of my numerous business proposals when I came knocking for loans. The impossible interests requested for snuffed life out of the brilliant business ideas and the collaterals you asked for dealt the final blow – the only thing you did not ask for was my life. It is heart-rending however, to discover that most of your bank mega debtors that have brought it into this pickle secured these loans with no collaterals. It is more painful to observe how the CBN doled out many parts of a trillion naira to correct a few individuals’ (trusted with public funds) inadequacies and exuberances. It looks like robbing Peter to pay Paul. These are monies that otherwise could have been used to address issues that will directly impact the lives of not a few Nigerians in the infrastructure, power, education, agriculture, health and manufacturing sectors.

Of course, I do consider your bank not to be the only scourge creating its present condition. Many ‘culprits’ should not go absolved. First is the CBN itself – the supposed watchdog – who cannot claim it was oblivious of the rot being exposed now. Moreover, the piecemeal audit and exposure of the banks’ true conditions is not without some clandestine schema (of which you played into its gallery). Rating outfits that led you on a deception trail should also be blacklisted. They enjoyed the funfair while it lasted. They created a mirage of confidence that never existed either through their ignorance or deliberate cover-up. Also on the malefactor list are the ‘big boys’ – the mega debtors. They borrowed money to execute awry, failed businesses that left you the lenders to lick both your wounds and theirs. In addition, the arrogance with which they carry themselves should tell you that retrieving the borrowed funds from them will be almost impossible.

Do not be deceived by the harangues of the toothless bulldog tagged the EFCC aimed at helping you recover your funds from the untouchable ‘big boys’. It is all part of the script. Moreover, the Federal Government has also placed itself in a position where it cannot afford to throw stones because it resides in a glass house – otherwise where would the funds for the 2011 elections come from?

Sir, if indeed I matter in your bank scheme of operations I would like to lend my layman ‘non-expert’ advice aimed to help retrace ‘our’ bank steps from ignominy to fete.

Douse the voracious thirst to be the biggest – it has been proven now that the biggest is not the brightest. Flee unhealthy inter-bank rivalry – it will grind all involved to nihility. Do not covet accolades and approval from rating agents. Remember, once beaten, many times shy. Be reasonable with your lending rates – your mega debtors never argued the inordinate interests you slammed on their loans. They could not have or otherwise you might change your mind. Directly empower the manufacturing sectors while reducing investments into rent-seeking sectors and high-risk-high-yield businesses like the one that is almost causing your ruin. Trim down operational/overhead costs – flashy cars, glamour, expensive globe trotting, reality TV shows and adverts, imposing office buildings and exotic locations. In the present world of high-tech automation, banks can function well in small well-serviced office spaces. Play down on expensive corporate governance lifestyle. Finally, be open at all times. Say it as it is even if your balance sheets are more of a red colouration. Remember, public trust is the greatest asset.

Accept my widow’s mite.

Sincerely,

Ad.Mi.A

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.

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!

Queer Things about the Women in Our Lives

I had the extraordinary privilege of growing up with girls the first two-dozen years of my life. I’d count myself (un)lucky having only girls as siblings – absolutely no brother! There were days I really wished I had one. Nonetheless, most times I never felt the absence of one, considering the characters I have as sisters – I call them the sweetest thingies in the world. There was never a dull moment.

I must not fail to mention the peculiarities I had living with ladies through out my teenage and young adult lives. Growing up, one of such has to do with my identity. If I were to be differentiated from colleagues bearing same name with me, I was without a second thought referred to as “Wale Obirin” (the female Wale) – explained by the fact I had a feminine disposition rubbed off on me, as a dint of growing up with ladies!

I left home to be on my own in my early twenties and when fate thought I’d enough of half a decade of self-government, I was convicted and sentenced to a life term of living with another woman (as a matter of fact, now increased to two)!

I’m not a chauvinist and this is not to tell you about my Ms. Fortunes, but to narrate things I still don’t understand about these peculiar people after my almost 30-year “professional” experience of living with them. Though not weighty, these witty, trifling behaviours are still beyond my understanding. Whether you have them as mothers, sisters, wives, relatives, friends, colleagues or whatever, you’ll agree that the under listed mannerisms are queer in no particular order. Thanks to contributors who shared their experiences:

a. I’ve always appreciated braids on ladies. The beauty of this exclusive coiffure when shrewdly crafted ceases not to turn my head yet against its volition. But, you may want to enquire: “What’s queer about braids?” To all sincere intent and purpose, there’s nothing curious about this hairdo but what gravels me is seeing ladies leaving a couple of loose braid strands across their face awkwardly obstructing their line of sight. They occasionally toss these aside. Why can’t the freakin' braids be packed in a lot?!

