The Nation Newspaper

Category: Oyinkan Medubi

When the code goes red…

The police cannot claim to be the peoples’ friend when what they dole out are not smiles but frowns, indifference and extortion

Listening to the Governor of Edo State, Comrade Adams Oshiomole, go at the police the other day made me take a U-Turn on my diet of PU this week. I had intended to be all sugar and spice to you today, dear reader, so that we could continue our Merry New Year get-together. But here we are, being reminded, once again, what perilous times we are living in. So we are constrained today to feed on something more grating: a little hard talk. Listen, if the Nigeria Police that have existed for donkey years are just now launching or renewing their Code of Conduct, then something, as they say, is rotten in the state of …

Once, I gave a Code of Conduct to my dog. In it, I listed the many things I did not expect a self-respecting dog to do. There was to be no barking all night and refusing to stop just because a lizard ran by him. There was to be no turning up his nose at any meal simply because he could not see a bone somewhere at the edge of the plate. There definitely was to be no running up to strangers to lick their feet instead of barking and frightening the daylights out of them. The dog was expected to do what was right in all situations such as choosing to stay and guard the house rather than chasing after a bird. Even I had to admit I had a beautiful product there, the code I mean, not the dog.

But the blessed dog not only chewed through the code, it even chewed through my slippers. And I was wearing it. And I was standing in front of him. After eyeball-to-eyeballing him, I gathered that he expected me to go indoors and produce another pair of slippers but I chose instead to give him a renewed Code of Conduct. Verbally. ‘Bad dog, go!’ And I confined him to his house indefinitely.

There is no denying that Nigeria is in a sorry state, worse than my dog, and as I have maintained before in this column, I personally hold the Nigeria Police responsible. The basis of existence of any group is the collective decision to live together in peace and unity. But the thing is, most groups anticipate that not everyone will bear that noble purpose in mind. While some do-good members would be standing, heartily reciting the country’s anthem and looking fondly at the flag, some other baddies would be quietly planning how best to dispossess them of their bicycles. That’s life.

So, in anticipation of those differing in purpose and purity from others, most countries, I say, have laws. You know them, don’t you? They are those beautiful rules which keep criminals on their feet while you and I can go to sleep. Or they are supposed to. They are supposed to be those things that guide the conduct of everyone who swears membership of the group. Or so they tell me. They are also so important that there is a special group of people detailed to keep vigil over their sanctity. They call them the police. You know what that is, don’t you? It is that group that generally goes around and comes around and struts around, and that kind of thing, in their fine uniforms. So, whenever the code goes red into the danger zone, the first thing anyone should shriek is ‘Get the Police!’

It is a truism that if you want to take over a strong man’s house, first bind him up one way or another. I am saying this again because I have said it many times before: if you want to break the spine of any country, first disarm its police, because a country is only as strong as its police. This is why I claim that the rot in this country has been possible only because the police have disappointed many who shrieked for them. I wrote a piece sometime in 2011 in which I recited the story of a lonely old woman in Britain who frequently tricked the constabulary in her neighbourhood to tea by pretending to have been robbed. The police obliged her. I also recited the story of a Nigerian man who was held up all night in his home by marauders, the head of which he found out next morning to have been, you guessed it, a policeman.

The biggest problem confronting the Nigeria Police is the fact that they find themselves unable to inspire faith or trust in the people anymore because of their, well, odd ways. Indeed, it appears that from where the people are standing, the newly launched code should be for the people and should contain only one item: Beware of the police. Now, it’s gone so bad that if confronted by the police and armed robbers on a lane, many people would first take care of the police.

Right now, many Nigerians who do not have policemen as family members cannot claim that the Police are their friend. Indeed, many will do everything they can to avoid any contact with them. One man had brushed against another person’s car. The aggrieved man came out of his car ready to assail his attacker, only to spot a policeman approaching them. Quickly, the two men shook hands, exchanged addresses and left the scene in a hurry. No, sir, they did not flee because they were afraid of the law; they fled because they did not want anyone taking aim at the jugular of their pockets.

There is a lot wrong with the Nigeria Police which the IG needs to fix. The stories told by Governor Oshiomole are disheartening indeed. Needless to say, the man would not have gone public with those stories if he was not sure of his standing. Truth is, nearly every Nigerian has a story to tell about the way the police in their own land have treated them, and they are not very savoury at all. All these stories are unfortunately typified by the attitude of those two policemen who witnessed the lynching of the Port Harcourt students: cynical, detached and indifferent.

I do not know what the new Code of Conduct contains, but I sincerely hope it addresses issues such as how to get people to make the police their friend. I close with a cartoon I respect very much drawn by Josy Ajiboye quite a while back. It depicts a man who runs into a police station in a panic to report to the policeman on duty that he needed help because robbers were at his house even as he spoke. ‘Wharra mess!’, cried the policeman. ‘Go and arrest them right now and bring them here,’ he instructed. Yet another cartoon showed the police as being not so indignant. The two policemen who had been reported to quietly explained to the distraught victim that there were no good tyres on their vehicle, there was no fuel in the said vehicle, and could the victim be so obliging as to help the police arrest the assailant and bring him, then they would deal with him?

Whatever may be the reasons for the Nigeria Police to be so far from the people’s dreams and yearnings, the time has truly come for a REAL evolution. The modern world has many demands, and they include an up-to-the-minute constabulary that would not only be at the top of its game but one that can give the people a genuine smile of friendship. The police cannot claim to be the peoples’ friend when what they dole out to them are not smiles but frowns, indifference and extortion. Certainly, the code for the Nigeria Police is red, because they are not our friend.

January 13, 2013
A Happy new year to you, too!

Have a Merry year; I intend to

A Happy New Year to you too, dear reader.

It is the beginning of another year, and I want to thank you for keeping faith with us all this time. Believe me, I cannot even begin to guess what it must have cost you to buy this paper and then sit down to read through the verbiage in this column. Some of it you said you understood, and some you said you did not. I say well done for the former and to the latter, I say, bless those words for making themselves inaccessible! Anyhow, in our trips down our nation’s history, progress, problems, culture, life … and prospects, I hope you have had as good a time as I did. But we are not done yet I hope, not by a long arm; for, you see, when all is said and done, there is still a lot more to be said and done. You get that I hope, ‘cause I’m still scratching my head on it.

You know, I have always thought of the relationship between an old year and a new one as one between two boxers. When two boxers get into a ring, they look beautiful and have the air of bounding health as they skip up and down, making boasts and threats like kangaroos about to give birth. In a little time, though, one of them is slumped on the ring floor like a worm that has lost its wriggle power, waiting for the referee’s whistle. That’s the old year.

