The Nation Newspaper

Category: Olukorede Yishau

  • Worth reading

    Worth reading

    On July 28, 2022, Tobi Eyinade and Oluseyi Adebiyi began a journey. Till now, they are still on the journey and they intend to continue the journey for a long time. This journey, launched with Damilare Kuku’s ‘Nearly All The Men In Lagos Are Mad’, is known as ‘Worth Reading Podcast’. Streaming on platforms like Spotify and YouTube, the podcast serves as a guide for readers, navigating the vast world of African literature and spotlighting books truly worth reading.

    In some of the over thirty editions, Eyinade and Adebiyi, incidentally both graduates of the Obafemi Awolowo University (OAU) Ile-Ife, featured the authors of the books in focus. In a few editions, they just dissected the books, identified what they felt worked and what didn’t work. A lot of the times, they agreed, but there are times, they don’t. Eyinade, for instance, always bears the feminine banner, but Adebiyi isn’t always slow to point out the patriarchal nature of our world. The synergy between the duo is pivotal to it being worth listening to. No matter how serious a book is the duo finds a way to add humour to their discussion of it.

    The edition on Sefi Atta’s ‘Every Good Thing Will Come’ exposed how Adebiyi can never have enough of this book, and his reference to the book in a number of other editions confirms his love for this fantastic novel.

    Their ‘Nearly All The Men In Lagos Are Mad’ edition x-rays this collection I once described as having “the potential to sell and sell and continue to sell”, pointing out the factors that make it totally worth-reading. Eyinade’s passion for this book was palpable and Adebiyi’s love was as clear as spring water. With glee, Eyinade slammed the mad men in this collection. The juicy scandals in the book didn’t escape their attention.

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    In another edition, UK-based Chimeka Garricks, the author of the hugely successful ‘A Broken People’s Playlist’, a smooth-singing, hard-hitting collection of short stories inspired by music, was the guest. Eyinade and Adebiyi asked him questions that further the understanding of the stories in this books, in which first-person, second-person and third-person narrative techniques makes room for variety. They spoke about its many unforgettable characters, whose flaws would have made us slap and almost beat to coma if only we could meet them; they spoke about its prose with the power to make you savour it like palm wine fresh from the tree; and they didn’t forget its pacing and focus, which do not suffer from unnecessary swerving.

    The duo also hosted Michael Afenfia and discussed his sixth book ‘Leave My Bones in Saskatoon’, a novel in which Owoicho Adakole’s happiest day also turns out to be his saddest. Set predominantly in Abuja, Makurdi, and Saskatoon, and told in two parts, the novel shows the immigrant’s travails, the culture shocks they endure, and the diversity of these experiences.

    Eyinade and Adebiyi spoke about the different aspects of the book, including the fact that it isn’t just about Owoicho, but also about Nigeria, the failure of leadership, corruption, insecurity, and how the country frustrates its people, exiling them to countries where they spend the best of their lives paying unending bills.

    In their edition with Adaobi Tricia Nwaobani, the author of the award-winning ‘I Do Not Come To You By Chance’, it was all fun for the hosts and the guest who confessed that at some point, she knew almost all the lines of the novel, a gift time has now robbed her of. She gave insights into how the book came to be and other juicy details that made the edition worth listening to again and again.

    The podcast isn’t all about literary fiction. In fact, it isn’t just about fiction. There have been editions about poetry, memoirs, historical fiction, romance (‘The Marriage Class’ by Adesuwa O’man Nwokedi) and genre-bending works like Bisi Adeleye-Fayemi’s ‘Where Is Your Wrapper?’.

    When the duo hosted Umar Turaki, it was time to examine ‘Such A Beautiful Thing To Behold’, a novel, which kicks off on a scary note in a town quarantined because a deadly affliction has held it by the jugular and is draining the blood of its inhabitants.

    The hosts and the author examined this novel about a happy people made sad by Grey, a sickness with no seeming cause, or remedy which makes it difficult seeing colour again, makes everything drab and leaden, like black-and-white films, makes people kill themselves with knives, ropes, just anything capable of taking life and makes people consume rat poison.

    Another spectacular edition was with Ayobami Adebayo, an edition that allowed the OAU-trained hosts brag about their university being ‘Oba Awon University’. Adebayo, who was on the show to discuss her Booker Prize-nominated ‘A Spell of Good Things’, is also OAU-trained. During their discussion in which Adebayo laughed a lot, we got a sense that the author has written the story of the modern Nigeria, where the rich keep getting richer, and the poor poorer; where politicians play politics for pecuniary gains, where the life of an average citizen isn’t worth much, where infrastructure is at ground zero, where values are debased, where potentials aren’t fully utilised, where leaders are dealers, and where the political class sees nothing wrong in shedding some blood to attain political power. We also got a sense that it is about the dangers of classism in our nation with deep economic fissures, underfunded health services, and challenges numerous to recount. The discussion also didn’t leave any iota of doubt that the book is an indictment of a political class with little or no concern for our needs but only capitalises on a largely poverty-stricken population to achieve selfish goals.

    Their last-but-one edition was an opportunity for me to transform from an ardent listener to a guest and we had more than fun discussing my latest book, ‘After The End’, a novel set in Lagos, Liverpool, London and on the campus of OAU, a fact that gave the hosts another opportunity to make those of us who didn’t attend this 25-estate institution feel as if we are uneducated.

    My final take: Adebiyi and Eyinade are doing a yeoman’s job with the podcast and it doesn’t look like they are set to rest on their oars. It is a podcast that has kept the need to love books alive. We can’t do without books. We need them, we will continue to need them, except we are ready to say bye-bye to the human race. They are the salt, sugar and vitamins of life. And because of the importance of books, its promoters such as Adebiyi and Eyinade deserve more than a spell of good things; everything good should always come to them and should not only come to them by chance.