b. I’m not a shoe freak perhaps that’s why possessing more than a dozen pair of shoes all at one time, bewilders me. I discovered some men folks are likewise infected with this bug. What on earth is an individual doing with this number of footwear?! Most of them are worn occasionally – probably once in a year, after which they are no longer fashionable – while others end up being relics or mementos.

c. Have you ever peeked into a lady’s wardrobe? Most of the “wearables” look fit for folks a decade younger than their owners. It’s often implausible how they manage to put on these outfits. Remember White Chicks – when detectives Kevin and Marcus went shopping, disguising as Brittany and Tiffany.

d. Our ladies sudden switch (when the occasion demands) to the posh or impeccable (in local parlance called “forming”) is mind-blowing!

e. Now hold your breath (or sight) for this: Having a mirror behind the sunshade flap on the passenger side must be a criterion for choosing and purchasing a car! That’s how I spell Q-U-E-E-R.

f. Why do the women in our lives think a man who decidedly stays at home is akin to a complete handyman (plumber, electrician, gardener, carpenter, garbage man, driver, gateman and all – the fullworks, I must say). Someone should know I’m not complaining, just enquiring.

g. What’s that thing that infuriates women when one fails to follow the tenets of eating breakfast, lunch and dinner? Are you obliged to always show up at the table even when there’s no abdominal space to tuck meals in? More questions than answers.

h. A brain teaser: No matter how much more you earn than them, they end up having more than you do.

i. Another one that will boggle me forever: You take a strong stand concerning an issue. You promise ‘self even if Hitler bellows from h*ll or Mother Theresa sheds tears from Abraham’s bosom you ain’t gonna shift an inch. Nonetheless, the women in our lives find their way around, above, under or through this stance and our deportment falls like a pack of cards or melts like peanut butter by the hearth. Who if truth be told is indeed the weaker sex?

j. Whenever you do their bidding you’re a darling or a perfect gentleman. As a matter of fact, Denzel Washington is just trailing. However, when you don’t: You don’t know how to treat a lady!

k. When you have them as colleagues, they’re keen to show you “what a man can do, a woman can do battering.” Oops! I mean “better”.

l. A couple of times, I’ve tried to keep up with the Cadavers Kardashians, discovering why TV remotes grow wings (to reappear much later) when soaps like Paloma, Demented Desperate Housewives, Second Chance et al were aired. Each time, my eyes increased in weight and changed colour (means drooped with sleep).

m. In the bid of trying to impress (or avoiding to disappoint) the women in our lives, we end up accomplishing all but what we set out doing, even at our risk. I know a friend who almost electrocuted himself while trying to help a next door female neighbour who asked for his unknown slapdash assistance – the poor guy didn’t know jack about electricity and he never wanted to disappoint his housemate.

I guess I’ve to stop here for now.

Excuse me ladies, is it safe for me to come home?

Tribute to Professor M.O. Ogedengbe

At one time or the other, we meet individuals whose relationship with us indelibly impacts our lives. One of such is Professor Martins Olusola Ogedengbe. A civil engineering professor of the Obafemi Awolowo University (OAU), Prof. (as he is popularly referred to) comes across as a personality with a docile demeanour. However, on closer association one would come to discover a man of strong will and seasoned character that never condones indolence and anything short of excellence. This stance almost always places him on controversial spots.

A man of witty, philosophical and insightful words, Ogedengbe never hesitates to smack an individual with his opinion often times, sarcastic while his facial expression might suggest otherwise. One of such occasions presented itself when he gave us an assignment after his first lecture during our penultimate year. I can remember clearly the comments he minuted on our various assignment papers. The research-based homework had to deal with writing about water-borne diseases and stuffs like that. Without much ado, I laid hands on a medical textbook and I plagiarised almost a couple of chapters like no man’s business – after all, what does a freaking engineering undergraduate know about coli forms, bacteria and viruses.

On receipt, our various papers were painted red with his interesting comments leaving all of us with points closer to 1 than 10. After reading through my “well-researched” paper, I think Prof. was overwhelmed with my over-dubbed argots. Sardonically, he queried:

“Can you explain all these jargons to Grandma in Yoruba (my native language)?”

His comments on Bolaji’s papers still remain a reference for most of us till today. A very intelligent chap though, BJ (nickname) never completed his assignments until a couple of hours to submission. Moreover, his works reeked with disjointed words or sentences and avoidable errors. Prof. summarily commented:

“The wife of a careless man is almost a widow!”

Today, Bolaji is married and we’re earnestly praying…

Ofuya (another brilliant but otiose colleague) was never on time either for submission of homeworks or lectures i.e. if he ever showed up! Our man Fusqo (nickname) deemed it fit to submit his first assignment a couple of days after the deadline and of course you can trust Ogedengbe – he succinctly concluded:

“People like Ofuya will never get the job.”