The winning boxer is, however, not much better looking for wear. He appears to swagger out of the ring but don’t be fooled; he is leaning ever so slightly on his trainer. And the doctor is waiting for him in the dressing room. Now, that’s the New Year. The doctor is always hovering around it, knowing full well that the things that the old year is blamed for – the many air crashes due to the careless acts of men, the many incredibly heartless actions of men, all kinds of natural and unnatural events caused, you guessed it, by men’s thoughtlessness, and so on – will sooner or later be attributed to the ‘curse’ of the New Year. So, before we go on, let us take a look at what you and I have been through in this nation, and the conclusions we reached about them in this last year, to decide what kind of doctor this new year is going to need:

‘The people also want a government that can save the weak from the strong, keep the strong from destroying himself and the state, and stop pushing the people’s button. For, when the people’s button is pushed, they will react again and again and again. Their reaction, however, is not what takes the country to the precipice. No sir; it is when the country is handed over to cronies and friends and party members that the country will be pulled into certain anarchy. It is government liberality to a few that has led to the corruption that has taken us to where we are now; it is this government liberality that the people are fighting. “That government is best which governs the least”, says an adage.’

‘To be sure, agricultural development ensures food security which also in turn ensures national security. To ensure that development, some serious thinking that will hopefully lead to some serious action needs to be done. There are too many of us hungry ones, who cannot go beyond potted tomato-farming, who need to be rescued.’

‘The problem with this country is that we the citizens have developed the nasty habit of shamelessly bending the law for relatives, friends and escorts, and everyone has an endless list of those. This has led to a standing joke that Nigerians have found a shortcut to getting to heaven: it’s a matter of knowing one or two powerful people. In Nigeria, we have relegated fear to the backburner. Listen, without a healthy fear of the law, people will continue to embezzle, destroy and kill. Until we develop that healthy fear, we shall continue to roll the country involuntarily towards extinction.’

‘In normal climes, education is the surest means of reversing a horrendous culture such as we are talking about; in Nigeria however, this factor seems to be failing us. This means we have to look elsewhere. Each one of us has to look inside him/herself to find out what really matters: money, connections or working towards evolving a system of values which will benefit us all, children and all, centuries from now. The change that will revolutionise a state must begin with each person.’

‘For the government’s reformation programme to succeed, it must be people-directed. If the last Subsidy Removal protests have taught us anything, it is that the people, literate and illiterate, are ready now to hold their governments to account. Since a literate person can be more easily talked to, it is better to aim at making the entire country literate. Believe me, sir, illiteracy is a time bomb looking for when to happen.’

‘Look at the air travel industry. For reasons best known to the federal government, the national air carrier, Nigeria Airways, was allowed to die by a combination of strangulation, lethal injection, outright murder and lack of funds for maintenance. Yet, no one has been bold enough to look the nation in the eye and say this is the cause of its death. In the place of the carrier, with its long culture of standards and practiced legitimacy, a fleet of private carriers with a famed impatience for huge profits and sharp appetites for sharp practices has been substituted. So, here we are, sans carrier, sans standards, and at the mercy of the men in suits or … err … big, flowing agbadas. For that, the nation continues to pay incalculably huge costs.’

‘The moral of this story is that men ought always to go more in search of madness than money. Just listen. When you have madness, you will be pushed beyond the point of endurance to go chasing your dream that leaves humanity a little better than before and men will remember you always for your efforts. Today, we credit and remember Priestly and Davy for what they did for mankind, not for how rich they managed to get by having access to government coffers. No one remembers such. Because of inventors like those, you and I can now have our appendix removed while watching our favourite shows on TV.’

‘Mystery has even sustained homes. The reason why many wives have not left their husbands is because they do not know exactly how much those husbands earn, so they prefer to stay on and keep guessing. It is right now even sustaining the nation. Now, who on earth can predict the president’s next step, or even his wife’s? I tell you, Nigeria is the home of the mysterious because there is just no making out the people’s mind. Since I can never know what they are going to do next so, I have decided I’d better go find out really why the tortoise wears a hard shell. It may turn out he needs the shell to help protect him against unforeseen injuries. For the same reason, some of us had better borrow a shell or two from him so that something else can shatter other than one’s back.’

‘The mental health of this country is in your hands. Stop screaming at others; stop driving recklessly; stop embezzling recklessly; stop killing in the name of lust or God; and begin now to take care of yourself and others in this giant mental institution. Who knows, if we begin to behave ourselves we might be let off, and be allowed to join the comity of sane nations soon, real soon.’ Have a merry year; I intend to.

January 6, 2013
What a year it has been!

I can hear the bells tolling for the old year, as it limps towards its close like an exhausted Olympic athlete, and ringing in the New Year as it jaunts in; I hope the year meets us well

Edo not consider myself to be very adventurous. No sir/ma; most days, I just love to pack myself in my favourite chair, have some nice pillows to support my poor ol’ back, a footstool to support my tired legs, some fresh air accompanied by chirpings of birds to flutter in through the window, and then proceed to listen to silence. Reader, it is from these deep reveries into silence that some rhapsodies of postscript issue forth. So, most days, I say ‘no, thanks’ to invitations to visit Governor XYZ (yet to get one though); ‘no, thanks’ to invitations to paint the town red (got that one); and definitely ‘no, thanks’ to an invite to visit the moon. Someday, I will be compelled to visit the moon, but not just yet.

There is a journey we are all compelled to make sometimes. Noooo, you!; I rebuke your morbid mind!; I’m not talking about death. Hopefully, that will still be a long way off for you and me. I am talking about the journey we are all compelled to make each year, and that is to move from one year to another, even if you do not leave your armchair. Now it even has a name – The Crossover, which makes it sound more like ‘The Red Bridge of Courage’! Without that element of compulsion, I’m sure many of us would rather go, ‘Do I have to?’ Of course the Almighty will go, ‘Yes, you have to; otherwise time will stand still, swallowing itself with a yawn’. So, just to save father time from swallowing itself, we are compelled to move from one old year to a new one. Sir Lancelot could not do better.

I think the truth is that if we don’t move, time will move us. Have you taken a good look at your neck lately? I bet you did not know that the crows there have somewhat increased over the past year. That, sir/ma, is time moving you relentlessly, and who knows where it will end. After the neck goes up in crows, you raise your arms and people cannot tell whether or not you are waving the national flag, and then your legs begin to do the shuffle. So now, I don’t argue about moving from the old year to a new one. The only thing I do is look back a bit to see how the year fared.

To start with, 2012 was the Year of the Big Bang. Oh no, that has nothing to do with the evolutionary theory; rather, the big bang signifies the year the people of Nigeria gave the government a very big heart attack that actually exploded in a bang. It was when the people reacted violently against the government’s attempt to remove fuel subsidy. Of course, following the bang, the government has since been nursing its wounds and the people have since been contending with dry pumps or alternately giving the pumps some frustrated banging to register their hopelessness.

For me, my Year of the Big Bang came in the form of a discovery. I finally accepted that just as you cannot separate a tree from its bark, so also you cannot separate a man and the money he does not want to part with. Whenever we women have tried to get an increase in the housekeeping money, there have been unbelievable arguments which go like ‘my salary has not been increased; why should I increase the housekeeping money just because things are more expensive in the market?’ Or ‘You want to buy beans? Go sell one or two of your trinkets’, or ‘You want me to steal?’ Worse, when we remind our husbands that there are women who go to the market in jets, they go bananas. ‘Perhaps, if you sell one of my thighs …’; yea, as if that could fetch anything.

