The Nation Newspaper

Category: Olukorede Yishau

  • Arundhati Roy

    Arundhati Roy

    Arundhati Roy, the Booker Prize-winning author of ‘The God of Small Things’, grew up in a land where sons got more than daughters. They got more education, more attention, more love, more money, more food and more inheritance. In short, more of anything and everything. In the India she was born, female feticide was not uncommon. And in this same land, her mother, Mary, said terrible things of LKC, her son who is Roy’s elder by a year and a half.

    “Sometimes my mother behaved as though all of this was my brother’s fault. Because he was the only man she could reach, the only man she could punish for the sins of the world. The way she was with him has queered and complicated my view of feminism forever, filled it with caveats,” Roy writes in her latest book, ‘Mother Mary Comes To Me’, an autobiography.

    The book unveils her life, almost in full. It is easy to see the links between her personal life and ‘The God of Small Things’. The memoir tells of an absentee father, wicked relatives, sibling rivalry, and above all, her gangster mother, the one who married the first man that came because she felt unloved at home but didn’t hesitate to dump the man when all he had to offer were sorrow and tears. She didn’t wait for him to add blood to the offering and cared less what the society would think of her. She didn’t care if she would be seen as wayward and not Christian enough.

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    Mary, Roy’s crazy mother, returned to her father’s abandoned home after leaving her husband and resisted her brother’s and mother’s quest to evict her because women were not entitled to paternal inheritance. When illness forced her to live in the same house with the mother and brother who sought to make her homeless, she stood up to them. And when she teamed up with a British missionary to start a school, she became the mother of all her pupils and even her two children had to address her as Mrs. Roy. Her pupils got better treatment and many a time Roy wished she were her pupils and not her daughter. With a mother who called you a bitch, a prostitute and a whore, who wouldn’t wish to be one of the pupils who were offered a happy place?

    Interestingly, Roy’s choice of architecture as a profession was influenced by her mother. It all started when her mother purchased some acres of land for her school’s permanent site and got Laurie Baker, a well-respected architect with ties to Mahatma Gandhi, to handle the building plan and construction works. Roy was fascinated with how Baker handled the assignment; this molded her fifteen-year-old mind and she wanted to be like him and her mother backed her and what seemed like a tall order for a girl from Kottayam became easy to accomplish. All thanks to a mother who was swift to bouts of rage and physical violence but highly supportive of her daughter becoming another Baker.

    Like a bird out of the cage, Roy’s time at the school of architecture was a breath of fresh air. But it was a tumultuous period for her country. Indira Gandhi, the then prime minister, was facing tough time and to curb unrest and resentment, a state of emergency was in place. Key institutions such as the judiciary and the press were in tatters. The prime minister’s brother, Sanjay, was at the head of a birth control gang forcing men to become sterilised. People protesting the demolition of their homes were massacred in Delhi. It would be a year later before Roy knew the sort of madness that was going on at the time she became a student in the city. It was thus with a heart full of joy that she celebrated when the prime minister lost the election.

    Roy’s relationship with her asthmatic mother was so bad that when she turned eighteen and training to be an architect, she avoided her mother for years.

    Her decision to stay away from her mother for years started when she went home for holiday and a member of the cult (that is how she describes people working for her mother and the students) informed her that her mother was not interested in seeing her. Roy, based on her mother’s instruction, was to stay in the sick room, where her food would be brought to her. The crying informant was convinced “it’s only because she loves you”. Of course, her mother later gave her a task during the visit, which she failed at and got tongue-lashed. That was the moment she declared to her brother, who thought their mother sounded like a character in ‘The Exorcist’, she was never coming home again.

    Before then she had become used to her mother telling her to “get out of my car, get out of my house, get out of my life”. Till date, she remembers her mother telling her she should have dumped her at an orphanage the moment she was born because she saw her as a millstone around her neck.

    The author recalls that her mother did everything to separate her and LKC for fear they could conspire against her. “It’s only now, after she’s gone, that we meet freely and laugh about things. He didn’t pretend to be sad when she died. Not even when she was lying in her coffin,” she writes. Unlike her brother, seeing her mother in a coffin broke Roy and left her in ruins.

    She observes: “If I could understand myself better, I’d probably understand a lot more about the world and certainly about my country, in which so many people seem to revere their persecutors and appear grateful to be subjugated and told what to do, what to wear, what to eat and how to think.”

    The violence in India of the time wasn’t just in Roy’s household. Politicians were also on one another’s throats. There were Marxists and Maoists. On an occasion recalled in the book, Maoists, who were far-left, radical insurgents, after breaking away from the Marxist parties, saw the Marxists as bourgeois and beheaded one of them, his head was hung on a pole, his body some distance away and blood made the earth around his head dark. These believers in armed revolution were also known as Naxalites. It was the poor versus the rich and the poor and their supporters believed the rich deserved to be wiped out for them to inherit the earth.

    Even within the church, the Hindu caste system was strong. The poor were prevented from membership of the Syrian Christian churches. And priests emphasized that it would be difficult for the rich to make heaven. “I wasn’t sure what was to become of us, who were neither rich nor poor,” Roy recalls.

    Despite the gloom at home and in their society, Roy and LKC have turned out well, one is a globally renowned author-cum-architect and the other a successful business tycoon.

    Roy’s recollection, especially the part about her mother, is deeply sad, yet in the hands of a gifted writer, the memoir never becomes depressing. Instead, it is unexpectedly uplifting and humorous. It offers a quiet, steady reminder to the reader to do better with your own children. It suggests that you do not need to be too harsh or violent for them to grow into strong, responsible adults.

    My final take: Parents need to be careful. The things we say and do to our children stay with them long after we are gone. At times, our actions and inaction even define them. So, while we are being tough, we need to do so with human face because children, even when they become adults, never forget the trauma our deeds and misdeeds inflicted on them.

  • The president’s son

    The president’s son

    Yoweri Museveni and Paul Biya are striking symbols of Africa’s enduring political paralysis. For decades, both men have clung to power, turning their nations into personal fiefdoms. Museveni has repeatedly declared victory in Uganda, the same country that once gave the world Idi Amin. Biya has done the same in Cameroon, maintaining an unbroken reign since 1982.

    These victories are not products of genuine democratic choice but of manipulation, intimidation, and a refusal to relinquish power. Whether their countries stagnate or burn is of little concern to them. What matters most is staying in office, even as time dulls their judgment and age erodes their vitality.

    In Uganda, Museveni is already grooming his son, Lieutenant-General Muhoozi Kainerugaba, as his successor—a dynastic ambition that mirrors the story told in Yasin Kakande’s ‘The Missing Corpse’, the second of a trilogy.