Interestingly, a couple of weeks ago Ofuya was one of the groom’s men for a friend’s wedding. As the procession commenced, Ofuya was nowhere to be found. He was called on phone and responded he was just around the corner. Ofuya wasn’t sitting in the pew until the tail end of the more than 2-hour church service! Talking about how people change (or do they remain the same?) more than seven years after graduation!

Ogedengbe does not tolerate remissness or any semblance of it. On a particular occasion, Paul (our class rep) and I accosted Prof. in his office requesting for an extension of deadline with regards to the submission of a term paper due to the prevailing conditions on campus (there was no electricity and water). Ogedengbe was appalled that a few considered “responsible” students could make such a request. He lamented:

“If gold would rust, what would iron do?”

He made us to understand that:

“Work will always fill the time allotted to it.”

No matter how short or long the deadline is, the Ofuyas of this world will never meet up. Thence, he lectured us on how to forge ahead in life in spite of adverse conditions. For the next couple of hours we stood sweating in the non-air-conditioned office, with forced rapt attention listening to the issues he was battling with – being a widower, his ill-health, unaccomplished goals – as he intermittently illustrated on the chalk board in his office, trying to drive home his point. For the most part, we remembered more the pains in our legs while standing than Prof.’s golden advice. Moreover, we didn’t get any deadline extension – instead, Paul and I were denied some two hours we could have ploughed into working on the paper.

Incidentally, Paul’s and Bolaji’s final year theses were supervised by Prof. I guess the twosome will not forget this life-changing ordeal – not in a hurry.

Prof. Ogedengbe is often misjudged by colleagues and his students. He comes to many as sadistic and often times unwavering. As a result, Ogedengbe is in many individuals’ not too white books. Howbeit, this is an extremely scrupulous man – he will never excuse the undotted i’s or the t’s that miss their crossings; not the Ogedengbe I know. He inexorably emphasises the need for an individual to demonstrate the three “I’s”: Industry, Initiative and Intelligence. Prof. has an overwhelming sense of profundity, aptness, organisation and orderliness. I consider him to be one of the “last of the academic Mohicans” – a rare breed of intellectuals already facing extinction. Particularly, his technical writing skill is impeccable.

This is not to portray a picture-perfect individual as many might wont to imagine but a thoroughbred fellow who’s only in touch with his essence. After all, to err is human whenever Prof. does.

A couple of years ago, Prof. Ogedengbe sent me a mail (for whatever reasons) he titled “If Wishes Were Horses!” It spotlighted an undiscovered part of this reflective man. It reads thus:

“At this point in time, as a professor of civil engineering I sometimes wish I could spend a typical 24-hour day something as follows, I might call it an Olusola Ogedengbe Day:

Conduct usual wakeup preliminaries, have some breakfast, give lectures to one undergraduate class and one postgraduate class; perform some administrative chores plus interact with undergraduate and PG students under research supervision in office and/or in the lab; attend and participate intelligently and intellectually in a seminar in my department, in the Faculty or elsewhere in the university. This in particular will include diverse disciplines/subjects/topics: Greek Mythology, Forensic Anthropology, Evolutionary Biology; possibly hear arguments among subject experts there as to how the early Darwinian view of evolution (the steady upward march from simple to complex, with man the crowning glory) contrasts with the modern view which is proving to be a more random, haphazard affair full of dead ends and bizarre twists; or on a comparative analysis of the philosophical bases of Aristotle, and two thousand years later, Lamarck, in their belief systems reflected by postulations such as for example, that 'all relatives are related'. And so on.

Back in my Department: Visit with my PhD student and his current setup in the lab on the study of electrophoresis in the treatment of industrial wastewaters. Lunch and/or supper take their proper places.

At sundown, go out on a little exercise, walking among trees, flowers, the brooks. Back home, take a shower. Go take a lager, likely a warm one (partly diuretic, you see) and while lingering on it engage others at the OAU Ile-Ife Staff Club 'Elders Corner' in discussions (arguments, really) on random/diverse issues: UFOs, Jingoism, POWs, Banana Peel Syndrome, Mona Lisa or Van Gogh's (boring old) Chair, AWOL, Where Babies Come From, Whether We are Happier than our Forefathers. And so forth.

Back home at night, hum a few hymns from my YHB (Yoruba Hymn Book) and reflect on a few passages in the Scriptures. Time to prepare for bed. In bed, light reading, maybe some old stuff: James Hadley Chase's 'Gold Fish Have No Hiding Place', 'An Ear to the Ground', 'The Guilty are Afraid'; Chinua Achebe's 'Things Fall Apart'; Sydney Sheldon's 'If Tomorrow Comes', 'Rage of Angels'; or Wole Soyinka's 'The Man Died' ('Igilango Geesi'). In due course switch off the light and listen to the sound of silence. A brief prayer of thanksgiving to the Almighty God. For EVERYTHING. And then…That's it.