  • Otondo chronicles

    Otondo chronicles

    The duo of Tope-EniObanke Adegoke and Rebecca Jones, the co-founders of ‘Fortunate Traveller’, have done Nigeria a huge favour: documenting the experiences of the National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) members. It is an anthology series they started in 2021, and now they just unveiled the second volume of the series: ‘Becoming Otondo: An Anthology of NYSC Travels Vol II’.

    Until things began to fall apart, travelling around Nigeria—the land where tongues and tribes differ— wasn’t fraught with fear. Parents allowed their young adults travel, unaided, from one end of the country to the other. But not anymore. Youth Corp members and their parents face this challenge every year. This fear is palpable in every entry in the anthology.

    In Onofeta Aimalohi Osoh’s ‘Comely Faces: Composite Of A Layered Year’, the first entry of this book edited by Temitayo Olofinlua, we see how the writer’s parents, right from her university days, didn’t want her to leave their cocoon in Benin. So, when the National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) decided that Sokoto was where she should observe her one-year mandatory national service, there was agitation in their home, and when they eventually got over their fear, an elaborate planning had to be mapped out for what should ordinarily be a simple trip.

    The terrible state of road transportation around the country is also evident in this entry and no statement embodies it more than this: “my entire body was plastered with fine dust, my feet were swollen and the white chiffon had forgotten its colour.”

    We get more glimpses of the troubles with Nigeria in Winifred Òdúnóku’s ‘Morning of Distress’. It starts on a note of confusion, which ultimately shows us the overcrowded nature of the NYSC camps across the country and the poor state of infrastructure, a state which leaves many a Corps member using a bathroom and “stuffed in this eight-dormitory hostel like books on a library stack”.

    Òdúnóku also shows us the country’s craze for religion, a development, which sees us beginning and ending events with prayers and even cutting short programmes to fulfill religious obligations.

    Udochukwu Chidera’s ‘21 Days In Entebbe, Sorry Issele–uku’ returns to the subject of parents’ anxiety over the children being posted far away from home. This is all over her mother’s response to her revelation that she had been posted to Delta: ‘My chi doesn’t sleep. Thank God they didn’t take you far away from me.’ This anxiety isn’t unfounded given the state of insecurity in the country and many Corp members have been known to have even died or sustained severe injuries in the service of their fatherland. We see also the religious echo here: “It will soon be time for devotion.”

    Kosisochukwu W Ugwuede’s ‘M D’ reminds us of an affliction our country hasn’t been able to rise above: poorly-funded government schools. But, in it, we also see the soft side of NYSC years: love and lust. This entry, written in the second person, drips with emotional details, details that give it the full effects of creative non-fiction and make reading it not just a pleasure but also a joy.

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    Among others, the preoccupation of Kingsley Alumona’s ‘Once Upon a Year in Ede’ is anxiety and his disappointment that his place of assignment, Baptist High School (BHS), Ede, which has produced many prominent men and women who have distinguished themselves across different sectors, was in a terrible shape with classrooms without doors and windows, broken ceilings, broken desks and chairs and students who were unwilling to learn. Dedication among teachers was zero. Salaries weren’t paid as and when due. The entry is also about friendship, especially with older people.

    Sami Tunji’s ‘Finding Love in a Caged Bird as a Government Pikin’ returns us to the subject of love in the service year and regales us with snippets of a short-lived love whose poetry, Google photo and video memories, and more remain. The story of how this love was built on the ruins of an abusive relationship makes for an interesting reading. The details of how and why it ended pepped up the reading experience.

    In Adebayo Adegbite’s ‘Vignettes From the Power State’, we are served tales about Corps members’ participation in national assignments such as elections and the dangers associated with such assignments. We see how compromise by an umpire can mar the outcome of an election and make nonsense out of the definition of democracy as “government of the people, by the people and for the people”. This entry validates the saying that a tree doesn’t make a forest.

    Adegbite also shows us how being a star student can breed envy and animosity. It is a story that reminds me of myself and my fear over my star status and the special relationship it engendered between me and my secondary school principal, the late SA Bodunrin, and how Olukayode, my late father, calmed me down amid my mother’s anxiety.

    Overcomer Ibiteye’s ‘Northern Pilgrims’ is a gripping and sad account that takes us back to the insecurity challenge in Nigeria and its effect on Corps members posted to the North, where terrorists and bandits appear to have overwhelmed the government and bombs, blood and tears are not mere symbols but proofs of how worthless a Nigerian’s life can be. Being an only daughter, Ibiteye’s parents were alarmed and made frantic moves to have her redeployed back to Southwest after the mandatory three weeks at the orientation camp.

    Lucky for Ibiteye, she served in a private school, where pupils’ grasp of the English language was cool and their willingness to learn wasn’t in doubt. Infrastructure was also topnotch, another pointer to the fact that our government is our disaster.

    However, a blast on an unfortunate day made her parents’ fear real. Blood streamed from her head, hearing became Herculean and there was blood on school uniforms. The evil ones had struck, masked like the cowards they were. Twenty-five students died in this Kano school incident and more were injured. A Corps member died on the spot, her legs torn into shreds. Another Corps member sustained facial injuries. The sad part of it was the cover-up that followed. The state, the media, and the school claimed the incident was a gas explosion. So, who were the gun-bearing masked men?