Yep, 2012 was also the Year of the Jets. No, we are not talking about that football club, for sincerely, I don’t know how they fared this year. But I know how the sellers of private jets fared in Nigeria: extremely proudly. No one quite knew what was going on beneath the surface ripples until a state governor decided to play both governor and pilot and promptly fell from the sky. In quick succession, a church leader was given a jet as a birthday present. (Since then I have been trying to understand what kind of birthday it was). But for now, I understand that the jets within the country are in their hundreds (including those in the presidency) and many more have been ordered by individuals, most of who are living on government money. So yes, it was the year of the jets: hopefully, every Nigerian will soon get to own one and we can all abandon the bad roads to the goats, chickens and birds. Well yes, when we all take to the sky, the birds will now have to walk.

Sadly, it is also the year of the fear of heights. Those who know me know how much height I can endure: the height of the steps that lead into my house. Anything beyond that incites a great deal of horror, sweats and falls comparable to air crashes. So, when the year began to record all those crashes, I just thought, oh my, what did they go all the way up for? I had come to the truth of the matter earlier, that the fear of height indeed is the beginning of wisdom!

And the year’s floods have almost been worse than Noah’s day. Even though the floods made their entries very quietly enough, their effects have been so devastating many people have been tempted to purchase canoes alongside their cars. Some did. Naturally, material and human tolls have been beyond the pale but many of us have taken consolation in God and the hope that the government would have learnt a thing or two from the experience. But since you and I know that they never do, our only consolation is God.

Now let’s see if and what we as a nation have learnt from our various experiences during this year. I think the fuel subsidy experience has taught us that if we are ever going to move forward as a nation, we must put aside petty grievances and petty divisions such as the colour of our skin, turban or hat. The nation spoke successfully with one voice on the issue of fuel subsidy then because of the pain we felt. Other issues require such a unity of purpose: a modern mass transportation system, potable water, reliable energy sources, etc.

I also don’t think we have learnt much from the lesson nature tried to teach us about private jets. There have been no reports telling us for instance that those who had ordered their private jets have cancelled their orders. We have also not been told that the state governors who own private jets have been asked politely to explain how they came about such possessions considering that they did not go into their respective government houses with one. On the matter, mum has been the word from the various Houses of Assembly, the National Assembly or the national government.

I can hear the bells tolling for the old year, as it limps towards its close like an exhausted Olympic athlete coming in long after the officials have packed their gears and gone home. I can also hear, albeit faintly, the bells ringing in the New Year, as it jaunts in with a hat balanced on its head in a rakish angle and with high hopes. I hope it meets us well.

December 30, 2012
The Christmas that got away

Yes, indeed, Christmas can get away, folks, aided and abetted by the government through its bad economic policies

What with the recent events in this country resulting in the loss of some of our valued nationals through the crash of an aircraft, the mood is really not very bright right now for celebrating. The thing about the seasons, however, is that they will come and go, come rain or shine. So indeed, the rains and the shines do come in spite of all that man may have lost. It is up to the living to carry on the business of forging a way through this dark vale that Nigerians have found themselves in. The problem though is the tendency of the same fellow Nigerians to add more darkness to the existing darkness by choosing to display wickedness over love towards others through bombings, kidnapping, killing, embezzling, etc. As if our dark skins were not enough, we must draw veils of blackness over our hearts and minds just to make life more difficult for our fellow countrymen. Perhaps the reason is that instead of red blood cells running through our veins, we have … you guessed it.

This season, I determined to show that only red blood cells flow within my veins. I would behave like a human being and display more generosity of spirit towards others, in spite of myself or them. I would begin by celebrating Christmas. So, as soon as I could hear carol notes belting into the air from the taped voices of well-fed carollers, I determined to bring some Christmas cheer into the house by getting a good Christmas tree and some lights to make the house look less like Ebenezer Scrooge’s shanty. The first tree I saw appeared friendly enough. It should be, I grumpily thought, considering it was made of synthetic rubber and had been set permanently at the friendly mode so that even the renegade Christian should want to put one up in a conspicuous corner of his/her house. The price put on it actually went through the roof but I managed to rummage through my purse and came up with the sum. I was determined to be generous to the seller.

I also wanted to extend some real peace and goodwill to all this season, so I set out with the will to obtain the biggest turkey or at least something close to it. Before I got to the chicken stall, however, I was given a live one. I did the humane thing: I took it for a drive through the town. Don’t get me wrong: I have eaten a chicken or two in my life time; but the ones I eat are not usually my friends. This one became my friend the minute I held him. Now, how was I going to eat him? I mean, you don’t do that kind of thing to a friend, just not the ton.

I took the chicken for a drive through the town because I thought that would convince both of us of the inherent dangers in our friendship. The poor thing squirmed and squeaked continuously either in fright or discomfort. I took it to be discomfort, since the air coming in through the windows was quite, quite hot. So I went a step further in the business of being humane: I turned on the air conditioner for it out of the generosity of my heart. Ah! I thought the chicken should appreciate the gesture but I don’t think he quite understood it enough as the clucking went on at varied decibel levels. At the first opportunity, I disposed of it out of generosity to myself and the peace of my ears. That was when I found myself in a real quandary. It never occurred to me that I was letting Christmas get away.

My standard joke at the approach of any festival is to enjoin my friends to please ensure the safety of their offerings such as chickens, rams, turkeys, etc., so that when it comes time to extend their hands of friendship and love to me, there would be no excuses. The joke is that the excuses still come in various hues and colours, and they go something like: yea well, I remembered you but you see I had more visitors than I prepared for; or the blessed thing got away in spite of the day and night vigils of the army of young and eager guardians in my neighbourhood; or, and best of them all, the chicken, ram or turkey was a bit reluctant to die so we had pity on it and let it go! No problem, I say to them, Christmas is around the corner when I hope to also extend the same generosity of spirit to my own sacrificial offering.

The quandary now was getting a less expensive, less friendly chicken to offer as a sacrifice in celebration of the season. Perhaps I should just offer a variety of excuses too. I could go, so sorry but the chicken I got did not get home with me. No, that sounds lame. How about, sorry but the turkey was a little too expensive, staggered too drunkenly and cackled insults at passers-by. No, that would make me sound drunkenly too. So, why don’t I just settle down to the age-old, traditional, well-worn and well known excuse? The turkey bolted when it saw the knife; I mean, who would not believe that?!

Once, a man had purchased and tied up a cow to slaughter at his daughter’s wedding ceremony. However, while no one was looking, the clever cow managed to chew through the cord used to tie it and bolted. The father of the bride, already harassed by the economic burden of his daughter’s wedding, immediately bolted after it shouting, along with neighbours and friends, ‘catch it for me, catch that cow for me, that’s my daughter’s wedding! That’s my daughter’s wedding going!’ Yes indeed, the cow got away but the man thought it was the fault of his neighbours who did not run hard enough.