Life's Illusion Perhaps? No. Probable New Day Renaissance. In my beloved University.”

A couple of years ago, I made contact with his department to indicate my intention of carrying out a research/fieldwork using the department as a platform. I was informed Prof. had been ill and I decided to send him an SMS text since he seldom picked his calls due to his failing hearing ability. In his usual brisk and straight-from-the-shoulder manner, Prof. responded:

“Mr. Ajani, I expected your brilliant self to know I’m ill and on sabbatical. Anyway, it’s good to have you back. Looking forward to meeting you. MOO.”

During the course of the fieldwork, Prof. eventually granted me audience after a number of previously scheduled cancelled interviews. He received me with much warmth and appreciated my work. He informed me I had to shout during our discussion due to his ill-hearing. Anyone peeping through his office would have been confused seeing me sitting and shouting my lungs out, thinking Prof. and I were having a brawl while our disposition suggested otherwise.

My eyes glittered with both tears and pride listening to a man talked about his work, department and school with so much passion. My writing pad and voice recorder were busy downloading from this immense human archive. Prof. Ogedengbe was the pioneer of the 30-year-old civil engineering department – a mission that was daunting. In the face of an economic downturn that jeopardised the prospects of civil engineering in the mid 80’s (due to sky-rocketed cost of building materials) and lesser funds available to universities which successively resulted into human capital flight from the department, Ogedengbe stood by and with his brainchild.

With flourishing professional and biological offsprings that have proceeded from his loins and well-positioned on the globe, Ogedengbe is an accomplished man. ‘Kunle Ogedengbe and siblings do have a father to be proud of – so do some of us, his mentored progenies.

As he approaches three scores and ten years, and being an emeritus, what else could one wish the father of OAU’s civil engineering other than more years spiced with good health and an indescribable sense of fulfilment every achiever deserves.

Celebration of Life

I stumbled on a poem I wrote for one of the cultural ceremonies (African Night) during my PG studies. I just realised it’s been a while I wrote a line of poetry. I must confess it’s tough doing this part of creative writing. A couple of writer-friends have confirmed that. Nonetheless, I decided to post this poetry (the edited version) titled “Celebration of Life”. Hope it doesn’t read too tawdry ;-)

Celebration of Life
by Adewale Ajani

Greetings from the land of the Nubia
Home of the black, bold and beautiful
The cradle of life, poise and splendour
Where valiance and zeal reign supreme
Conquering all odds and disenchantment

The heat ‘though like a second skin
Warms up our ardent generous hearts
Fortifying the bonds of brotherliness
Healing the pains and gashes of history
Ushering in life, hope and rejuvenation

From the affluent beds of the Gold Coast
To the chilly pinnacles of the Kilimanjaro
From the alluring thrones of the Pharaohs
To the famous caverns of the heroic Zulus
Echoes this grand song celebrating our pride

Memorable and notable is our heritage
As you savour the grandest of all continents
A people of colour, elegance and history
Welcome to the oasis and dynasty of verve
Welcome to the “Celebration of Life”!

Olórunsògo

Olórunsògo is the fading inscription written above the door entrance of the communal living quarters popularly called Face-Me-I-Face-You in local parlance, located at the end of Liadi Street. This derives its name from the layout of the facility: Depending on the magnanimity or rapacity of the landlord, this type of household may contain 8 to 14 rooms with a corridor that runs from the main entrance which leads to another door exiting into a backyard, with equal number of rooms facing one another on each side of the passage way. Occupants, irrespective of their number, share meagre essential facilities (if and where they are provided) à la kitchen (usually a shed with stone tripods for cooking), bathrooms and toilets (often one or two pit latrines), all located in the backyard.

Olórunsògo which literally means “God has done something glorious” obtains its name from the deceased owner, Alhaji Olorunsogo a small scale industrialist in wood planks business. He owned half a dozen of sawmills scattered around the city with scores of workers on his pay roll. A thrifty business man, Alhaji Olorunsogo wasn’t half sparing on the home front. With five wives living under the same roof, innumerable concubines catered for on Alhaji’s bills and twenty-three “official” children, Olorunsogo proved without doubt that he was a man of insatiable libido!

In spite of his numerous properties, the exit of Alhaji did not but cause a royal rumble in the apportioning of the Olorunsogo’s empire. After a hurried burial, extended family members (ranging from immediate step-siblings to fifth cousins) grabbed a chunk of Alhaji’s estates leaving his wives and two dozens children to share the leftovers. Matters were complicated by emergence of concubines and their wards that also came to lay claim on the residual largesse. The “might is right; eat or be eaten” phenomenon took over. Wives and their children alike sprang at one another’s necks and lives. Dauda, Alhaji’s third son from his second wife lost his sight in an alleged juju (voodoo) battle with one of his kin. This is still being investigated as the neighbourhood police is “working day and night” to unveil the evil-doer(s).