    The last entry is Salome O Olorunsogo’s ‘A Willing Otondo’. It reads like a homage to Ibadan, that city with many firsts, the first university in Nigeria, and the first television station in Africa, among others. Olorunsogo explores the city in its glories and messiness. The author also lays bare the University of Ibadan, whose embrace leaves a fantastic impression on the writer. We also see the effect of COVID-19 on the service year.

    There are also photographic entries by Ikupolati Gideon, Bukunmi Oyewole, Boluwatife Ogunojuwo, Kingsley Alumona, and Deborah Ajilore, which give different points of view of the NYSC story.

    My final take: This important project of ‘Fortunate Traveller’, funded by Goethe Institut, shows us Nigeria in its birthday suit and what we see isn’t palatable. Nigeria needs to find a lasting solution to insecurity. Travelling from one end of the country to the other should be fun and living within the country should be exciting. The people deserve nothing less.

  • Complexities of pain

    Complexities of pain

    Two powerful women, Hilary Clinton and Kamala Harris, have come close to becoming the President of the United States of America, unarguably the most popular country in the world. The two of them were stopped by the same man: Donald J Trump.

    When the two of them were young girls, they had shown promises amid challenges peculiar to their gender.

    The U.S. Strategy on Global Women’s Economic Security is founded on extensive evidence that increasing women’s participation enhances economic prosperity and stability. It aims to address the substantial, ongoing gender disparities in economic security.

    Research indicates that reducing gender gaps in the workforce could boost global GDP by 12 to 28 trillion dollars over a decade, while increasing women’s access to markets and finance promotes entrepreneurship and innovation. Achieving gender parity in entrepreneurship alone could contribute an estimated 5 to 6 trillion dollars to the global economy.

    However, despite these clear benefits, women still face numerous social, legal, and financial obstacles to full economic participation. Women spend more than twice as much time as men on unpaid care work, which has an estimated annual global value of $11 trillion. Furthermore, 2.4 billion working-age women, according to America, continue to encounter legal barriers to full economic involvement. Removing these systemic barriers is essential to unlocking economic potential.

    Additionally, the COVID-19 pandemic has disproportionately impacted women’s employment, with far-reaching consequences for families, communities, and economies.

    These challenges of the girl-child is a domineering theme of Kate Apaflo Awuku-Darko’s collection of forty-one poems, ‘Seven Shredded Sisters’.

    Nature seems to conspire against the girl-child with peculiar challenges: the menstrual cycle, period pain, hormonal shifts, and a multitude of other obstacles. Yet, she looks beyond these challenges—or, better still, sees them as steps she must climb to overcome forces suggesting that certain heights are unattainable for her simply because she is a girl.

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    The collection takes us on a journey of variants of emotions, especially about the fate of young girls. We also see themes such as mental health, psychological balance of young women, love, sisterhood, womanhood, the complexities of pain, anticipation and family.

    The first poem in the collection, ‘Pain’, illustrates the facets of pain. In this short piece, the use of phrases “round as a void”, “gurgling slit of heaviness”, and “itches deep into the marrow”, express pain in to-to. They bring out its dimensions and make the reader feel the weight of the speaker’s turmoil.

    The poet’s comparison of pain to a “mouse in a lake of fire” is striking and conveys helplessness. We also see interesting contrast such as in “blooms with gloom” and “bodies drowning in a greasy pool”, which bring out the seriousness of the subject matter.

    The second poem, ‘The wall makes a chant’, is intriguing. It introduces us to a scenario where tools are not mere instruments but extensions of anger, cutting through innocence (“nascent flowers”) and life itself. The poet’s use of “dauntless as a grizzly bear” and “sharp as the edge of wood” emphasizes the tension between vitality and echoing pain. It also presents the poem as introspective.

    The third poem, ‘At Moonrise’, presents an intense, cinematic viewpoint of violence and sorrow. The opening image of “young girls scattered on the cold ground like dead sunflowers” conveys misplaced or wasted innocence. The dire situation is brought to life by the poet’s portrayal of sunflowers, which ordinarily depicts warmth, as lifeless. The line “a man comes breathing like a locomotive” captures resilience in the face of sorrow and its side effects.

    In the poem, ‘Lean’, the poet evokes a feeling of scarcity and vulnerability. With the repetition of ‘lean’, the poet creates a rhythm and the mention of body parts—the eyes, hinds, legs, lips—paints the image of a body almost stripped bare and hints at a pull underneath everyday life.

    In ‘Mist’, the poet evokes vulnerability. We see in the refrain “back it swings/back it swings” the echo of how life moves in cycle and how fragile it is.

    The poem ‘Dead Butterflies’ shows the tension between aspiration and destruction. In the repetition of “to meet the sun” offers hints of yearning. The closing line, “while rebelling against/the pull of nectars,” implies casting aside the natural order for survival’s sake and tells of the human nature.

    In the poem, ‘Sisters’, we see how the bonds between sisters act as a stabilising force in times of trouble. With lines such as “the helm of draughts”, “crate of sun colors”, and “rail of wanton desperation”, the poet shows us the highs and lows of sisterhood.

    The poet uses the poem, ‘Cave’, to create a sense of place. Using imagery such as “Shai range-cliff” and “sand prints”, the poet takes the reader into a rugged landscape and shows a sense of timelessness. We see discomfort and beauty in lines such as “gripping sore” and “festooned to burdens”.

    “Knots of Kindness” portrays the relationship between kindness and vengeance. The arresting opening line, “The stab of kindness” shows that being kind can also bring pain to the kind one. Words such as “cursed lips” and “a grid on teeth” illustrate the burden of kindness. And with these lines, “yesterday was a duel for goodness / measured on the eaves of nothing”, we are left on a pondering note.