Just as that cow got away, Christmas can indeed get away, aided and abetted by the government (through its bad economic policies), individuals (who cannot stand the clucking or cackles of their sacrificial offerings) or neighbours who refuse to run fast enough to catch one’s escaped and convicted chickens. Whatever the cause of Christmas attempting to escape from your clutches this year, you must fight it, even if it means shouting after it. That may not do you much good though, any more than it did our father of the bride in the story above, but at least your friends will know enough not to sit down and be expecting a miracle of the loaves and fishes from you as if you were Jesus.

Yes, Jesus did do a lot while he was here on earth, didn’t he? This is why we must celebrate the season doing what he did: display an uncommon generosity of spirit. We must go around giving and forgiving; living and letting live; and above all, loving all men and women. Oh you!, you know what I mean. Out of the generosity of my heart, I gave an air-conditioned ride to a chicken; what have you done to help someone this season?

Friends, things must change. Nigerians and Nigerian leaders must now earnestly begin to appreciate the lesson that what matters in the long run is not how many houses an individual manages to build or how much money he/she manages to stash away in Swiss banks or Cayman Island banks or how much money he/she leaves behind for loving and loveless relatives to fight over, but the simple acts of generosity that one leaves behind. In the long run, as one person put it, what matters is the generosity of spirit that one has displayed in one’s lifetime. Have a beautiful time this Christmas!

December 23, 2012
Who’s driving?

When a man seizes the right of way from another man, it becomes an unprovoked invitation to the third world war. Then, the epithets begin to flow

One of my few fond memories of my national youth service corps days (don’t ask me where) was climbing a mountain, and I have never attempted it since over three decades ago. And no thanks; I do not look forward to a repeat of the performance, mountain climbing that is, not youth service; not that I look forward to another of that either. When we were given the schedule of activities for the programme, we found to the dismay of us girls that mountain climbing was conspicuously placed somewhere in a proud corner of the second week or so of camp life. The dreaded day soon came for our platoon and we set off. First, we had to walk for some meters, a distance that seemed endless to my lazy feet but which the same now stronger feet would regard as chicken length. At the end of our trail, we saw the mountain loom large before us, in all of its glorious ten feet or so. We shrieked but the mountain refused to bend lower for us so we had to literally go to the mountain.

Ten steps up, most of us females were panting and at the end of our lungs’ supply of air. Not so the sergeants in charge of us. Their own lungs appeared to be perpetually full of air for they never ceased to bellow commands at us at the top of their voices, making us girls not only not even remotely think of giving up but to even become fearful. I think their horror was the thought that should any girl fail to make it up the top of the mountain they would be obliged to carry the lump of flesh down back to the camp. Not that they would not relish such a prospect at saner times, but certainly not while going up a mountain. So, they alternately badgered, begged, bellowed, cajoled, hollered, threatened and physically supported us either by giving us a hand from above to pull us up a landing or by pushing us up from below to take us to the next landing. What a sight we made that day, weak female civilians and ever-patient soldiers who made the females feel that by conquering a ten-foot mountain, they could conquer the world. I have never forgotten those soldiers nor their hand prints on my uniform.

That experience came in handy when I needed to learn to drive a car. That car looked no less like a mountain that I needed to conquer, and the traffic was even worse. And both had to be overcome, but without the kind soldiers. There was only my teacher, a very impatient and impersonal fellow (who sometimes went by the name of husband) who did not understand why on earth everyone did not come into the world with the knowledge of how to drive a car. So, out in the traffic, any reluctance to absorb a lesson was greeted with a bellow of anger. ‘How can you drive backwards with your eyes closed just because you are afraid of heights?’ ‘Please don’t shout. The soldiers did not shout at us like this in the camp.’ ‘That’s because in the camp you were government property.’

Now, everyone knows that when a learner is unhappy, he/she cannot be psychologically well-tuned to exploit the learning experience to the maximum level. I believe most women have had to learn to drive under the tutelage of trying and discouraging husbands; so they have not been sufficiently primed to learn well. Why, most of the time, you would think that the war of the sexes was coming to its apogee at the learning wheels. And now, reports are claiming that women do not know how to drive. How can, when their teachers have been these most unsympathetic teachers who are secretly scheming that they would not allow their learners to know everything about driving so that they can retain male mastery somewhere: if not at home, at least on the road. So, yes, women have been badly taught; and yes, the reports have been prejudiced.

I was lucky though. My first driving lessons came at the hands of a woman who drove like a pro, so I had learned most of what needed to be known about driving before my teacher changed. Yep, I had learned to drive straight, hold the car steady, not back up into other people, cut people off the road, weave in front of other cars and generally handle my car like a pro cowboy would handle his horse: expertly. Now, when I drive on the road, I am your regular Schumacher without the sports car or the pay.

More, I find that I am able to guess the gender of the driver in front of me by how erratically he or she is driving. Have you ever seen a woman drive? Phew! It just makes me want to whistle through my teeth. Whenever you see the car in front of you weaving around a bit, then take cover; the driver is most certainly likely to be a woman and she could be doing any number of things. She could be telling her husband off on the phone for cutting the housekeeping money yet again. She could be changing her child’s nappy in between the lights, and yes, yes, she could also really be tired of keeping house, children, husband and work in different compartments of her brain. Occasionally, they all just merge together into one indistinct mass, drive her insane and it could happen while she’s out in traffic. This is why men do not like to be driven around by women. They have no idea of when the zero hour can come.

I have also seen men drive. Indeed, the state of the world is messy right now because men are driving. When men drive, driving tests go on all the time. They want to test whether the car can go as fast as the end of the speedometer, and what better place to do that than the highways. This is why all the highways in the country are no longer safe for women to drive on: too many men are out testing the limits of their speedometers.

Then, have you ever seen men pitch their nerves against other men’s? To determine who owns the road, two grown up men would let their cars drive some meters fender-to-fender close until one caves in and allows the other to go, ‘for now’. Men hate giving way to each other; they’d sooner be caught giving way to a woman. Worse, when a man seizes the right of way from another, it becomes an unprovoked invitation to the third world war. That’s when the epithets begin to flow: ‘why don’t you fold up the road and take it home with you, you this … this … this …!’; ‘Why don’t you drive over me, you …?!’ and many other unprintable things until your poor passenger ears are quite full. It’s got to the point now that when couples go out, the big question is ‘Who’s driving?’ Neither trusts the other.

This is why, when I drive and appear to be a little distracted, shouts of ‘Go get a driver!’ are flung at me from several quarters. But you see, they come from men who are themselves racing inexorably to occupy the bed reserved for them in the hospital; so who are they to tell me I don’t know how to drive. Yes indeed, o, that report about women not knowing how to drive is lying out of its teeth. The sanity of the road right now depends on women drivers. They force the men to slow down.