    In the first part of the series, ‘Murder of Hate’, Kakande, among other issues, deals with America’s interest in Africa’s resources and shows us that the Big Brother is no Father Christmas. We see the clandestine operations in the Shinkolobwe uranium mine, which was important to America’s interests in that part of Africa. This mine was the source of nearly all the uranium used to create the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945. America called it the ‘Manhattan Project’, a project which essentially ended the World War II and made America the number one power house.

    The fictional President Mujabi in ’The Missing Corpse’ bears an uncanny resemblance to Museveni, while his son, General Mlevi Kainewaragi, evokes the image of Muhoozi.

    The novel follows the Ugandan first family as they do nothing, but scheme, steal, kill and destroy. They are simply unable to do anything good. And the president, in particular, is a randy goat whose phallus is unable to resist anything in skirt and so he becomes the father of multitudes. The novel also shows where the interest of the West lies.

    The story opens with a striking episode: President Mujabi’s wife arrives in the United States carrying ten million dollars in cash. The act sends shockwaves through American immigration authorities and triggers an investigation involving the CIA. As the plot unfolds, the agency dispatches an operative named Shawn to Uganda after intelligence reports suggest that President Mujabi may be dead. Amid this, chaos brews. The president’s son has sequestered lawmakers in a luxury hotel, coercing them to pass legislation that will enable him to succeed his father, who, according to official reports, has just “won” another election. The nation erupts in protest, and the security forces do what they have always done—silence dissent through violence. Blood becomes the price for maintaining an illusion of control. And to cover their tracks, the bodies are removed and dumped in the Nile. The strategy is: no body, no evidence. This is seen as important to get the West and its media to keep quiet.

    The opposition figures in Kakande’s book are powerless to hold the government accountable, not for lack of effort, but because those in power have mastered the art of co-opting them. Instead of genuine freedom fighters, we find performers, men who pretend to stand with the people, who raise their voices in parliament and court public attention through the media, yet secretly meet with government agents under the cover of night. Their bank accounts swell, their lavish homes defy the limits of their official salaries, and their investments crumble under the slightest scrutiny.

    Like the opposition, the West too comes across as Africa’s false friend—professing solidarity with the people while quietly enabling tyrants to cling to power for continued access to the continent’s natural wealth.

    Kakande’s narrative, though fictional, mirrors Uganda’s grim political reality. It captures a system where leadership is inherited, dissent is punished, and the machinery of the state serves only the ruler’s survival.

    It also mimics Congo, Rwanda and the rest of Africa, where neo-colonialism has ensured that the more things seem to have changed, the more they remain the same or worse.

    Told in third person from different points of view, the author seduces us to continue reading with prose so smooth like Amala Skye and transition so sleek like well-made small chops.

    The novel depicts how much of Africa still struggles to escape the grip of men who see themselves not as servants of the people, but as the state itself.

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    The sort of thing happening on the continent makes some people call for military intervention.

    Between the mid-80s and mid-90s, a couple of African countries were ruled by the military. Nigeria was one of them. When one by one our continent was rid of them, we rejoiced because our experience with them was so bad, so terrible, that seeing our presidential palaces without khaki boys or men calling the shots brought us so much joy, so much relief.

    Our joy on the continent was short-lived when in the last few years, a couple of West African countries fell under the jackboot again. They succeeded in Niger Republic, our neighbour. In August 2020, late Malian President Ibrahim Keita was kicked out in a coup. Keita, who became president of the West African country in 2013, later died at the age of 76 in Bamako. He was two years into his second five-year term when he was toppled following widespread protests against his government. A year and a month after Keita was shown the exit door, Guinean President Alpha Conde was given the same treatment.

    The situation in Sudan saw two attempts, one failed and the other shot Gen. Abdel Fattah Burhan into power.

     In the last few weeks, there have been reports of arrests of some military men in Nigeria. The top hierarchy of our military has also been restructured. The Federal Government and the military have not confirmed the reported coup plot. Investigation is on, but while we wait for the outcome of the enquiries, I ask: Are coups the answer to the failure of democracy? From the experience of the past military interventions, the promises made by coup plotters have always been short-lived. They never last. The coup plotters always turn out worse than the politicians they send out of office. In several instances as Kakande’s novel shows, they also become politicians and never want to leave office.

    My final take: To hell with military intervention in governance. They are trained to defend the territorial integrity of their nations and not to lead. No wonder they are always a failure. Military rule is an aberration and it will always remain so.

    One more thing, at the end of Kakande’s novel, the message seems clear: If Africa starts showing it can save itself, it will be catastrophic for the people who get orgasm from keeping it broken.

  • Blast from the past

    Blast from the past

    Foreign intervention has never been the cure for internal troubles. Lest we forget, every time powerful nations have marched into weaker ones with promises of salvation, the outcome has been heartbreak, not healing.

    Somalia learnt this bitter lesson in the early 1990s when American troops landed to restore peace but left behind ruins and resentment. Iraq, too, was promised freedom and democracy. Yet, years, later it is still haunted by instability, terror, and division. Libya is still not out of the woods.

    Nigeria’s security crisis is grave, but it is also complex. It is born not only of extremist violence but of inequality, corruption, and a sense of exclusion that fuels despair. Invading Nigeria will only pour gasoline on smoldering fires.

    More than a decade ago, I asked the then United States Ambassador to Nigeria, Terence McCulley, what Nigeria needed to defeat Boko Haram. His response, delivered through an email interview in 2012, reads today like a timeless memo to any government genuinely determined to end the cycle of terror, poverty, and despair that has haunted the North. McCulley was not one for dramatic prescriptions. He was analytical, and direct. His words, steeped in diplomacy, cut to the heart of what Nigeria’s leadership has often failed to grasp — that security alone cannot crush an idea born from inequality and sustained by injustice.

    McCulley’s view was simple yet profound. Nigeria’s battle against Boko Haram, he said, required a multi-faceted approach. The problem was never just about guns and bombs. It was also about hunger, hopelessness, and the collapse of trust between citizens and the state. He stressed that while the security forces must confront those who bear arms, the government must do much more to reassure ordinary Northerners that their lives and livelihoods matter. The war, in his view, could not be won if soldiers became the only face of government in the region.

    He cautioned that military action must be precise and humane. Civilian casualties, he warned, would only deepen grievances and make extremists look like avengers of the oppressed. His advice was clear: Nigeria needed a broad-based strategy that recognised the link between development, poverty, and violence. Each bomb that tore through a market or a mosque, he implied, was not just a sign of security failure, but a reflection of years of neglect.