    In ‘When you dare to call my name’, the poet emphasizes the need for truth while painting the subject’s portrait. It specifies how the portrait should be done showing the highs and the lows, the dark and the bright sides.

    The last poem, ‘My Girl Child’, is a fitting closure to a beautiful and metaphorical collection. In it, we encounter the complexity of childhood, identity, and the struggle between curiosity and societal expectations of the girl-child.

    Parts of the collection seem like a manifesto for the girl-child, telling her: Each day, she looks in the mirror and reminds herself: she is beautiful, wonderfully made, and one of the finest things the human race has witnessed. She asks herself if it’s a sin to aim for excellence in every field, if anyone has the right to pull her down, and why she should grant them such power over her life when they were neither her creator nor present when she was formed. She promises herself never to bear the weight of others’ actions—whether from a predator, a boyfriend who fails to see her worth, a teacher who calls her “dumb,” or a boss who dismisses her for her gender.

    My final take: The boy-child also faces social pressures, but in the girl-child’s case, the pressures are compounded by natural challenges such as menstrual flow, reproductive duties and more.

    Kate Apaflo Awuku-Darko has delivered a memorable collection with ‘Seven Shredded Sisters’.

  • Trump’s second coming

    Trump’s second coming

    Donald J Trump is returning to the White House, the world’s most popular address where the destinies of nations are shaped, where the good, the bad and the ugly have been ordained, and where coups in Africa have been sanctioned.

    His victory, as it did in his first coming, sealed the hope that America was about to have Madam President and First Gentleman.

    He is returning because his supporters care less about conviction for felony charges. It looks like they believe the charges were trumped up to rubbish him. Churches openly adopted him, prayed for his success and prophesied victory for him on the account of him being a rock-solid Christian. He is the sort of a person you can say his ota po ju enemies lo, but still he rises. All the American constitution requires of him is to be at least 35, be natural born American, and to have lived in America in the last 14 years. Felony conviction means nothing when it comes to leading the world’s greatest nation.

    Trump’s second coming, after failing to get re-elected four years ago, is going to be combative. He is going to fire from all cylinders. It’s going to be one day, one wahala. He is already settled about the many policies he would reverse on his first day in office. He has done it before and he will do it again.

    For Trump, he believes he is the best thing that has happened to America. He believes he has brought so much glory to God’s own country that years after his time on earth, America and Americans should worship him the way Ogun worshippers pour palm oil in deference of this human-turned god.

    In his first coming, it looked like it was Hilary Clinton’s time, and that she would cruise to victory but she had no idea she was running against a god in human flesh! She learnt the lesson the bitter way and has since remained scared to run for the most-coveted seat in the world.

    On July 13, United States Vice President Kamala Harris, who Biden endorsed as his replacement, reached out to voters. Her message: With the United States Supreme Court granting Donald Trump wide-reaching immunity for his actions as president, he has been emboldened to weaponise the Department of Justice against his political enemies. Harris added that the ‘Donald Trump running for office right now is not the same one that we ran against in 2020’. This candidate Trump, she says, is more unhinged, more dangerous and has nothing to lose.

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    Harris argued that if Trump wins four more years in the White House, not even the courts will hold him back. “It’s what he wanted. It’s why he hand-picked three justices for the Court who helped deliver this decision,” Harris said. Hours after Harris message to voters, 20-year-old Thomas Matthew Crooks, who lived in Bethel Park, Pennsylvania, shot at Trump, who fell to the ground, and Secret Service agents had to surround him. Trump said a bullet pierced the upper part of his right ear. The shooter was killed by the Secret Service.

    In all sincerity, Trump’s four years in the White House was not all bad news. His next four years will also not be. He is credited with overhauling the U.S. judiciary, especially with the appointment of three Supreme Court justices and the fast-tracking of the appointment of more than 200 federal judges. He is also respected in some quarters for pushing through massive tax cuts for corporations, expanding the economy faster than it was under Barack Obama, and crashing unemployment to a record low— before the economic gains were washed away by the Coronavirus. He also normalised relations between Israel and four once-antagonistic Arab neighbours, and he condensed U.S. forces in Afghanistan, Iraq and Syria. But like a commentator noted, all these were “dwarfed by what Trump got wrong”. Whether or not he is able to repeat the feats is a different kettle of fish.

    My final take: Trump will continue the White House tradition that ensures its international politics, better known as diplomacy, is not just about saving the world, but also about making it have access to overseas economies, fossil fuels, mineral resources and the blue economy. Under him,  the White House will still maintain the tradition that uses treaties and deals to ensure America has easy markets for its goods. Harris would have done the same had she made history as America’s first female president. 

  • From Washington with tears

    From Washington with tears

    In the last-but-one week of October, I was one of the people that made Washington DC, the capital of the United States, had more than the usual demand for its metro services, taxis, hailing rides and car rental services. We were from the different segments of the world: First, Second and the Third.

    The massive campus of the World Bank and IMF in the heart of the District of Columbia hosted us to all manners of meetings, where all manners of issues were discussed and all manners of conclusions reached.

    Aside journalists like me, whose role was to let in the world on the annual meetings, the men and women in suits at the meetings included finance ministers and secretaries, Central Bank governors, scholars, and civil society experts.

    Incidentally, this year marks the 80th anniversary of the Bretton Woods System. Its Institutions have evolved over the decades, but it is a different ball game determining whether or not they are evolving fast enough to meet the rapidly changing and increasingly volatile global environment.

    These winter meetings came at a time the world’s central banks have raised interest rates to their highest levels in years to tame rapid inflation, a development that has helped bring down global inflation rates. Sadly, the developing world hasn’t benefitted from shrinking inflation rates. In this beggarly part of the world, rates are still high and interest rates remain high, and higher interest rates translate to lesser affordability. Amid this, borrowing for countries is a necessity. And we are seeing an escalation in global debt crisis, which the Bretton Woods Institutions are downplaying as “short-term liquidity challenges”.