Owing to sheer strong-headedness and access to firsthand information, Morufu (Alhaji’s first son and second child from his second wife) was able to lay hold on the Olórunsògo papers; one of Alhaji’s few remaining real estates. Hence, he assumed the position of the new landlord and rent collector, a status that’s still being contested by Salewa (Alhaji’s first daughter and first child from his first wife), the heiress-apparent to the Olorunsogo throne.

Back to Olórunsògo.

The inhabitants of Olórunsògo could least be described as a collection of assorted characters and enigmas – a very interesting household indeed.

Starting from the longest staying tenant, Daddy Pastor (as he’s popularly called), the roll call can’t be more intriguing. Daddy Pastor as the name indicates, pastors a shanty church with a dozen members, down the street adjacent to where Olórunsògo is situated. A 53-year old father of eight, Daddy Pastor “received a vision” to be a minister of the gospel a couple of years ago. It’s often rumoured that this might not be unconnected to his failure as a welder when he’d hardly fend for his large family. To ascertain they fulfil the Old Testament tradition of paying tithes and to avoid any temptation of “eating” this portion of their income, at the end of every month Daddy Pastor makes it a point of duty to collect tithes, going from one church member’s house to another. He saves them the trouble of having to pay the tithes in church, before which many of them may re-consider payment.

Daddy Pastor’s wife automatically christened Mommy Pastor is a full-time housewife. Being married to the longest staying tenant she also by default qualifies to be the landlady-tenant. Therefore, she coordinates the women folk of Olórunsògo’s household on appropriate matters. Her position also gives her the right to occupy the veranda space in front of the house where she sells cooked beans and eegbo (over-cooked dry corn) served with fried fish stew to augment whatever her husband pays himself from the church coffers.

Daddy Pastor, his wife and eight children all occupy a “room-and-parlour” (two rooms with one used as a living room and the other, a bedroom).

Sisi Vero the 49-year old spinster appears next on the roll. Sisi means a lady in her teens or twenties. Why Veronica (shortened Vero) who’s almost striking her golden jubilee, insists to be called Sisi never ceases to amaze everyone. It was alleged that Sisi Vero once slapped an okada man (motorcyclist) vivaciously for addressing her as “Madam.” The two were taken to the police station and accused of “two fighting.” Sisi Vero, a woman (oops! a lady) that has had her fair share of failed relationships still believes she is young enough to marry a man of her dream (Would someone tell her to wake up before she does so in her grave?)! This informs her mode of dressing: From the colour-riot overdone make-up to the tight-fitting undersize dresses, buxom Sisi Vero tenaciously fights for space amongst contemporary and (in her own words) saucy girls.

Often times when she hosts a particular man for a long while, expectations are high as to her eventual “settling down.” Howbeit, more often than not when the man is no longer seen and Sisi Vero asked why, her scornful and hiss-ful response is one that’s always ambiguous and of the same leaning – it’s either the man doesn’t know what he wants or he’s married.

On many occasions, Sisi Vero disappears from home for days and at times weeks. No one really has an idea of what she does for a living.

Joe, the graduate and bachelor teacher lives next room to Sisi Vero. Joe moved into Olórunsògo after months of unfruitful job search. A graduate of Linguistics from one of the state-owned universities, Joe got wind of job opportunities acclaimed to outnumber job-seekers in Lagos. As a result, he moved in with a fellow town’s man who readily accepted to accommodate the new comer. However, after weeks of enjoying free food and accommodation with no prospect of securing a job, the wife of his benefactor deemed it fit to declare an end to the generosity bestowed Joe, with alacrity. Luckily for him, before he was sent packing, Joe got a job as a primary school teacher two streets away from Olórunsògo where he now resides. Oga Joe (as called by housemates) takes advantage of the beehive of children parented by Daddy Pastor and others in the neighbourhood by organising home lessons for a number of them. At times when payment is delayed, Joe barters food with Mommy Pastor for his home service.

Mr. Sunday, the electrician is a resource-tenant of Olórunsògo not because of what he gives but that which he saves the household. His expertise enables him to backdate the reading on their NEPA analogue meter, now and again. As a result, the household is able to evade payments of huge sums of electricity bills. On occasions when they are cut off from the mains supply by the authority, Mr. Sunday artfully reconnects Olórunsògo typically at night.