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    The ambassador proposed something few in authority were willing to consider at the time — a social and economic compact between the government and the North. He urged Nigeria to develop a long-term economic recovery strategy that would work in tandem with its security operations. In his estimation, the government could learn from how it managed the Niger Delta crisis, where dialogue, infrastructure projects, and targeted development programmes helped to calm the storm after years of militancy.

    To institutionalise this response, McCulley suggested the creation of a Ministry of Northern Affairs or a development commission similar to the Niger Delta Development Commission. He envisioned an agency that could focus attention and resources on rebuilding the region’s battered economy, rehabilitating its youths, and restoring confidence in government. Such a move, he believed, would show that the federal government was not just reacting to violence but was committed to preventing it.

    He also addressed some of the myths that were circulating at the time. There were claims that Boko Haram was largely composed of foreigners, or that it was being bankrolled by defeated politicians. McCulley dismissed these as unsubstantiated, saying there was no credible evidence to support them. By doing so, he pushed the conversation away from convenient scapegoats and back to uncomfortable truths — that Boko Haram thrived not because outsiders imposed it, but because insiders allowed despair and division to fester.

    McCulley’s prescription went further. He argued that to fix the problem, Nigeria needed the full participation of Northern governors, traditional rulers, and local institutions. Security, in his view, could not be centralised in Abuja. It had to be built from the ground up, rooted in communities that understood their own realities. He noted that the people of the North were trapped between two dangers — the extremists who terrorised them and the heavy-handed state that often responded with more violence. The only way out, he said, was for leadership to “go to extraordinary lengths to fix their problems.”

    He acknowledged that such a task would not be easy. Even the Niger Delta amnesty and its accompanying development programs took years to yield results. But McCulley urged Nigeria to act faster and more decisively in the North, where the insurgency was spreading like wildfire. He warned that delay would only harden the crisis. The key, he said, lay in discipline, consistency, and local accountability.

    Years later, his words still ring true. Nigeria has poured trillions of naira into fighting Boko Haram and its splinter groups. Entire divisions of the army have been deployed. Foreign allies have supplied intelligence and training. Yet, for every village recaptured, another slips into despair. The North-East remains one of the poorest regions on earth, its schools destroyed, its farms abandoned, its youths unemployed. The very grievances McCulley spoke about have not only persisted but multiplied.

    Had Nigeria heeded his advice, perhaps the story would be different. A Ministry of Northern Affairs could have coordinated reconstruction, attracted international development aid, and ensured that communities saw tangible changes. A renewed social compact could have made the people partners in peace, not passive victims of both insurgents and the state. Instead, bureaucracy, corruption, and short political memory have kept the country circling the same mountain.

    McCulley also touched on a theme that remains central to Nigeria’s many challenges — transparency. He called on the government to ensure greater openness in the use of public funds and to prosecute those who misuse them. It was a polite but pointed reminder that corruption fuels insecurity as much as ideology does. Money meant for schools, hospitals, and jobs often ends up in private pockets, leaving despair in its wake and making extremism look like an escape.

    At the time of that interview, Boko Haram was still largely a Northern Nigerian problem. Today, its ripple effects are felt across the country. Banditry, kidnapping, and communal violence have become the new vocabulary of fear. What began in Maiduguri has echoed in Zamfara, Niger, and even parts of the South. McCulley’s insistence that the fight must be as much about development as about defence now sounds prophetic.

    There is still a narrow window to redeem his counsel. Nigeria can still design a genuine post-insurgency framework — one that goes beyond slogans and security budgets. It must invest in education, job creation, and civic trust. It must listen to the traditional rulers who still command moral authority in many parts of the North.

    In that 2012 exchange, McCulley ended on a hopeful note. He said Nigeria was too important to be defined by its problems. It must be defined by its promise, its potential, and the resourcefulness of its people. That line deserves to be written in stone. Nigeria’s future will not be secured by the barrel of a gun alone, but by the steady hands of leaders who remember that peace is built, not imposed.

    My final take: What the nation needs is partnership built on respect, not paternalistic force. The fight against terror requires intelligence, trust, and investment in education and opportunity. Lest we forget, those who invite foreign guns to solve domestic problems often lose both peace and dignity. Nigeria must chart its own path to stability, drawing strength from unity and reform, not from interventions that history has proved disastrous.

  • The enemies

    The enemies

    They are called immigrants, especially when the Third World is their origin. If they happen to be from the West and find a livelihood in the Third World, then the label changes. The same persons are now called expatriates. Geography and skin colour transform perception. One is seen as coming to offer expertise and progress, the other is seen as the enemy, someone arriving to grab scarce resources. It makes no difference if the person with fair skin has less education or skill than the one with brown skin. Intelligence, qualification, and experience matter less than complexion. Skin tone determines who receives privilege and who faces suspicion.

    Allow me to break down this hypocrisy about how race and history play decisive roles in how mobility is judged: The Western professional who moves to Lagos, Nairobi, or Mumbai is perceived as a global citizen. The African or Asian who moves to Paris, Stockholm, or New York, is viewed as a problem to be managed. The same act of seeking opportunity is praised in one case and punished in another. The difference lies not in merit but in where the journey begins.

    These are not the best of times for the immigrants. Everywhere they turn, the host sees strangers, trespassers, competitors. In many parts of the world, gates are being locked, borders are being sealed, and fences are climbing higher. The excuse is national security or economic stability, but beneath it all is fear. The fear of the other. The fear of losing something that was never truly guaranteed. And as that fear spreads, the world grows colder to the immigrant.

    Across much of the Western world, immigration is being recast as a threat rather than a possibility. The United States government, in June 2025, announced a proclamation suspending the entry of nationals from twelve countries including Eritrea, Libya, Somalia, Sudan, Yemen, Haiti, and Iran. The official reason given was to protect national security. But to many observers it was another signal that the immigrant has been rebranded as a risk.

    In Sweden, new laws took effect in January 2025 extending the number of years required for naturalisation from five to eight. Sweden also introduced language and civics tests that critics say will make it harder for many migrants to become citizens.

    Belgium recently reintroduced border checks on highways, rail lines, and flights within the Schengen zone, targeting routes where migrants are known to travel. Austria went further, proposing permanent quotas on family reunification for refugees, which could make it nearly impossible for displaced families to live together again.

    These policies are not isolated. They are symptoms of a wider movement sweeping across Western societies, where migrants are viewed less as contributors and more as invaders. The rhetoric has changed. In speeches and headlines, the immigrant is blamed for unemployment, for housing shortages, for crime, for the erosion of culture. It is easier to blame a face that looks different than to confront deeper structural failures.