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    These “short-term liquidity challenges” has seen countries in the Global South defaulting on obligations. At the meetings, Civil Society Organisations (CSOs) such as the African Forum and Network on Debt and Development (AFRODAD), the Latin American Network for Economic and Social Justice (LATINDADD), the European Network on Debt and Development (Eurodad), and the Development Finance International(DFI), painted a grim picture of the situation. They highlighted how countries in the Global South are being forced to default on human rights obligations, Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs), and climate commitments due to unsustainable debt payments.

    Domestic and external debt servicing, they said, is consuming 42 percent of spending across all countries, and 55 percent in Africa. This is 2.7 times the expenditure on education, 4.2 times on health, and 11 times on social protection.

    According to them, recent debt relief agreements remain inadequate, with six nations that have undergone restructuring still set to spend over 20 percent of their government revenue on external debt servicing.

    The CSOs argued that the solution is clear: cancel sufficient debt to allow countries return to a sustainable development path and reform the global debt architecture.

    These complaints show that the Bretton Woods Institutions need to do more. The G-24, to which Nigeria belongs, identified four key reforms that would enhance the system’s effectiveness and empower the IMF and the World Bank to better serve their members. This group wants a new mechanism to support countries with sound fundamentals during liquidity crisis, more ambitious goals for concessional and non‑concessional windows, reformation of the sovereign debt resolution framework to deliver comprehensive, predictable, swift, and impactful debt relief, and the acceleration of governance and institutional reforms of the Bretton Woods Institutions to increase the voice and representation of developing nations.

    In 1944, IMF and the World Bank were created for reconstruction and stability after World War II. The Bretton Woods Conference of 1944 agreed on their formation on the premise that global economic security could only be achieved through cooperation and coordination, not isolationism. The World Bank started as the International Bank for Reconstruction and Development (IBRD), to facilitate the rebuilding of war-ravaged nations and later evolved into promoting development in poorer regions of the world. The IMF was tasked with ensuring the stability of the international monetary system because currencies were devalued and gold reserves depleted after the war, and countries faced mounting pressures on their balance of payments.

    From then till now, the United States and Europe have retained humongous influence over decision-making, a situation China, India, and Brazil are seriously fighting.

    Their 80th anniversary has raised the question of their relevance in this age and time. It’s a moment for deep introspection and it’s high time they rose to the challenges of an era where climate change, digital disruption, inequality, and shifting geopolitical realities demand innovative solutions and a balanced-cum-responsible international cooperation.

    My final take: As I returned to Houston after one week of meetings and briefings at the IMF/ World Bank Campus, the inequalities in the world and how tokenism will never address it bothered me. The developing countries require sums that can make real difference. What they currently get only help with their immediate payment needs and not to grow their economies. They need to get the resources to develop and grow.

    Unfortunately, the rich nations are like rich men who hardly want the poor to level up with them. All they offer the poor is enough to be alive to continue to provide cheap services to them. The poor nations, I believe, will never get enough liquidity from the rich to make headway. They have to find local solutions to make money and join the rich list. Ask Singapore and others who have found their way out of the Third World. They did it without any reasonable outside support. So, looking up to the Bretton Woods Institutions is waiting in vain. Absolute waste of time. 

  • Remembering Hurricane Beryl

    Remembering Hurricane Beryl

    When Hurricane Beryl eventually unfurled itself over Houston, it was a howl leaving the city trembling beneath its weight, the sky bruised a deep, threatening purple, and the streets seemed to fold in on themselves as the rain poured down in relentless sheets.

    Neigbouring cities like Richmond, Cypress and Katy also felt the pang of what the winds had been heralding for days.

    In homes, windows rattled in their frames like nervous fingers tapping against a glass pane, and the walls seemed to pulse with every rumble of thunder.

    The wind pressed against glasses, a fierce pressure, as though it were trying to find a way inside, to slip through the cracks and wrap its fingers around their lives.

    Beryl wasn’t the first storm the city had weathered but, in a way, it felt like the most intense. The internet and phone networks soon vanished.

    Where I live, the lights flickered once, twice, and finally gave up. The house went dark, save for the flicker of lightning that painted the walls in pale, ghostly hues.

    The rain was not falling—it was hammering, sheets of water slamming against windows, as if the sky had broken open and decided to empty itself in one breath. Every gust of wind seemed to push at homes, like some invisible hand testing its strength.

    As the night wore on, the storm outside began to weaken.

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    The following morning, I set out for Southwest Houston; my car moved slowly along the highway, the storm’s fury now a memory, but its presence still lingering in the air, like the echo of a scream. The sky above was a dull, bruised grey, as though the clouds hadn’t yet decided whether to stay or drift apart. The sun fought to break through, sending pale beams of light through cracks in the sky, casting long shadows across the landscape.

    I pressed my foot down on the gas, steadying myself against the wind’s push, eyes fixed on that distant glow. Inside the car, there was only the quiet beat of my heart and the steady hum of the engine.

    The road was littered with the storm’s debris—a mix of broken billboards, neon signs, tree limbs, leaves plastered wet against the asphalt, and small, forgotten things that had been lifted from one place and carelessly dropped somewhere else.

    Power lines sagged like weary soldiers, leaning over, some still trembling from the night’s assault. Puddles, deep and wide, shimmered in the morning light, reflecting the broken world around them.