December 16, 2012
For once, let us change the colour of our problems

I have heard villagers plead passionately that just one school in their village will go a long way in ensuring the continuity of their lives where food cannot do it

No, people, the line is not original to me, I borrowed it from somewhere; and oh yes, problems can have colours. For instance, when the pocket is empty and the bank account is reading zero, don’t panic, it is only colour blue. That is when the radiogram will croon to you, ‘I’ve got the blues baby, I’ve got the bluuuues’. When there is no food in the house, though, then you are in colour grey. That is when all the edges of life are fuzzy and you find yourself shrugging and waxing philosophical and finding that it is true what they say, life is not all black or white. In between, there are various shades of grey, and there ain’t a single thing you do about the grey areas. However, should Junior make the mistake of taking the car out illegally in his youthful exuberance, then the family is catapulted into the red zone because Daddy can see only red. Everyone had just better scatter; things will get very rough indeed.

So, yes, problems have colours and the colour of Nigeria’s problems since I have been privileged to know her has been perpetually false. True, her flag may be green and white but believe me there’s nothing green about the way her leaders are bleeding her dry. They are right knowing ‘uns. Why, for instance, should it take an entire country so many decades to realise that it is not good for the presidency to hoard TEN (10) aircraft in its fleet all to itself. What kind of country is this? Tell me, IS THIS FAIR?! No, and again, I say, no when little ol‘ me has NONE!

From the time I heard the piece of news that Nigeria has about ten aircraft in the president’s fleet, I just thought, no, it is not the president who needs them. My suspicions are turned entirely elsewhere. I have been sneakily wondering though just what has been going on in the mind of all our presidents’ men from the time of Christopher Columbus down to the present. Normally, the president’s men are carefully chosen to reflect the cream of the cream (never mind that sometimes the cream is quite sour) who would work assiduously to make sure the president did not get into trouble, and also that the country did not get into trouble as a result of the president not getting into trouble. You get that, don’t you, because I don’t? So, they would make their efforts as concerted as possible to be frugal in their praise of the president (so he does not get so swollen-headed that he gets out of their control) and be equally as frugal in their methods of extracting him from any hot soup he finds himself in. From our records of the Nigerian scene, it appears that all our past presidents’ men who have not been frugal at all. They have insisted on lapping up all the praise themselves. Lucky devils, they have been riding around in presidential jets!

Ordinarily, and I think this is what happens in saner climes, the saying is if it’s broke, fix it; around here though, the saying is, if it’s broke, get a new one. And this is how Nigeria came to own 1, 2, 3, 4, … 10 planes in the presidential fleet when countries such as rich, rich Britain has none. No, it was not that they could not afford one, it was that they found that the wiser thing to do was to hire because it is so expensive to actually keep one.

Seriously, our humour is too black in this country; and some would go so far as to say we have none, and that is even blacker. The typical Nigerian attitude to public utilities does not do credit to our intelligence. Again, some would even say we have none of that either. Well, I say we have a sense of humour. Just look at our leaders at every level from the local government councillors to the legislative and executive. That should send you into rapturous laughter. Hem, hem. This is no time to laugh though.

And yes, we do have some intelligence. Just look at newspapers when our leaders are having their annual spats and spits. Delightful, isn’t it, to hear the fire crackling and the fireworks just going in every direction? So yes, I’m not sure but I think we have some intelligence. The problem though is that this nation prefers to keep what little intelligence it has under wraps. So, all our public stadia go to waste without any input of intelligence to keep them in good shape; all our national fleet of ships, planes and vehicles get to sit out their days under the stars, sun and moon just because we have too little intelligence to spare. Oh yes, and all the presidents’ planes get their early retirements just because we cannot beget the intelligence to get the mechanic take a look at them. After all, there is always a ready answer: yes, you got it, get a new one.

The most painful part of all this is that there are other Nigerians who desperately need the money used to buy these things to sustain their lives. Thirty minutes’ drive from where I live, there are people who have no electricity. There, we are not much different. Half the night and all day through, I hardly have any electricity myself. They also do not have water. Again, we are not much different. I also do not have water from the public utilities in my house. They do not have schools though. Now, the similarities begin to end. Anyone can do without water or electricity or food but not schools.

This is why I think the money spent on accumulating airplanes is being wasted. Please Mr. President; these monies are needed to sustain schools in these villages so that people who do not have a present can at least have a future for their children. It does not much matter that they do not have much food to eat; they really do not mind at all. But I have heard them plead passionately that just one school in their village will go a long way in ensuring the continuity of their lives where food cannot do it.

This is why I think we should begin to change the colour of our problems. The colours we have been used to have been colours of joy where all we appear to have been doing as a nation so far has been to go to the big markets of the world and throw up fistfuls of foreign currencies to the delight of those nationals who have looked at us, smiled, shaken their heads from left to right and walked away. And we thought they were enjoying the show. How were we to know they were shaking their heads in pity?! So, I think we should change that colour to black: it is the universal sign of mourning: we need to mourn the loss of intelligence in the land.

December 9, 2012
When life deals you a lemon … quick, reject it

If we implement the fifty per cent cut, we would, in the spirit of fairness, have to start the reduction from Aso Rock by cutting the President’s or the Vice-President’s job

In those days, when I still had fond dreams of being able to see my weight move in the direction of ‘slim’ or ‘will hopefully be slim in the nearest future’ (actual points on my scales), I planted a lemon tree. I had heard that its fruit, the revered lemon, was capable of causing weight reduction by some magic. Soon though, I found that its very sour taste was quickly giving me a dour look on life: rose bushes were full of thorns, no one could do anything right around me, and even the dog walking on its hind legs was very annoying. After much research, I also found that there was no magic in lemon that could help me lose weight. Rather, all that the blessed fruit could do was give me lemonade, fill me with vitamin C and, hopefully, cure me of scurvy should I be marooned on a ship for months on end, far from friends, relatives and sanity. Clearly, the lemon tree had to go.

I am sure we all know the adage that says when life deals you a lemon, make lemonade. I am equally sure you know the antidote to even that, the lemonade that is, not the lemon. My religious compatriots do. At the mere mention of any undesired curse such as ‘May your days be filled with lemon’, up and around the head would go the middle finger and thumb, concluding in a snap, and then followed by a furious, hearty and immediate rejection verbalised in an religiously appropriate language, ‘I reject it in …’. Someone feeling feverish may refuse to take anti-malarial drugs but would heartily reject it. (Of course, who knows, he/she may eventually find him/herself lying down with malaria). There is no devil on earth that can withstand such a furious rebuttal, unless he has been naturalised as a Nigerian. My fear is that most devils appear to be carrying Nigerian passports and are strutting around now parading themselves as Nigerians. Because of that, the blighter devils don’t respect our rejections, sometimes even riding on them to one’s front door. Sacrilege!