    Meanwhile, the movement of capital faces no such barriers. Money travels freely across borders. Corporations shift factories, investors move funds, consultants fly in and out. They are celebrated as symbols of globalisation. But when workers move in search of a better life, they are seen as a crisis. The world accepts the free flow of wealth but rejects the free flow of people. It is as if mobility is a privilege reserved for the powerful.

    The result is a world where borders grow taller even as economies grow more interconnected. The more global we become, the more walls we build. Fear masquerades as policy. The immigrant, who may have fled war or poverty, becomes a political bargaining chip. Politicians win votes by promising to keep “them” out. The media magnifies isolated crimes to fuel collective panic. And each new policy hardens the division between “us” and “them.”

    Reports by the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development show that many European countries have recently tightened asylum rules, reduced welfare access for migrants, and increased deportations. Some have lengthened detention periods or introduced biometric tracking for asylum seekers. The official justification is often efficiency or security. But the human cost is staggering. Families are separated. Children grow up behind fences. Hope is replaced by anxiety.

    Every fence is a statement. It says: you do not belong here. Every law that restricts entry is a silent verdict that some lives are worth less than others. And each act of exclusion deepens resentment on both sides. The immigrant feels unwanted, the citizen feels endangered, and trust disappears.

    But migration, at its heart, is not a crime. It is a human story. It is as old as civilisation. People move to survive, to dream, to build. Every society today was shaped by migration. Yet, in this age of fear, that simple truth is being forgotten. The immigrant has become a symbol of everything that people fear losing (jobs, identity, safety) rather than a reminder of what can be gained through diversity and exchange.

    In many Western cities, immigrants drive buses, care for the elderly, harvest crops, build homes, and teach in schools. They pay taxes, start businesses, and keep essential services running. Yet, when populist politicians seek easy applause, these same people become scapegoats. They are accused of taking too much, of giving too little, of not fitting in. Rarely does anyone pause to ask how societies would function without their labour.

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    There is also a deeper moral question. How can nations that once colonised and extracted wealth from others now claim moral superiority in refusing entry to the descendants of those same lands? The prosperity that attracts migrants to the West was often built on the labour, minerals, and markets of the very regions now fenced off. History cannot be erased simply because it is inconvenient. The line between expatriate and immigrant is written in the ink of privilege and power.

    What we are witnessing today is not just a tightening of borders, but also a narrowing of empathy. When nations build walls around themselves, they also wall off compassion. The immigrant becomes a number in a report, a potential risk in a database, a case in a courtroom. The humanity is lost. The fear of difference replaces curiosity. Suspicion replaces solidarity.

    And yet, despite the hostility, people keep moving. They continue to cross deserts and seas, to survive the cold, to risk everything for a chance at dignity. That persistence should tell us something. Migration is not a choice for many; it is a necessity. It is a declaration of hope. To shut the gates on that hope is to turn away from our shared humanity.

    But the real enemy is not the immigrant. The real enemy is fear itself. It is prejudice, ignorance, and historical amnesia. The enemy is the mindset that divides the world into those who belong and those who do not. Every act of exclusion deepens that divide.

    There is another way to see it. When an immigrant succeeds, the host society gains. When diversity flourishes, economies grow. Studies repeatedly show that immigrants bring innovation, creativity, and resilience. They start businesses at higher rates, fill critical labour shortages, and contribute more in taxes than they take in benefits. Yet these truths are often buried beneath the louder noise of nationalism.

    To move forward, the world must redefine belonging. Mobility should not be a privilege of the few but a right managed with fairness. Host countries must remember that compassion and pragmatism are not opposites. It is possible to secure borders while maintaining dignity. It is possible to regulate migration without criminalising migrants.

    The immigrant does not arrive to conquer. He or she arrives to live, to learn, to build. To portray such a person as the enemy is to betray the very ideals of freedom and humanity that many Western nations claim to uphold. The time has come to dismantle the fences, not just the physical ones but the psychological barriers built on fear and difference. The time has come to replace suspicion with understanding, exclusion with cooperation.

    My final take: In truth, the immigrant is not the enemy. The enemy is the fence itself—the one that stands between people, between hope and opportunity, between what we are and what we could become.

  • Shades of theft

    Shades of theft

    Abdulrazak Gurnah, Africa’s most recent Nobel laureate in Literature, returns with another powerful work, ‘Theft’. Gurnah probes the intersections of memory and belonging in a rapidly changing world. The novel follows three principal characters —Karim, Fauzia, and Badar— and the intricate ways in which their lives intertwine amid social transformations and moral uncertainties. The story is told from the point of views of the trio.

    At the beginning, each character inhabits a world defined by difference and isolation. Karim’s world is shaped by emotional estrangement. His mother leaves her marriage and returns to her father’s home and, from that moment, mother and son exchange few words. Even after she remarries, the warmth between them remains tentative, though her new husband shows Karim the affection she once withheld. Karim’s formative years, therefore, are marked by quiet resentment and the psychological residue of parental separation—a common theme in societies negotiating between tradition and individual agency.

    Fauzia’s world is gentler, yet shadowed by fragility. Her mother’s love is all-encompassing, protective to the point of suffocation. Her father, a man of few words, expresses his affection in acts rather than speech. Fauzia also lives with the “falling sickness”, epilepsy, a condition that sets her apart and attracts both sympathy and superstition. Her best friend, Hawa, circles her with the constancy of a guardian spirit. Through Fauzia, Gurnah captures the intimate anxieties of African domestic life, where illness is both a personal struggle and a communal concern framed by cultural beliefs.

    Badar, on the other hand, occupies a world of servitude and marginality. His is the life of a boy born into disadvantage, struggling against economic deprivation and the hierarchies that quietly sustain inequality. He is a symbol of the countless young men who drift along the edges of postcolonial societies—hardworking, unseen, and uncertain of tomorrow.

    Karim’s return to Zanzibar after completing his university education in Dar es Salaam marks the point where these distinct worlds begin to converge. The city he comes back to is not the one he left. Zanzibar, with its layered history of slavery, trade, and colonialism, is now being remade by new forces. Tourism is reshaping its streets and its values, and technology is bridging old boundaries while deepening class divides. In this shifting landscape, Karim and Fauzia meet and fall in love. Their romance, at first a private rebellion against loneliness, soon becomes a social affair. In traditional Tanzanian culture, relationships are rarely hidden for long. Community observation and family involvement turn private desire into public expectation, and soon, talk of marriage follows.

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    When Badar’s world merges with theirs, Gurnah constructs a layered social tableau. The convergence of these three lives symbolises more than personal connection. It mirrors the broader collision between the old and the new, the local and the global, the privileged and the dispossessed. Each character embodies a fragment of a society negotiating modernity: Karim, the educated cosmopolitan struggling with inherited wounds; Fauzia, the vulnerable yet resilient woman navigating the constraints of gender and tradition; and Badar, the overlooked youth whose struggles reflect systemic inequities.