    The trees along the road, those that hadn’t been uprooted, stood like survivors, their branches stripped bare in places, torn leaves scattered like confetti from some violent celebration. Palm fronds lay strewn across medians and shoulders, their once proud, upright forms now sprawled helplessly across the concrete. The landscape looked as if it had exhaled all at once, a heavy sigh of exhaustion after a night spent bracing against the hurricane.

    There was a quiet stillness in the air, one that didn’t quite feel like peace, but rather, a kind of numbness, as if the earth was still catching its breath. The city too was waking slowly, like someone recovering from a fever. The buildings stood, some bruised, others seemingly untouched, but all of them marked in some way by the night that had passed. A few stores had boarded-up windows, hastily scrawled messages still visible—’Stay safe’, ‘Closed until further notice’—small signs of human resilience in the face of nature’s indifference and assault.

    I passed through neighborhoods where the streets were eerily quiet, the houses crouched low, their roofs dripping water from eaves that had sagged under the storm’s weight. Fences were down, mailboxes tilted at odd angles, and trash cans lay scattered, rolling slowly in the breeze, as if unsure of where they belonged. The people were just beginning to emerge, cautious and slow, their faces etched with a mixture of relief and weariness, stepping out to assess what Beryl had left behind.

    The air still carried the scent of rain, but beneath it was the smell of wet earth, of things newly exposed—soil torn from the ground, damp wood, and the faint, sharp scent of ozone that always lingered after lightning. It was the smell of something raw, something unsettled.

    Returning home took hours, hours of turning back from flooded roads, roads closed because trees had fallen on them, roads dangerous for humans to drive on. At a point, I drove into the compound of a Southwest Farmer’s Market, parked and tried to sleep. The store was closed like every other business on the complex.

    When I eventually hit the road again, I tried a road earlier blocked by a police vehicle and the vehicle was no longer there, but the barricades were still there. A small opening let my car glide through and I escaped to the road to my home. After some twists here and there, I got home. There was still no light, but less than thirty minutes after, the light came on and the internet also came back. The generators some neigbours used to fill the blank died and silence ensued. Many other neigbourhoods waited for days before electricity was restored. And businesses struggled for longer to regain what nature took from them.

    My final take: Within days, the government unveiled a palliative cash and within days, thousands were sent cheques for foodstuffs lost because of power failure, damages to properties and so on. That is what responsive governments do. They have no control over the hurricane but they offer succour to the people.

    A government that doesn’t come to its people’s aid in a time of trouble can’t earn the people’s trust. Only standing by the people in times like that shows the humane side of those in power and earns them unconditional love.

  • Adebanwi and Gani Adams

    Adebanwi and Gani Adams

    Professor Wale Adebanwi’s latest book, ‘How to Become a Big Man in Africa: Subalternity, Elites, and Ethnic Politics in Contemporary Nigeria’, focuses on Gani Adams, leader of the Oodua People’s Congress (OPC). The book examines the rise of Adams within the Yoruba nationalist group, and the broader sociopolitical dynamics that shaped his transformation from a subaltern to an elite figure in Nigeria’s political landscape.

    Adebanwi granted me an interview in which he shared insights into why the project took over 20 years to complete, and how the story of Adams reflects broader issues in the Nigerian society, including youth violence, and political marginalisation.

    Adebanwi’s interest in the OPC began around 1999, when Nigeria transitioned from military rule to democracy. Initially, his focus was on the Yoruba political elite, particularly the followers of Chief Obafemi Awolowo. However, the emergence of violent clashes within the OPC and between its members and other ethnic groups in Lagos captured his attention. The OPC, initially led by Dr. Frederick Fasehun, splintered into two factions when Gani Adams, then 29 years old, took over one faction. The media often portrayed this as a revolt of the youth against the elders, and this generational conflict intrigued Adebanwi as a lens for studying the group.

    This youth-versus-elders narrative, coupled with the issue of violence, motivated Adebanwi to pursue a more in-depth study of the OPC. His research aimed to explore the connections between youth, socio-economic crises, political marginalisation, and ethnic relations, all of which were central to the OPC’s formation.

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    At the time, President Olusegun Obasanjo’s government responded to the OPC’s growing influence with harsh measures, including a shoot-on-sight order for its members. This volatile environment, combined with the group’s internal struggles for supremacy, provided fertile ground for Adebanwi’s research into the complexities of youth movements, violence, and political struggle in a democratic context.

    While Adebanwi’s initial interest was in the group dynamics rather than Adams as an individual, Adams’ rise to prominence eventually became a focal point. Over time, the story of Adams’ transformation from a relatively obscure figure into a major political actor in Nigeria offered Adebanwi a compelling narrative about social mobility, political power, and the intersection of personal ambition with broader social forces.

    The book took 21 years of research to complete, with Adebanwi gathering vast amounts of data, including interviews with key figures like Fasehun and Adams, participant observation of the OPC’s activities, and a wide range of archival materials. This extensive research made it difficult for Adebanwi to determine when to stop collecting data and begin writing.

    Additionally, his other academic responsibilities, including administrative roles, delayed the writing process.

    The COVID-19 pandemic, however, provided the necessary time and mental space for Adebanwi to finally focus on the manuscript. Between 2020 and 2021, he completed the book, which ended up being over 600 pages long, though the publishers made adjustments to reduce its size slightly. The prolonged research period allowed Adebanwi to capture the evolving dynamics within the OPC and Gani Adams’ ongoing influence in Nigerian politics.

    The title of the book reflects the broader themes of Adebanwi’s research. Initially, he was focused on the OPC’s role in protesting Nigeria’s political structure, particularly in relation to ethnic and regional politics. Over time, this morphed into a study of the internal dynamics of the group, the struggle for supremacy within its factions, and the connection between the OPC and Nigeria’s broader political landscape.