The conscientious electrician recently got married to Patience who everyone calls Iyawo (meaning “wife”). Mr. Sunday works for a small-scale local contractor. Occasionally, when business is on the gloomy side, he plies his okada (motorcycle) within the environs in order to eke out a living. On the other hand, Iyawo seems too otiose to complement her husband's efforts. All she is ever seen in is a filthy wrapper tied sloppily over her almost bare chest. All day long, she stays indoors watching home videos on Sunday’s 14-inch black-and-white TV. Patience's laziness doesn’t permit her to cook. Hence, she patronises food hawkers or Mommy Pastor depending on what her appetite dictates. Poor Sunday!

Another couple that occupies the “room-and-parlour” on the opposite wing is the aged Papa Nkechi with his wife, Mama Nkechi and their grand daughter, Oname. Papa Nkechi is a railway corporation retiree train driver while his wife sells ugu (a delicacy vegetable) at the community market. Years of accumulated pensions have impoverished the old man and his family. A civil war veteran, he always reminisces with relish the role he took in the “no victor, no vanquish” pyrrhic war. He lost an index finger, the stump of which he’s eager to show anyone who cares to listen to his tales. Indeed, ol’ soldier never dies.

Their only child, Nkechi is married and lives with a vehicle spare parts business man who resides at the other end of town. At 15, Nkechi was impregnated by a “friendly” neighbour vulcaniser, an act he wasn’t willing to take responsibility for. Painfully, she had to drop out of school in order to supplement support for taking care of her baby, Oname. After years of emotional dejection, Nkechi regarded herself fortunate when Nnamdi requested for her hand in marriage, but only on one condition – he’s ready to cater for Oname but not under his roof. Not wanting to jeopardise this rare opportunity and fortune’s smile on her, she dumps Oname with Papa and Mama.

The last on the queer list is Bovi – the neighbourhood Casanova. Bovi came into Olórunsògo as a Youth Corper almost three years ago and he still claims to be on the one-year programme, for this reason he’s either referred to as Bovi or Corper. Many a time, the adventurous young man has been the object of accusation from mothers within the neighbourhood who claim Bovi has tactically deflowered their young daughters. Adolescent girls have been warned severally to keep off the amorous Corper but he always has a way around them as they’re seen either leaving or entering his den frequently.

The highpoint of Bovi’s escapades came when he was sought for by the police a couple of months ago but (un)fortunately he wasn’t indoors. When accosted by Daddy Pastor and Papa Nkechi as to ascertain the undisclosed reason behind the visit from the “men in black”, Bovi denied any wrong doing and assured them the “case” was resolved. Truly, no one knows Bovi’s source of livelihood. Besides, he’s often seen with questionable characters spending hours in the neighbourhood cybercafé. It’s rumoured that he’s a yahoo yahoo boy (advance fee fraudster).

Today, I decide to drive through the gully-ridden Liadi Street not out of lacking serious business doing but, sheer curiosity seeing a crowd of people gather in front of Olórunsògo. I am told Salewa and Morufu (Late Alhaji Olorunsogo’s children) are having a showdown there. The uncertainty that surrounds the new landlord/lady has excused the not-too-willing occupants from paying their rents. Consequently, Salewa and Morufu converged at Olórunsògo to slog it out. Both came simultaneously to collect the overdue rents from the tenants, each claiming legal right to do so. In the process, I think ignominious words were exchanged as each challenged the other to a reloaded version of the clash of the titans. At the moment, I can see Salewa with a swollen eye and in tattered clothings attempting to hold the part covering her bosom. Sprawling on the floor is Morufu, with a head which has doubled in size oozing out blood, turbulently. By his side lies a metal pole – I guess this should be the pain-inflicting weapon used by Salewa. Despite his obvious awfully painful condition, Morufu held down by on-lookers and passers-by, still brawls at Salewa.

Wonders have decided to reside at Olórunsògo! Anytime you need a break from the norm, feel free to visit Olórunsògo. It’s at No. 18 Liadi Street.

Birthday Boy

It is the fourth time I’d be sneaking out of bed to check my well ironed “cut-and-sew” cotton waistcoat and black silk shirt hung in the wardrobe, alongside my meticulously polished shoes which were acquired the previous Christmas.

It seems as if morning will never come. I’ve been rambling from one corner of the bed to the other, expecting the much awaited knock (more often than not a bang) on the door by Mom, signifying wake-up time to start preparing for school. A wry smile hits my face when I remember just some years ago I had not the imperial privilege of sleeping on a mattress bed. All that was due to me was a beautifully painted raffia mat (with a pillow and a cover cloth) which had to be changed often due to my incessant bed-wetting (a doctor friend of mine calls it enuresis – whatever that means).

Incidentally, today is my 9th birthday anniversary and you can’t fathom how I’ve looked forward to this day. With my arms folded and supporting the back of my head, I gaze into the invisible ceiling in the unlit room. I try to imagine how I’d be the centre of attraction today in class and (if kismet will smile on me) most probably, the whole school – the applause I’ll receive as I mount the pedestal our head teacher stays on when he invites up birthday celebrants of the day to join him during the morning assembly……

“Wake up! It’s time for school.” Mom shouts as she profusely bangs on the door.