Just this last week, our Central Bank governor was said to have suggested that the national expenditure on the civil, legislative and executive services be reduced by cutting those jobs in half. His reason is that the country is carrying around on its head a very bloated expenditure that it is having difficulties sustaining. So, it cannot move forward. I say blame it on the devils pretending to be Nigerians. I know they are the ones causing all the heavy expenditures. They are the brains behind all the corruption we have heard so much about, embezzling funds, fixing large amounts for themselves as emoluments, swelling the work force with ghost workers, cornering all the contracts to themselves even though they are part of the awarding bodies … just what have they not done? Real devils, the lot!

I am sure, however, that even the governor himself knows that it is not very realistic to reduce the country’s expenditure simply by reducing the work force because it is not easy to get rid of devils; believe me, I’ve tried. There is a devil that enters my pot of soup and simply makes it disappear whenever all kinds of condiments and tantalising enhancements like beef, chicken, fish, etc., enter into it. Against that saucy devil, I am helpless, as I find myself making more. There is another one that persists in increasing my workload so that no matter how fast or hard I work, I just don’t seem to see the bottom of the barrel. Real busy devil, that one. Then, there is one that just causes things to disappear when I need them most, particularly the ones I have hidden away to guard against their being lost. Right now, I just can’t seem to find my only piece of jewellery. I tell you, these mischievous devils are getting on my nerves, and obviously, on the CBN governor’s too. He can’t find the country’s money; but at least he knows the direction it seems to have gone to and a fair idea of how to recall it.

If we are to do what he asks us to do, however, we would be in a bit of a fix. What, for instance, will we do with our investments in Aso Rock? I mean, if we implement the fifty per cent cut in jobs, we would, in the spirit of fairness, have to start the reduction from Aso Rock by cutting the President’s or the Vice-President’s job. Now, that will cause real wahala. It’s one thing for a president to lose an election and not be returned, but it’s a different kettle of fish for a president to be laid off. ‘Owing to cuts in public service expenditure, we regret to inform you that your job has been …’ I am sure the occupant of Aso Rock rejects it in …

Anyway, should we succeed in Aso Rock, then we can move on to the legislative houses with confidence and take the census of a normal day’s session. Whoever is present retains his/her job; the absent ones will be deemed to have resigned. That should give us less than a third of them to pay any salary to. It is only then we can turn to the civil service.

Now, everyone knows that the civil service is bloated, and for good reasons too, the principal of which is that the Federal Government boxed itself into that corner. This column has long and oft maintained that industries are being strangulated by the government. The perpetual habit of enacting national policies which favour only the cronies of the government in the name of close to one hundred and fifty million people can only lead to trouble. Countries are better when the wealth created is private sector-driven rather than government-given. Truth is, too many times, the government has made an ass of the law, and it is now getting close to pay-back time. The devil of vengeance is always just around the corner.

Once, I was told, someone wanted to establish an industry in a city in Nigeria, so he procured a large acreage, got everything he needed ready including the machines and approached the federal government for a licence, explaining how it would provide labour, tax and other incentives to the country. Some government functionary then tipped his friend on the development who also got up and applied for a licence for the same product. His licence was not to produce however, but to import the product in order to get a better, faster and higher yield. The sad thing is that the importer soon tired of importing but not before a very original dream had been killed by the devilish dream killers.

The result is that the Nigerian economy is not driven by the private sector but by public service; not even public utilities, just the service commission. So, the federal government is the only worthy employer of labour. This is why everyone wants in; and it also means that close to fifty people may be pushing a single file where a single computer button would do the job better. But, the country needs to keep the illusion of keeping us all engaged because it has not allowed private industries to grow. Everywhere else in the world, it is the private sector that employs more.

So, rather than cut jobs, the eggheads in charge of our finances must find ways of making the little we earn do much by getting rid of the devils in the system. We must make something better than lemonade from our lemons.

December 2, 2012
Time to remember: the powerful elixir of Kasagoff, Aloe Vera, Cocoa, Moringa, etc

Some things are really not worth remembering, such as the taste of bad food, Nigerians’ bad manners, selfish politicians, and the exact figure of my age

I have watched, in fascinated horror, as Nigerians have moved their tastes and obsessions from one product to another claiming to hold the secret to long life. The list is endless: try Kasagoff to Aloe Vera to GNLD to Forever Products to Garlic to Cocoa, and now to Moringa! If I have not spelt any well or forgotten some, please forgive me but I am no less struck by the very powerful effect they have on Nigerians. I have seen them all quake and swoon in real, unfeigned ecstasy as they have sworn with finger put to mouth and then pointed upwards on the total efficacy and life extending capability of each of these products. They have sworn on each one in turn. And I have sometimes joined them.

Once, a long time ago, after newly moving into my house, I was anxious to show a guest the fascinating points and contours of the house. As he stepped into my compound, however, I lost him. Oh no, he did not disappear before my eyes, no; but as soon as he laid his eyes on the Aloe Vera plant reluctantly growing close to the gate of the house, he lost his reason. Oh my God, he screamed, you have this plant?! You have this plant?! Somebody recommended it to me to treat my hypertension and I have been looking all over for it. So you have it? Can I take some of it with me, please can I? I had never seen such loss of control over a plant, so who was I to stand in the way of that worship?! Of course, he could take the whole thing, for in all honesty, I could then no longer remember why I had planted it. I think that amnesia occurred as soon as I experienced the bitter taste of the Aloe Vera. I never have tried it again.

I think that’s it. I was looking for a cure for my penchant for forgetfulness; it was not even much then, now of course it is even stronger. Then, I really thought the earth was going to fall when I would go to the market and remember only half my shopping list, loan people money (there is no amount of pentothal truth serum you give me that will make me talk: I will not name names) and forget to collect it back, fail to remember the right figure of my age, find the right word to describe the rambunctious behaviour of the urchins in my care, or worse, cook and forget to eat. The last one was the most worrisome and I felt it needed some drastic action. So I discreetly made enquiries because you cannot go around bragging ‘Look people, I find that I am now growing forgetful, what’s the remedy?’ God help you if your students overhear you.

Anyway, I made enquiries about the best way to tackle forgetfulness and someone recommended the plant Aloe Vera. What is that? I asked. It is a wonder plant, I was told. It can cure everything. Seriously, I laughed, everything? Oh yes, it is even better than Kasagoff, I was told. Now, what is that? I think at that point, my respondent got tired, of my ignorance that is, not of me. Get Aloe Vera, she said. And that is how I came to plant it.

As soon as I did, like the inexperienced farmer I was, I expected the blessed plant to sprout but I had to be patient awhile. After being tardy on the job during which my memory continued to decline to the point that I perpetually had to be looking for my slip-ons, it eventually brought something out for me to try. That was when I discovered that its bitter taste could probably induce more forgetfulness. Promptly, I went back to my source. Are you sure this plant works because all I can remember is its bitter taste. Perhaps, my source irreverently suggested, your forgetfulness is too strong for the plant. Try GNLD or Forever products. Maybe those ones can assist a chronic case like yours. Now what on earth are those? Well, my source patiently explained, they are also elixirs for regenerating youthfulness in every way, including even your memory. It regains lost youth better than King David’s fresh blood.