    Adebanwi’s focus shifted to Gani Adams as a case study in personal transformation. Adams’ rise from a high-school dropout in Mushin, Lagos, to a prominent political figure and the Aare Ona Kakanfo of Yorubaland is emblematic of the intersection between individual agency and structural forces in Nigerian politics.

    Adebanwi emphasizes that Adams’ ascent is not simply a story of personal ambition, but also one of navigating and leveraging Nigeria’s socioeconomic and political crises to achieve power. This transformation, from subaltern to elite, is at the core of the book’s analysis of Nigerian political history.

    Adebanwi faced several challenges during his two decades of research. One of the most significant was gaining access to the OPC’s inner workings, particularly in low-income areas of Lagos where the group held its meetings. While both Fasehun and Adams were initially open to granting him access, the transformation of Adams into a “Big Man” over time made him less available for interviews and observations.

    Another challenge was navigating the divisions within the OPC. As the group splintered into more factions, it became difficult to piece together a cohesive narrative about its inner dynamics. However, these divisions also provided opportunities for Adebanwi to gather more candid insights from disaffected members who were willing to share information that might have been withheld earlier.

    Despite these challenges, Adebanwi’s background as both a journalist and an academic helped him maintain a balance between objective observation and personal involvement. His deep familiarity with the Yoruba culture also allowed him to access layers of meaning and significance that might have been missed by an outsider.

    When asked whether Gani Adams is a hero or an opportunist, Adebanwi resisted drawing simplistic conclusions. Instead, he emphasized that his book is a social analysis, not a moral judgment. Adams represents a social actor who leveraged his position within a particular political and economic context to rise to power. His transformation from a young man marginalised by Nigeria’s political and economic crises, to a key player in the country’s political scene, is what makes his story compelling from a sociological perspective.

    Adebanwi notes that Adams’ story is part of a broader pattern of similar figures in Nigeria, such as ex-militants from the Niger Delta who have also risen to positions of power and influence. These individuals have used their roles in social movements to gain wealth and status, becoming part of the political elite they once opposed.

    My final take:  The intersection between individual agency and structural forces in Nigerian politics allows figures from marginalised backgrounds to rise to prominence. The navigation and exploitation of structural inequalities help in achieving personal and political success.

  • Dear Governor Eno

    Dear Governor Eno

    Sir, first thing first: I commiserate with you on the death of your wife. The loss of a close person is a pain only you can fully understand. Outsiders can only have a glimpse of what you are going through.

    It can never be easy to recover from losing someone you were married to for decades, someone you slept on the same bed with for decades, someone who was part and parcel of every major decision you took for decades, someone who gave you beautiful children, someone who was one with you.

    Even when such loss isn’t caused by death but by separation or divorce, it is always difficult to deal with. The one caused by death is on a level difficult to capture with words. So, once again, accept my condolences.

    I pray that God will give you the fortitude to bear the loss and He will also grant you the wisdom to live without her. He will also grant you the wisdom to lead the children aright in her absence.

    However, I have to point out a gaffe you made, and that is your announcement that your daughter should continue the duties of the office of First Lady, an office we all know is illegal in the first place. Because the office is alien to the constitution, its assigned duties are null and void. So, Sir, it is ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous, to transfer non-constitutional duties to your daughter.

    Sir, what is bad is bad; it has no other name and that is why I am not sugarcoating anything for you. You goofed and big time too. The fact that you are grieving is no excuse for taking the people of Akwa Ibom for fools, and for brazenly attacking our constitution.

    The constitution, despite its imperfections, should be sacrosanct. If you want an office of First Daughter created, you can get members of the National Assembly from your state to initiate the amendment of the constitution. But, you and I know that this is not the time for such a ridiculous proposition. Our country, not only your state, is bleeding. The people can’t afford full course meals, they can’t get money to pay school fees, they can’t afford to pay their rent, and doing other basic things of life aren’t easy for them.

    Before you say you are not to blame for the state of the national economy, what have you been able to do at your local level? Let’s even assume you have done so much, it is not enough reason to mess the people up further.

    During the run-up to the election that made you governor, you promised the people Happy Hour. Many of us laughed then given your status as a minister of the gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ. There is nothing happy about turning your daughter to the coordinator of an office alien to our laws, and grief is no justification for this anomaly.

    I know grief takes different formats, and like the narrator of my novel, ‘After The End’, says: ‘Grief doesn’t have to be silent’. You can grieve loudly but that loudness shouldn’t have anything to do with taking irrational decisions, especially when they violate our laws.

    Your explanation that you didn’t appoint your daughter First Lady, but as the coordinator of the office of First Lady, makes no sense to me. You also said as long as you remain governor, the programmes for the elderly being run by your late wife would not die, and the coordinator must be someone you see daily, someone who can walk into your room and brief you.

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    Though the office of First Lady isn’t constitutional, it has become acceptable over the years so, in a way, it has become part of the unwritten part of our constitution. What has absolutely no place either in our written or unwritten laws is asking a daughter to take over the duties of the office of First Lady. A daughter is a daughter; your daughter is no First Lady. The First Lady, God rest her soul, is dead and whatever she was doing in the one year and few months she was your First Lady should be continued using another forum.

    Your decision is precedence, one that no one else should follow. It should be like the Supreme Court decision on Rotimi Amaechi, which the court decided should not be used in deciding similar future cases. The earlier you rescind this decision the better.

    Sir, my candid advice to you is that you should immortalise your late wife with a foundation named after her and this foundation’s vision should be the eradication of the cause of her death. You can also add the programmes for the elderly to the duties of this foundation. And your darling daughter can run this foundation. This is a more honourable way of mourning her and keeping her memory alive.