    Through their entangled stories, ‘Theft’ becomes more than a tale of love or betrayal. It is a sociological portrait of Zanzibar and, by extension, Africa’s coastal societies, where the residues of colonialism still shape personal destinies. The novel situates individual choices within the larger machinery of economic transformation, cultural expectation, and historical memory.

    Gurnah’s prose is measured and introspective. His characters are perpetually searching—for affection, for meaning, for a place in a world that is both familiar and alien.

    My final take: The act of stealing is not always about possessions; it can be the theft of innocence, of opportunity, or of one’s sense of self.

  • Understanding the special ones

    Understanding the special ones

    Some days back I had the privilege of reading a soon-to-be-released book that clearly shows that every child carries a world within them, a constellation of thoughts, dreams, and rhythms that no two eyes can fully measure.

    The book brings to light the fact that some worlds shine boldly, easily seen in laughter, in words spoken without hesitation, in leaps and runs across open spaces while others glimmer quietly, their brilliance hidden in pauses, in gestures, in victories that seem small but are nothing short of extraordinary.

    This book is titled ‘Different By Design’. Its author, Bukola Olajide, is a trained communicator, special educator and fashion designer. She is unashamedly a Jesus baby, a fact that shows in the book, but doesn’t overshadow the truths about  children with special needs.

    The book is a call to see the unseen, to honour the unheard, to celebrate the subtle miracles of each child’s mind and heart. In the book, we are told to see ordinary moments as classrooms, and seemingly ordinary acts as exercises in independence and discovery.

    The book shows that to walk alongside these children is to learn anew what it means to nurture, to teach, and to marvel. They invite us into landscapes where possibility is limitless, where difference is not a barrier but a spark, and where the smallest gestures can illuminate the vastness of human potential.

    Though Olajide’s Christian ties show on every chapter of this work, she, however, emphasizes practical and theoretical guides that parents and caregivers are bound to find useful.

    From the very beginning, Olajide asserts that every child is unique and that understanding this uniqueness is foundational to effective learning. The opening chapter sets the tone by emphasizing the diversity of cognitive development, urging parents and educators to shift from a deficit-focused mindset toward one that identifies and nurtures individual strengths. It challenges conventional comparisons, asking not “Why can’t my child learn like others?” but rather “How can I help my child learn in the way that works best for them?” This pivot from judgment to curiosity forms the backbone of the book’s approach.

    Olajide grounds these principles in both psychological theory and real-life examples, demonstrating that early recognition of developmental differences can radically alter a child’s learning journey. Through accessible language and concrete anecdotes, readers are guided to see learning differences not as barriers but as invitations for creativity, patience, and intentional support. The book also addresses the emotional and social dimensions of learning, highlighting how children’s confidence, motivation, and engagement are inseparable from their sense of being understood and valued. This intersection of empathy and pedagogy makes the work both a manual and a manifesto for parents, educators, and communities alike.

    Building on this foundation, Olajide moves into the specifics of raising children with disabilities, emphasizing that while all children benefit from love and structure, for those with special needs these elements become essential. A nurturing environment at home and in learning spaces offers the stability that allows children to feel safe and capable. The text stresses the critical importance of early intervention, urging parents not to delay diagnosis or shy away from professional guidance due to fear or shame. Timely recognition of developmental differences, paired with consistent support, can unlock potential that might otherwise remain dormant. Olajide argues convincingly that no child should be ridiculed or limited because of their struggles; instead, patience, creativity, and understanding should guide their development.

    Practical guidance is a hallmark of this work. Olajide provides structured, home-based strategies for supporting children with diverse learning differences, demonstrating that daily life can become a rich environment for growth. Predictable routines, visual schedules, and stepwise instructions reduce anxiety while reinforcing skills. Celebrating small wins, whether a new word, a completed puzzle, or a chore accomplished independently, builds confidence and resilience. Through real-life examples, such as an autistic boy in Abuja who developed language, math skills, and independence through meal preparation with his mother, Olajide shows how ordinary activities can become powerful learning opportunities.

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    The text provides condition-specific guidance with remarkable clarity. Children with cerebral palsy benefit from activities that strengthen muscles and coordination, such as balloon play, crawling exercises, and stretching routines. Those with Down syndrome can develop motor and cognitive skills through repetition, imitation, and structured play like dancing, flashcards, and playdough exercises. Strategies for children on the autism spectrum include picture exchange communication, sensory bins, pretend play, and calm corners that offer a retreat when overstimulated. ADHD, dyslexia, dysgraphia, and dyscalculia are addressed through highly practical home interventions, often using simple, low-cost materials. These strategies underscore Olajide’s insistence that meaningful learning extends beyond therapy centers into the everyday interactions and routines of home life.

    One of the most compelling aspects of the book is its focus on strength-based learning. Too often, attention is focused on what children cannot do, leaving their talents overlooked. Olajide presents numerous examples of children who, despite significant challenges, excelled in areas like storytelling, drawing, or architecture. These stories reinforce the idea that success is built upon identifying and nurturing strengths, allowing children to experience achievement and build the confidence necessary to tackle more challenging skills. The book also emphasizes that parents are not alone in this journey; a strong support network of teachers, therapists, community members, and fellow parents is vital for fostering consistency, encouragement, and shared expertise.

    The work does not shy away from addressing the realities of parenting children with disabilities, particularly within the Nigerian context. The financial, emotional, and social burdens are acknowledged, yet Olajide reassures readers that meaningful progress is achievable through daily engagement and creative adaptation. Weekly routines are presented as practical tools, demonstrating how to structure vocabulary games, math exercises, life skills training, sensory play, and social interaction in ways that are consistent yet flexible. For example, children with dyslexia can practise reading through sand tracing, audiobooks, and storytelling. Those with dysgraphia can develop handwriting and composition skills through play-based fine motor activities. Children with dyscalculia learn math concepts through counting beans, clapping rhythms, and interactive games like Snakes and Ladders. These examples illustrate a central thesis of the book: when interventions are embedded in daily life, learning becomes both meaningful and enjoyable.

    The book has a very important chapter, a proof that special needs children are not doomed. This chapter chronicles the lives of living and dead inventors and achievers who grew up with learning disabilities. The presentation of their struggles adds heft to the book’s allure.

    My final take: Children with special needs inhabit quieter constellations. Their paths through the world are rarely straight, often winding, sometimes obscured by the judgments of others. Yet in their way of being lies a profound truth: that learning, growing, and living cannot be confined to one template. Every glance, every sound, every movement becomes a language, every struggle a lesson in patience, every triumph a quiet revolution.