I subconsciously ruffle under the cover cloth disinclined to get out of bed. Suddenly, I remember it’s my birthday - a day I’ve counted down to! I jump out of bed with an exigency of a king’s messenger. I know Mom and my siblings will wonder at the unusual manner I completed my house chores this morning without the customary suasion to perform these tasks consequent of being caught snoozing in one niche of the house.

I feel on top of the world. Let me paint the picture.

Here I am on my 9th birthday anniversary. No school uniform today. I’m well-dressed in my Sunday best and Christmas shoes, to go with new underwear I’ve never put on hitherto and actually saved for today. The excitement won’t let me eat breakfast. My appetite seems to understand there is a sensation inside me which is more compelling than hunger (at least for the moment). I single-handedly convey the drinks and snacks for my birthday party into the trunk of Mom’s car. It’s a pity all my prior cries and sulks couldn’t get a birthday cake out of the tight family’s budget for today’s event. Never mind, cake or no cake it’s still my birthday.

I impatiently hope Mom and my sisters will soon be ready so we’d hit the road. I can’t wait for them to round-off the birthday songs, wishes and other compliments as I look forward to getting to school as soon as these ladies will permit me to begin my day. It’s showtime and I’m all set to start basking in the euphoria of a birthday boy!

We get to school with no hitches during which my mind is most of the travel time on despatch. I can’t concentrate on the tittle-tattles that ensue. Our arrival does create the desired effects as I peep to observe twinkles of surprises on the faces of fellow pupils (or am I just disillusioned?) admiring me in my poised outfit.

Now it’s morning assembly time – an opportunity to officially inaugurate the show-off. During the morning devotion, the head teacher invites the celebrants up. A couple of other individuals are fortunate to share today with me. We elegantly walk through the aisle created by fellow pupils. Beaming with smiles, I look across the assembly of students as they chorus various birthday songs. I couldn’t have been happier!

The morning classes trail overly long for my predilection. All I can see are Mr. Mensah’s (our class teacher) moving lips and his gesticulating hands as this mind of mine still refuses to concentrate on his lectures. I earnestly look forward to proceeding on lunch break. This usually serves as the climax of any birthday celebration. This is how we usually do it:

During the lunch timeout, the celebrant sits in front of the class on an ad-hoc high table to where he/she invites his/her best male and female pals. Almost every class member warms up to the celebrant in an unusually gracious manner so as to be considered for sharing the ephemeral exulted seats with the birthday boy/girl. In addition, the “special guests” also enjoy the rare privilege of having a full bottle of soft drink each to themselves along with the celebrant while other class members parsimoniously share theirs.

Today, I notice Bella my tyrannical bully row mate (who is almost twice my size) has been exceptionally nice to me. She (yes! she) even offers me one of her spare pencils when I couldn’t locate mine on time! Deke out of the blue decides to lend me the Nintendo game he has denied me unrelentingly many a time, while Sola says with a dimple-smile that I’d no longer bother about her Enid Blyton’s I misplaced. How I wish birthday anniversaries could be an everyday event.

Mr. Mensah jump-starts the occasion, after the usual birthday chorus rendered recitatively by the class as he showers innumerable encomiums on me. I almost forget the compliments are meant for me as I find it difficult to believe my ears: Is this not the same well-behaved birthday boy he flogged unapologetically the previous week? I think whoever it was that invented/suggested birthday anniversaries should be celebrated, such a person should be immortalised and canonised. This is one of the few events in an individual’s life when one’s hitherto and/or prejudged “foes” strive to be at peace with him and rare privileges are also accorded him.

Now comes the supposedly easy part but realistically a tough one: Choosing my guests of honour. Without reconsideration, I know who my best male friend-invitee would be: Deolu, our class head of course! Not because he’s the class chief but we do share a couple of things in common. We both are objects of intimidation from our class yobbos as we tend to shy away from any form of confrontation with these troublemakers. Moreover, Deolu possesses many attributes I desire. He has an impressively exquisite handwriting for a young boy of his age – one, Microsoft Word application will be glad to put on its fonts menu and probably patent Deolu Cursive. Regardless of his occasional apprehension, Deolu has an aura of self-confidence and kindliness. He’s ever nattily dressed, keen to help and gracious with a handsome visage and a brilliant mind to complement. He strikes one as a lady’s man. In fact, he’s my exemplar. Hence, Deolu joins me on the high table.

My childhood fantasy remains the bane of my female guest choice. My heart pendulums between opting for the quiet, more familiar but not so exquisite Yemi and the energetic, classy, exotic and much talked-about Michelle.