No, someone else firmly countered, let her try garlic. Seriously, again I laughed, garlic? Yes, I was told. Garlic is the cure-all product. No wonder, I thought I could perceive a pungent odour coming from the direction of the speaker but I could not place my nose on it exactly. So, I nodded, that is the secret to long life and the foul smell. I declined; I felt there was just no way any life constantly exposed to that smell could be around for too long.

Then I heard about Cocoa. Straight I went to make enquiries. Cocoa, claimed the marketers, could fulfil just about any wish you placed before it. In short, it could stand in the way of a failing memory. So, feeling coins loose and fancy free, I purchased me a packet, took a swig and found myself nursing the mother of a headache. Could that be my memory flooding back? I took another swig and experienced a repeat performance. I was sure I had not forgotten that much, so, once again, I found myself in the market. That was when I heard about Moringa.

Moringa, I was told, has the capability to do so many things in the body the scientists are still out on the list. I was concerned about memory. All you have to do, I was told, is eat the leaves. Feeling much like a goat, I set to work. That was when I discovered that there is an association of Moringa growers, there are conferences on the intricacies of the plant, and there are regular meetings of the growers. I wondered if I needed to ask if there is an association of Moringa eaters so I could ask them some questions.

Anyway, after being tossed to and fro fruitlessly seeking the elixir of youth and youthful memory, I have been constrained to asking myself: whatever happened to eating right and doing right by one’s neighbours? I hesitate to conclude that Nigerians are gullible; indeed I would not go so far as to say that. I would simply say that Nigerians are too anxious to find quick fixes or solutions to their health problems. While many amongst us are educated and even lettered, I have been forced to conclude that in many of us, that education ‘don’t mean a thing’. In some cases, the more educated we are the more perverse we are in our thinking. This is why it is possible for even a professor to be defrauded into thinking that some special teas or trado-medical brews or passing fads in drinks or plants can cure diabetes. It is also why it is possible for someone to believe that one can stay young forever on these products. Sadly, it is also the reason why people continue to lose a great deal of money that could otherwise be put to better use.

Truth is, dissipated living has its costs, and there are no quick fixes to regaining it. Lost youth can only be regained by regular exercises, eating right and thinking right, such as how to serve other Nigerians better. As for me, I have decided that my memory will work better when I don’t accost it with too much worry. In any case, some things are really not worth remembering, such as the taste of bad food, Nigerians’ bad manners, selfish politicians, and the exact figure of my age.

November 25, 2012
World kindness week: Try being kind to your fellow Nigerians!

Today, give a cup of kindness to your parents, family, friends, neighbours, fellow Nigerians. One day, you might need it back

Look at it this way. I bet that if you and I were to be placed on a kindness scale to find out how kind we are to others, I would do better than you. Let me tell you why. First, I greet anyone I meet on the street with a smile. Then I regularly give my lunch to strangers. Then, biggest of all, I give my money to the poor. Did you believe me? How could you?!

To start with, it is not possible for me to smile at everyone I meet because most times I am driving, I am too busy praying that the blessed car would not decide to stop somewhere along the route because it wants a drink of water, like a stubborn horse. It has happened before, and believe me, it was not a smiling matter. There I was driving along peacefully and minding my own business when suddenly some passersby started to gesticulate wildly to me, pointing at my bonnet. I thought they wanted a ride on it and was getting some nice, explosive expletive ready for them when I noticed that smoke was escaping from the said bonnet. Well, I need not tell you that the story ended with me running out of the car; oh yes, the engine was still running too, thanks for asking. Luckily, some good Samaritans came to my rescue. But I did not at all like the mechanic’s question. ‘Did you not watch the temperature gauge?’ ‘Where is it?’, I replied. Also, his laughter did not help much. Well, since that day, I have learnt to keep one eye on the blessed gauge, and one on the car in front of me. Now, can you ask again why I do not spread kindness by smiling at everyone I meet?

Then of course, I have recently found out that my weight is shooting through the roof. I cannot honestly say that I do not know why. I have long since suspected that eating too much pancakes and akara can have a deleterious effect on the body. The stupid things have a way of pretending they do not know where to go and pile themselves up instead around the waist and hips and chest and head and arms and … One morning, you just wake up and find the scales lying to you again that you are overweight. But deep in your mind, you know it is because you forgot to be kind to people by sharing with them the little pancakes and akara you have been blessed with. Of course, like everything that goes against nature, there is retaliation. Now, I have to take four-kilometre walks around my neighbourhood each dawn mumbling something about this kind of crime and punishment not being a fair bargain.

Obviously, I live a very busy life, not quite on the fast lane, but busy enough, thank you. If I am not poring over books by grading, reading, correcting, reading, grading, asking, (e.g. what does a student mean by ‘snake bites student, lands in the hospital!’), then I’m teaching. For that, I find myself hopping madly from one hour to the next, trying to beat the time, the traffic, and the toilet routine. With such unearthly engagements, how on earth do you expect me to see the beggars standing by the roadside? And when I do see them, I have sort of noticed that each one of them brings out his/her disabled arm or leg or other part (no matter how private) for my viewing pleasure. Isn’t that so annoying? So, how can I spread love and joy to those who wake up in the morning with the determined aim to take advantage of my good nature by shoving their amputations or swellings in my face? So, no, I do not give my money to the poor; I am too busy and grumpy to see them.

Not so, says the World Kindness Week which runs from the 13th to the 20th of this month. During this week, we are called on to remember the usefulness of performing acts of kindness to our fellow human beings. It is the week when we are told to remember what kindness is all about and what it looks like: having enough compassion to be considerate and caring towards others, particularly those who cannot pay us back. Like the beggars.

I have always said that Nigerians are the unkindest set of people on earth when it comes to dealing with one another. In fact, I have gone so far as to say that Nigerians hate one another with uncommon hatred. It is only unkindness that can prompt anyone to hide the public’s millions and billions and trillions of Naira in untraceable accounts and then run behind his race or religion for cover against the rest of the country. It is only unkindness that will make a driver of one of those big Jeeps or Lorries or Trailers shove everybody else off the road into a ditch or even death just because the law is too weak to catch them. I know someone who died from that. It is also unkindness that would make a Nigerian carpenter or plumber promise that he would be with you at eight in the morning, knowing you have an emergency, and then turn up two days later. I have found that very few Nigerians are really humble at their jobs; they are too busy respecting money.

Listen, there are too many reasons why we need to be kind to each other. To start with, the world is round. Really. You see, what goes round does come round. Someone told the story of how he was travelling along a lonely road early one evening and came on a vehicle that had pulled up by the side of the road. The owner had run out of fuel. He parked his own car, satisfied the owner’s fuel needs before going on his own way. Not long after, he had a mechanical failure on a lonely road too, on a dark, stormy night. He could not believe it when someone pulled up beside him and helped him out of his jam that night; no money could have bought that.