  • Happy 60th Birthday, Mr. Sunday Omoniyi

    Happy 60th Birthday, Mr. Sunday Omoniyi

    Dear Mr. Omoniyi,

    Warmest congratulations on your 60th birthday! This milestone is not only a celebration of your life but also of the many lives you’ve touched through your words, wisdom, humility and dedication to the craft of journalism. Your work in the media has earned you the respect of colleagues and admirers across generations.

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    As you mark this special day, may you be surrounded by the love of family, the admiration of friends, and the gratitude of all who value truth and integrity in public discourse. Sixty years of excellence is no small feat—your legacy continues to illuminate the path for younger journalists.

    Here’s to more years of sound judgment, good health, and fulfilling achievements.

    And here is to the next phase, the next phase in the midst of plenty!

  • Because of Baba Iyabo

    Because of Baba Iyabo

    Aremu Olusegun Obasanjo, ex-soldier, ex-military Head of State, ex-President, letterman, the most popular Baba Iyabo in this universe and public speaker, is one of the luckiest human beings on earth. Born of a very humbling background, his decision to join the Army changed his story. Opportunities just usually find a way to perch at his doors. If in doubt of my assertion, consider his role in the civil war, his ascension to the seat of Head of State, and his return to power after years in prison where the late General Sani Abacha dumped him. Even when it is not his will, he has gotten power without breaking much sweat.

    Each time I listen to this erudite former President talk about leadership, I am always marveled. He comes across as an activist, a fire-spitting one for that matter. Femi Falana and others seem like his colleagues. But, I have repeatedly told myself: Wait a minute, this man is no activist. He is part of what he is complaining about.

    From Nigeria to Europe to America and Asia, anytime he is given the opportunity to talk, he talks as though he is not an African leader who has contributed immensely to the challenges of the continent; he talks like a Messiah who is waiting for the opportunity to change the world; and he talks like an analyst with the best of intentions. But he is not. We all know he is not. Except we want to deceive ourselves.

    A few years ago, I saw a video of his in a church and he was complaining about the leadership the country has had. He spoke about security challenges and his fears that churches might soon become dangerous to attend because kidnappers could just walk in and abduct congregants. He sounded convincing like an average activist.

    The truth is: He is not far from the truth, but my problem is that he talks as though he is not part of the problem. He keeps hammering on his era as though we didn’t witness it.

    He ruled us for some years as military Head of State after General Murtala Mohammed was killed, and he came back as civilian president in 1999. After his first term in 2003, he secured a second term and led us till 2007 before foisting ailing Umaru Musa Yar’Adua on us. He only chose Yar’Adua because his attempt to amend the constitution and seek a third term failed. Spectacularly. At every given opportunity, he denies this fact, whose witnesses are in tens and have repeatedly spoken about it and some, including Condeleza Rice, have included in their memoirs. He can deny it from now till tomorrow, but we are no fools. Those who played one role or the other in it are still here.

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    As President, Obasanjo carried out a privatisation programme. The idea was for government-owned businesses to be sold to the private sector so that they would be well-run. We are all witnesses to how bad that turned out. He also invested chunk of money on the power sector and, till today, we are in need of light to determine where the funds went.

    Under his watch, the education sector didn’t witness any major turnaround. Under his watch, the health sector didn’t get the lift it deserved. Under his watch, housing was not improved significantly. Under his watch, respect for the rule of law was near zero. He seized the funds meant for local governments in Lagos and ignored the law. Under his watch, the National Assembly was unstable because he kept getting the leaders impeached because of his disagreement with them.

    Under his watch, fewer roads got the attention they deserved. Under his watch, we crawled when we were supposed to be running a marathon.

    Becaue of the way he is always talking down every other leader who has led the country, the tendency of seeing activism and noisemaking as the same is high. But, we must remember that because of Baba Iyabo, rich individuals and state governors ‘donated’ billions for the construction of the Olusegun Obasanjo Presidential Library. The library is complete with a standard hotel and other money-spinning facilities, including a cinema. As I write, it is also his home having left the sprawling mansion he retired to after his tenure.

    At the height of their quarrel, former Ekiti State Governor Ayodele Fayose asked him to return Ekiti’s donation to the library. For me, there is no justification for him as a sitting president to raise money the way he did for a private project. For want of a better word, it is gross abuse of office. Yet, he speaks against this when others do it. He is unable to remove the speck in his eyes, but he is seeing the one in others. What a wonderful man!

    Because of Baba Iyabo, the new Olubadan of Ibadan, Oba Rashidi Ladoja, was illegally impeached as Oyo governor. It was brazen; he acted like God. I am waiting for the day he will meet Ladoja and see if he will not prostrate to the Oba as an Omoluabi!

    We must remember that because of Baba Iyabo, Nigeria is still crawling when it should be running. He cannot divorce himself from the leadership problem Nigeria has. As a matter of fact, he is an integral part of it. So, he should spare us the pontificating about our leadership deficiency. He is part and parcel of why we don’t have electricity, good roads, good schools, standard hospitals and many other good things of life.

    I must add that this intervention does not imply that Obasanjo is a failure or has nothing to show for his years in office. It is just to say he is not a saint and he should stop dressing as one.

    My final take: Can Baba Iyabo do us a favour and keep shut about his attempt for a third term? We have heard his denials, including his claim that he would have gotten it if he had wanted, but the truth is: even if he shouts it from Mount Everest, we will not believe him.

  • History and Oyetayo’s book

    History and Oyetayo’s book

    Some years back, Adeshina Oyetayo published a book with an unusual title, ‘Behind The Streets’. Its subtitle explains the idea more clearly: ‘Inside The World of Personalities Popular Lagos Streets Are Named After’.

    The author is an award-winning journalist. He has received numerous recognitions, including being a finalist in the CNN/MultiChoice African Journalist of the Year Award (2006), Young Journalist of the Year (2005), Journalist of the Year at The Future Awards Africa (2007), and Best Music Writer at the MTV MAMA Awards (2010).

    Oyetayo began his journalism career at TELL magazine in 2002, and later joined Punch Newspaper in 2010 as an external columnist. He is currently the Special Adviser on Media, Research and Documentation to Lagos State House of Assembly Speaker Mudashiru Obasa.

    I remember Oyetayo’s book now because of the Ministry of Education’s laudable decision to bring back History as a subject in our schools. That decision is more than a policy. It is the correction of a blunder committed many years ago when History was carelessly pushed aside as if we were a nation without a sense of history.