Yemi has been my schoolgirl fantasy right from the previous class. In between ourselves, though tacit, we are both conscious of this “feeling, inside.” She has been remarkably friendly providing a masked affection, at any opportunity she gets. I remember now how she helped search for my lost pairs of stockings, last school term.

Michelle is the new chic on the block – the hottest sensation! She’s a perfect fuse of white and rich chocolate melanin all in one cast. A European-African descent, her tinge of skin colour is of a rare blend – a spotless tinge, Ethiopian in nature – commonly known as a half-caste. Her arrival on the school landscape last session is akin to breaking news. She is the talk of the whole school. Everybody wants her attention and friendship – so do I. However, a number of students complain about her high-handedness, arrogance and bad manners, but I think they are just envious of this beauty queen. I have been searching for an opportunity to secure Michelle’s attention and probably her affection. This might be it!

The time taken to announce my female guest seems like ages. Adrenalin gushes through my body and my facial nerves twitch as blood rushes through them similarly. My limbs become cold and numb. I can see immense anticipation expressed differently across the over 20 pairs of eyes that seem to await the declaration of a verdict that will impact their lives. The silence that pervades the classroom is almost tangible. Did I see Sola’s eye twinkle with her usual accompanied captivating dimple-smile? I grimace seeing the I-will-whip-you-silly-if-you-don’t-pick-me look on Bella’s face. I dare the consequences of my choice deciding to deal with the fiend, afterwards.

With my heart in my mouth, I declare “I choose Michelle to join me.”

I can almost hear the silent moan exclaimed by the whole class simultaneously. Taken aback likewise, Michelle catwalks with some feel of haughtiness in her steps, to join us at the table.

A quick glance towards Yemi’s direction assures me I’ve made a most ill decision. She drops her head as soon as our eyes make contact. My heart sinks and wallows in abject shame, disappointment and betrayal. Nonetheless, I reassure myself with the company of the most desired celebrity in school. Besides, I owe no one any form of commitment or affection. Do I? Why should I be down with guilt? But deep within me, I know something, somewhere, somehow is not right.

My mind is absolutely absent from the remaining happenings and activities of the day. After the lunch break, I can’t bring myself to steal another glance at Yemi. Howbeit, I delight myself with security of the newly established association and prospects with Michelle. At any rate, I have won the attention of the renowned Michelle! I can’t wait for the end of school…..

As the bell rings signifying the close of day, I hurriedly pack my books. I make a mental analysis of how to accost Michelle. My major concern is how to penetrate her barrier of friends that flock around her like aides. I run after their convoy as they descend the stairs.

“Mi...Mi…Michelle.” I stutter. “Excuse me; I’d like to speak with you Michelle.”

She stops dead in her track, turns and walks back to meet me. My heart beats and leaps for excitement. I can’t believe this angel is all mine. The whole world seems to come to a standstill awaiting my beck and call. However, the look on her face suggests otherwise.

“Listen, Wale or whatever you’re called.” Michelle bellows.

“Never you, involve me in any of your low class so-called birthday parties again. I just didn’t want to embarrass you this afternoon. That was why I honoured your invitation.” She continues.

“I can’t imagine how someone could celebrate a birthday without a cake.”

She hisses and walks away with her fleet close at her heels, giggling and making faces at me.

There and then, I know without equivocation, I did make an erroneous choice during the lunch break. My head aches, my belly rumbles and my legs shake all in unison. I pray I’d be swallowed up by the ground beneath me. Shame in its full intensity envelopes me. From the staircase landing where I stand stuck, I glance up seeing Yemi. Obviously, she must have witnessed this show of embarrassment. With tears in her eyes, she runs down the stairs, avoiding me as she attempts to suppress her sobs......

“Excuse me sir.” The young lady tries to get my attention. She taps me, hence disrupting my daydreaming.

“This is your account balance.” She announces, slipping a piece of paper towards me. She turns away to attend to other businesses.

“Thank you.” I murmur.

I leave the bank hall walking out absentmindedly, oblivious of my surrounding and forgetting the reason I came there for, ab initio.

18 years after betraying a childhood love, here I am struck by the sudden appearance of my bank’s Client Relation Officer who bears every resemblance of Yemi – my heartbroken first love. Coincidentally, as fate will have it, today is my 27th birthday anniversary. Could this really be a coincidence?

In the absence of even the minutest of all doubt, I’m persuaded the lady at the desk is Yemi, but her seemingly expressionless face and business-like gesture confuse me. Moreover, the unknown name plaque on her table beclouds my conviction while the wedding band on her finger discourages me from embarking on further enquiries.

Should I go back in there to find out?

The End

The characters in this story are fictitious. However, some parts of the event may not be untrue ;-)

Comments are welcome.