It is true though that much danger sometimes attends an unwary act of kindness in Nigeria because we have so much to deal with – wickedness, superstition, ritual murderers, and yes, policemen who jump to wrong conclusions, etc.,. One family was said to have been on a journey and came across what looked like an accident victim. Stopping to see what they could do, they were soon surrounded by ritual murderers who had used a decoy to get them to stop. To cut the story short, they lost a son to the cut-throats that day, and the family has not been the same since then. We are each other’s victims.

Then there is the unkindest cut of all, superstition. Ugh! I tried to be kind once and placed some food items outside my gate for whoever might be in need of them. Someone quietly took me aside and said that people might think I had been asked to do so by a Babalawo. So, I tip-toed backwards, dragging my carton in again. Yes, yes, the things that westerners take for granted like honesty, simple cleanness of heart or even, yes, honesty, are missing in these parts.

Nevertheless, the World Kindness Week is here to remind us that kindness is not an old-fashioned word. It still lives, and everyone can do with a little bit of it; for many, even a smile would do. Today, give a cup of kindness to your parents, family, friends, neighbours, fellow Nigerians. One day, you just might need it back.

November 18, 2012
Looks like the best is long since gone

People, our glorious past is clearly behind us and nothing but a glorious chaos stands before us

One of the best things about looking over your shoulders is that it helps you measure your next step in relation to your previous one. If the previous steps have been too small, you can gently coax and persuade your feet to please take larger size steps so you can get to your neighbour’s yard before nightfall. If, as happens to most of us, the feet appear to be going faster than the brain, then you find yourself again gently persuading your feet to go, shall we say, a little slower so that you don’t find yourself ‘putting your feet in it’ too much. That’s when a husband goes at the wife: ‘Did I ask you to write to the president about my financial troubles?’ ‘Did you have to proclaim to the whole world that I was having financial troubles?’ ‘Did I even tell you that I was having financial troubles just because your house keeping money is short by a few miserable thousands? You this woman, be careful yourself o; don’t be putting your foot in your mouth o!’

I am aware though that most people who have to look over their shoulder do so because there is someone aiming an invisible rifle at them and they don’t know which of their fat shadows that rifle is going to shoot at. And it’s mostly because they have done something wrong, such as performing illegal clones of themselves, their girlfriends or their spouses. Or, it may be because they stole some meat from the soup pot. No, I’m joking. Mostly, it is because they probably stole some meat from the soup-pot.

When we in Nigeria look over our shoulder, we are not looking out for any rifles (those come from within) nor are we looking out for how not to put our feet in it. No, none of that. We look over our shoulder in nostalgia at the age of our innocence. The age of our innocence was the age when we all believed that we had a country, a place we could call our own, a place where no one in particular felt out of place. It was a place that accommodated everyone’s names within its walls without flinching. It was also a place where one’s brawns, mixed with a little brain, got one a good living off the land.

Then, there was no creed, no religion, no race that was looked down on. I remember growing up in a vigorous Kaduna in the swinging sixties with every tribe and religion in Nigeria represented on my street and with very little consciousness of the differences between us. Indeed, those differences were for referential purposes only. Now, it appears that Kaduna has become a hotbed of a one-sided religious passion and fervour, a place where people are regularly killed in the name of God. From my recent visit to the city, I could see that the place has indeed grown, physically. However, there was a sombreness to it that could not be shaken off as my guide pointed out the areas that I used to know so well, buildings old and buildings new, all of which were there but now wearing colours of great unease. This is the new Nigeria. Yes, I saw that too, the New Nigerian Newspaper (NNN) building where I had some teeth cut in writing and reporting in many months of training. It was just sitting there where it had always been, but now forlorn, the building that is, not my teeth. Gone was its vibrancy.

Barack Obama’s recent second victory acceptance speech titled ‘The Best is yet to come…’ includes the following:

I believe we can keep the promise of our founders, the idea that if you’re willing to work hard, it doesn’t matter who you are or where you come from or what you look like or where you live. It doesn’t matter whether you’re black or white or Hispanic or Asian or Native American or young or old or rich or poor, able, disabled, gay or straight, you can make it here in America if you’re willing to try.

I want to believe the forefathers of the Nigerian state also had something vaguely resembling this in mind. I think they sort of hoped that you and I, wherever you may be reading this, may be able to stand anywhere, shoulder to shoulder across our various divides, doing our best to raise this country up from its supine position. In this venture, what should count are the things which will not let anyone down in moments of stress. No, not a rich parent, no; it is character and skill. These were the things which marked our glorious past, the things we now peep at over our shoulders hoping that somehow they would once again catch up with us and even catapult themselves right into our present and future like magic.

Sadly, our present is riddled with an insatiable craze for money that has every one of us tearing our hairs and eyes out as we aim for each other’s jugular. The civil servant preys on the innocent populace, the teachers on their hapless students, the traders and businessmen on their buying public and the police and politicians on the entire country. Believe me, you cannot get a more disorganised food chain than this, certainly not what God had in mind, but who am I to complain. Good thing is, we are all partakers of the results of this penkelemesi. Daily, I find that I have to weave through all the barracudas to get a few comforts. Thanks very much; I get by with prayers and fasting. But it gets worse; Masters and Ph. D holders are even now seeking to become drivers in Dangote’s firm. Ha!

Now, that is just something, isn’t it, when intellectuals are vying for positions that require lower-level skills. But these strange goings-on are not altogether new, are they? They have been happening for a long time. It’s just that they seem to be getting stranger by the day. First, we had military rule. Ideally, the security is supposed to bring up the rear in any organisation. But here we were, rear-ended and up-ended, we stood on our heads with our feet in the air for so long we learnt to stop thinking. For one thing, we were even afraid to think lest we be arrested for that treacherous exercise.

Then we had marauders called politicians, who looked like they had been trained by the devil himself, take over the reins of the nation’s politics. Since they came, they have not only been looting, they have been mauling the country’s spirit, norms and ethics to bits and pieces, going at the tearing like maniacs. For one thing, they wake up from their nationally sponsored slumber only when they hear money mentioned. For another, they have succeeded in planting the seeds of tribal and religious bigotry deep within each of us so much so that everywhere you go, you are required to state clearly where on earth you come from and what creed you belong to. It is not enough that you are simply called a Nigerian. There used to be the Nigerian, now there is just a northerner, a south-easterner or a south-westerner.

People, our glorious past is clearly behind us and before us stands nothing but glorious chaos. Every group is now engaged in battering the other, propelled by fears and primitive, destructive or acquisitive instincts or all. No nation can survive on that. It is only when a people’s fears lead it to a more altruistic collaboration that it can get understanding. With understanding will come individual and collective wisdom which can lead the group out of the path of destruction into the realm of statehood.

November 11, 2012