    Oyetayo’s work may have taken Lagos as its canvas, but it is, in fact, a Nigerian story. On those pages, one finds familiar names that shaped this country in different ways. Obafemi Awolowo, the late Yoruba leader. Adekunle Fajuyi, the soldier. Adeniran Ogunsanya, the politician. Alade Odunewu, the journalist. Etim Inyang, the policeman. Ahmadu Bello, the Premier of the North. Even Governor Glover, the colonial administrator who stamped imperial authority on Lagos.

    There are others too. Adetokunbo Ademola, the Egba prince who became the first African Chief Justice of Nigeria. Abubakar Tafawa Balewa, the schoolteacher who rose to become the first and only Prime Minister. His flamboyant Finance Minister, Festus Okotie-Eboh. Ladoke Akintola, the Premier of the old Western Region. Babatunde Jose, the doyen of the Nigerian press. Kudirat Abiola, the democracy martyr.

    Oyetayo also brings to light the lives of notable figures such as Murtala Muhammed, Mobolaji Bank-Anthony, Samuel Manuwa, Oba Musendiq Adeniji Adele, Sir Michael Otedola, Oyinkan Abayomi, Kofo Abayomi, Walter Carrington, Maitama Sule, Mobolaji Johnson, Muri Okunola, Molade Okoya-Thomas, Oyin Jolayemi, Ozumba Mbadiwe, Oba Akran, Oba Oniru, Nnamdi Azikiwe, Musa Yar’Adua, Ligali Ayorinde, Lateef Jakande, Herbert Macaulay, Funso Williams, among others.

    The list runs long, and with each page the reader is reminded that history is not a dry classroom subject but a living record of people and choices.

    And Oyetayo does not stop with the dead. He brings in the living too. Yakubu Gowon, the former head of state. Bola Tinubu, who received the book’s dedication for lifting the Lagos streets that inspired the work. Today, Tinubu is President of the Republic, and under his watch, History is once again part of the curriculum.

    The author presents these personalities in a way that keeps readers fully engaged. Their stories are never dull, because he goes beyond merely listing achievements and failures; he tells them with style and substance. Take, for instance, the chapter on Fajuyi, which begins with these striking lines: “In the wee hours of July 29, 1966, when humans had let down their guards to snooze, the agents of death stormed Ibadan, the Western Region’s seat of government, with a cold-blooded objective to kill the Supreme Commander, Major-General Johnson Thomas Umunnakwe Aguiyi-Ironsi.”

    The story of Oba Musendiq Adeniji Adele, as relayed by the author, is closely tied to a pivotal moment in Lagos’s history. In 1950, at the Ibadan General Conference, Lagos was merged with the Western Region, a decision that did not sit well with Oba Adele and many Lagosians. Though he enjoyed a close relationship with Chief Awolowo and was a member of the Action Group, which supported the merger, Oba Adele stood firmly for Lagos’s independence. His persistent advocacy bore fruit in 1954, when Lagos regained its autonomy, inspiring the famous chant: “Gedegbe L’Eko Wa”— “Lagos is Independent.”

    The book shows us that Oba Adele’s commitment to Lagos went even further. In 1956, he wrote to Mr. Alan Lennox-Boyd, the British Colonial Secretary, passionately urging the creation of a distinct Lagos Region. He anchored his plea in history, referencing the Treaty of Cession of Lagos in 1861 with Oba Dosunmu, reminding all of Lagos’s unique status and heritage.

    The book, in its section on Ademola Adetokunbo, recalls that Northern Nigeria was on the brink of becoming a country of its own in 1966. It was Ademola, together with the British High Commissioner in Lagos, who played a decisive role in preventing Nigeria’s disintegration. They persuaded General Yakubu Gowon, who had assumed power after the death of General Johnson Aguiyi-Ironsi, not to support secession. At the time, many Northern officers believed that the foundations for Nigerian unity no longer existed.

    The book notes that Abubakar Tafawa Balewa was the first Nigerian to grace the cover of America’s influential TIME Magazine. In its December 5, 1960 edition, the magazine described him as “The Perfect Victorian.”

    It wrote: “No man better symbolises the strengths and hopes of independent Nigeria than Abubakar Tafawa Balewa. At 47, he is slight of figure (5 ft. 8½ in.), and his wispy moustache and greying crew-cut beard make him appear older than his years. Reserved and unassuming, he is a rare bird in a land famed for flamboyant politicians, once described by an African magazine as a ‘turtledove among falcons.’”

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    The civil war remains one chapter of our history that we often shy away from teaching the younger generation. In Gowon’s section, Oyetayo offers a glimpse into that turbulent period, including the role played by Olusegun Obasanjo. Yet, like Biafran leader Emeka Odumegwu-Ojukwu, Gowon has not written a personal account of the war.

    Through the story of Justice Idowu Taylor, Oyetayo reminds us that not all Nigerian judges were tainted by corruption. Taylor stood out for his uncompromising independence and integrity. A striking example was his refusal to attend a social event hosted by the military governor of Lagos, at a time when his court was presiding over cases brought against the government. By distancing himself from such occasions, he demonstrated a rare commitment to judicial impartiality and underscored the principle that justice must not only be done, but must be seen to be done. His stance offered hope that the judiciary could serve as a bulwark against executive excesses.

    Oyetayo has offered us a truly priceless gift. Through his skillful weaving of history, geography, political insight, he brings Lagos, and by extension Nigeria, vividly to life. At a time when many of us overlook the small details that shape our own existence, he draws us into reflection and gently reminds us that history matters.

    This book compels us to reflect on whether our country might have fared better had some of the figures profiled here made the right choices from the outset, or set aside personal ambition, ego, and ethnic sentiment. It also has the power to provoke questions about how their failures may have paved the way for military intervention.

    My final take: Adeshina Oyetayo’s ‘Behind the Streets’ is more than a book; it is a journey through time that deserves a firm place in our History curriculum. Within its pages, students will not only rediscover the past, but they will also recognise the truths of the present and have a vision of tomorrow. Researchers, as well as anyone with an interest in Nigeria, will find it a valuable and enriching companion.

  • Why South Africa doesn’t excite me

    Why South Africa doesn’t excite me

    The question looked simple and I answered it. Less than five minutes later, I knew that some things that appeared simple were complex. 

    The South African Airways flight attendant on the double-deck Boeing plane had asked me: ‘Red wine or white wine.’ 

    ‘White wine, please,’ the uninitiated me answered with the assumption that white wine was another name for fruit juice and as such non-alcoholic.

    Minutes after taking the white wine, my eyes began to close, not because it was midnight but because of the alcoholic content of the wine. That was the moment I made the major discovery that alcohol worked like a sleeping pill on me.

    I soon fell asleep.

    During this journey from Lagos to Johannesburg, I got in and out of consciousness, but I didn’t properly wake up until the plane taxied at the runway of the O Thambo Airport. I could still feel a hangover.

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    Passing Immigration in Johannesburg was as chaotic as receiving a South African visa. Getting a date for an appointment took longer than I envisaged. When I eventually appeared for the interview, I sat under a tree with others on the embassy’s premises in Victoria Island where the consular queried us. The bone of contention was seeing to it that we returned to Nigeria after the Conference of Parties (COP 3) of the Framework Convention on Tobacco Control (FCTC).

    Those of us who arrived from Nigeria were bombarded with questions obviously aimed at ensuring we planned to return home. Our Yellow Cards were scrutinised and one of us was made to pay for another Yellow Card because he didn’t have a valid one. No test was conducted. What was important was the money. Though my visa was valid for six months, an inscription showing that I couldn’t use it after that trip was stamped on it.

    We left the airport on the road trip to Durban and on this about eight-hour journey saw stunning mountainous regions. We had to endure the hustle and bustle of Johannesburg to link the green rolling hills of KwaZulu-Natal. We drove through Intabazwe, Newcastle, Estcourt, Ladysmith, Pietermaritzburg, Nambiti Hills, Drakensberg Mountains, and the Midlands Meander on this 630-kilometre trip. We were blessed by the cityscape of Johannesburg and the stunning coasts of the Indian Ocean in Durban. At some points, it looked like the clouds wanted hugs from the mountains. We didn’t have the luxury of stopping to take pictures on these beautiful sites. We were told that had we not been racing to Durban directly, we could have seen wild animals, including lions, leopards, black rhinoceroses, African bush elephants and African buffalo, all known as South Africa’s Big 5.

    What awaited us in Durban was more beauty, beauty so damning it almost blinded me. It was here I noticed the right-hand drive pattern that made me confuse the front-seat passenger for the driver. Nigeria had on April 2, 1972, abandoned this British driving style for the one common among Germans, Americans and French. South Africa has chosen to remain with the colonial masters which held it by the jugular through Apartheid.

    Durban radiates all the features of a very beautiful and carefully planned city. This city, which hosts many South Africans of Indian descent and is home to the Kwazulu Natal, is also home to the Blue Waters Hotel on Marine Parade, where I stayed for my one-week trip. It is surrounded by other hotels and the architecture of each of them seemed to have taken the other into consideration in such a way that they form a synergy, a synergy of beauty and grace. Looking at them from the Marina showed patterns that couldn’t have been accidental.

    My room had two single beds and another inner room, which a friend, Tosin Orogun, who didn’t book his room ahead, took over. I took turns sleeping on each of the beds day after day. I wanted to enjoy it all.

    My room also had an ocean view and outdoor balcony.

    The hotel, located on Durban’s Golden Mile, the hub of the city’s entertainment district, was minutes away from the Suncoast Casino and Entertainment Complex, the Kings Park Sporting precinct, Kingsmead Cricket stadium, Cyril Geoghegan Cycling Track, and Greyville Race Course and the International Conference Centre (ICC), where the partners met. The complex is composed of an arena, hotel, convention and exhibition centre.

    On my only Sunday in the city, politicians decided to flex muscles. I had thought political violence was a Nigerian exclusive but darling Rainbow nation insisted on a slot. Jacob Zuma was yet to be president but was primed to replace Thabo Mbeki. That Sunday, the Congress of the People (COPE), then South Africa’s new political party, was to hold a meeting at a school hall in Durban. But before the meeting could start, some men clad in T-shirts with the face of Zuma, who was at the time the African National Congress (ANC) president, invaded the venue. They were however, after some efforts, turned back by the police. That notwithstanding, the COPE shifted its meeting to the Bayview Community hall, Chatsworth.

    That was not the first time the meeting of the COPE would be interrupted by people believed to be Zuma supporters. Before then a series of disruptions of its meetings in KwaZulu-Natal, Free State and Gauteng had been recorded. The COPE is a product of schism within the ANC caused by Zuma’s accession to the ANC leadership in 2007 and Mr. Thabo Mbeki’s resignation as president in 2008.

    Back to the COP 3, which was attended by Nigeria and over 150 other nations, the parties agreed that cigarette packs should now bear graphic health warning labels.

    This week-long third Conference of Parties to the World Health Organisation’s Framework Convention on Tobacco Control agreed that pictorial warnings should cover 50 percent or more, and not less than 30 percent, of tobacco packaging and feature graphic images of health conditions caused by tobacco.

    They also adopted standards to protect tobacco control public health policies from tobacco industry interests. Governments were also urged to implement bans on all tobacco advertising, promotions and sponsorships.

    The parties also called for the banning of the usage of false, misleading and deceptive terms or labels that give the impression that a tobacco product is less harmful than any other tobacco product. This includes terms such as “low tar”, “light” and “mild” that have been proven to be meaningless.

    The parties forbade any partnerships with the tobacco industry in any initiatives linked to public health policy. “These so-called responsible actions are no more than a marketing tactic by the tobacco industry to project a positive image of itself despite the deadly nature of its products,” said WHO. 

    The Campaign for Tobacco-Free Kids commended the parties to the treaty for taking these important steps to address the global tobacco epidemic.

    Akinbode Oluwafemi of Environmental Rights Action (ERA) said that “the conference has produced the tool to rein-in tobacco industry interference across the entire African region. The global community has finally said no to tobacco industry so-called ‘corporate social responsibility’ and no to dubious government-industry partnerships. Now, tobacco control in Africa will be fast-tracked.” 

    According to the international policy director of Corporate Accountability International, Mr. Kathy Mulvey, “the tobacco industry has long exploited every opening to perpetuate a preventable epidemic.”

    Ironically, every nook of the city teemed with smokers of all ages and genders.

    In between the conference, we went hunting for what is known in Durban as factory shops, where we bought new clothes and shoes for next to nothing. I also had the chance to go to dinner with a friend’s friend. He had just moved from Unilever’s Nigerian operation to Durban and had to struggle through Google maps to get us to the restaurant and back to Blue Waters. He took me to a beautiful seaside restaurant and a major menu on offer was shushi. It was the first time I heard of this meal, this raw meat that was strange to my Yoruba brain. I declined and opted for something familiar: Some rice and chicken and some non-alcoholic wine.

    My final take: By the time we returned home, the good things I saw in South Africa, including the factory shops where we bought new clothes and shoes for next to nothing, were overshadowed by the treatment at the airport and the ‘mess’ at the embassy and I’ve since then not looked forward to returning to the Rainbow Nation.