    Sir, I urge you to take the front seat in the quest for respecting the laws. Take the front seat till our society gets better. Till our society gets all our people need. Till our society becomes safe and secure. Till all the things that have fallen apart become whole and the centre can comfortably hold. You should never contribute to things that make our society the butt of global jokes. We aren’t a joke. A nation that produces global talents in medicine, pharmacy, engineering and the art isn’t a joke. It is mostly the actions of our leaders that have given that impression of us and the time to correct that is now. And I beseech you to take a lead and the starting point is to first reverse the decision you took.

    My final take: We need to protect our laws. I strongly believe that the bulk of the challenges we face as a nation is because we don’t obey our laws. Yes, our constitution has loopholes, just like the constitution of the United States of America. Britain’s constitution isn’t even written. What that tells us is that it’s not about what is written down, but about following laid-down procedures.

  • Music, memories and messages

    Music, memories and messages

    You are cruising your Toyota Corrola on a sunny midday to a block of apartments called Sweet waters in the Northside of Houston, a forty-minute ride from the Southwest of the city where you took off. Tracy Chapman is entertaining you, keeping you company as you navigate the roads, conscious of the ubiquitous American police. As Chapman sings songs that made her a star, memories tug at your heart, memories of those days when you lived with an aunt in a flat on Orile Road in Agege.

    In those days, Boda Wale, your aunt’s immediate half brother, was a fan of Tracy Chapman and days after days, he terrified you with her sonorous music. You soon became a devotee and worshipped at her feet. In those days, you assumed she was South African.  It would take years before you realised your mistake.

    As she sings from ‘Baby Can I Hold You’ to ‘Fast Car’ to ‘Give Me One Reason’ and ‘Talkin’ Bout A Revolution’, you are back in Lagos, bathed in memories of years never to be experienced again and tears gather but do not cascade down.

    Tracy Chapman makes you remember other songs that take you way back, way, way back in time. This night you find yourself searching for a live performance of KWAM 1 on YouTube. You soon find it. He did the show at the National Arts Theatre, Iganmu, Lagos in the early 90s. Most mornings, a car radio your uncle installed in the boys quarters in Orile-Agege blared this show’s cassette on and on and on. You know the lyrics almost line by line.

    Memories seize you as YouTube does you the favour of having a copy of this part of your childhood for streaming. It reminds you of your father’s house on 26 Ayige Street, that house where he drove different models of brand new Peugeot, where he later drove a rundown SUV, where his second daughter died after years of battle with illness, where several family members lived with you, where your mother has battled all kinds of ailments for over two decades, where your father one day went for a medical test and was told he had a heart problem and he was dead that same day.

    You also remember the day you came back from primary school in June 1984, and your pregnant mother asked you to fetch her water to take her bath after which she left for Betta Hospital on Coker Road and returned with your last born, Seun, now forty years old.

    The song also reminds you of Wale Olomu, a journalist and brother to motivational speaker and author, Mr Dayo Olomu. In the song, KWAM 1 praised Wale, who died not long after the show. Dayo was KWAM 1’s manager. Both of them, though born in the United Kingdom, grew up in Orile-Agege and were members of a Celestial Church of Christ, which remains almost opposite your childhood home till date. The song also reminds you of Funmilayo, a sibling of the Olomus who was your classmate at Orile-Agege Primary School.

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    Another evening, Agidigbo FM, thanks to Radio App, is taking you to the Island town of Epe, your picturesque hometown where you interred your father’s remains on October 2, 2012, a day after he was told for the first time he had a problem with his heart. That day he chose to leave was his wedding anniversary. It was also Nigeria’s Independence Day. Since then, the day has assumed a larger than life image for you. Two of your books have been released on that day.

    The voice of Ligali Mukaiba is all it takes for you to be back to Epe, see its streets, have that feeling of walking into the sea when trekking on any side of its ring road, salivate for a taste of its fresh sea foods and crave its ikokore delicacy.

    Mukaiba, an apala singer, was and still is its most known musician decades after he breathed his last. His songs sinking into you through an earpod this evening reminds you also of your maternal grandfather. You remember how he used to put you on his lap each time you visited and how he used to call you his father because you are supposedly a reincarnation of his own father, the one they called Agbomeji. You remember the family house in Oke-Balogun, its mud walls, its tattered floors, its rustic look, the secrets it keeps and the remains you were told were interred on its grounds, even in rooms that bear no sign that bodies of ancestors are laid there.

    The voice conjures imageries of cows mooing, cats meowing, sheep bleating, bulls bellowing, ducks quacking, horses neighing, geese cackling, chickens clucking and peacocks screaming in corners of the town renowned for fish and Quranic education.

    Mukaiba reminds you of Epe and its illustrious sons. From Chief S. L. Edu, once listed by Time Magazine as one of the richest men in Nigeria, to Michael Otedola to Prof. Femi Agbalajobi, who tried unsuccessfully to become Lagos governor, and to Akinwunmi Ambode, the one who collapsed ancestral walls and sacred landed property to give his hometown a befitting road network.

    You also remember those times with your paternal grandmother, Iya Alate, at Ayetoro market, where you learnt to hawk groceries during vacation. The voice reminds you of your many Ileya festivals in Epe, of the ram-fighting competition at Epe Recreation Centre, of the ram slaughtering, boiling, frying and eating, of the new Naira notes uncles and aunts gifted you in the spirit of the season and of an era wrestled and conquered by time.

    Each time YouTube supplies you ‘Stand Well Well’ and other early 90s songs of Lagos Island Fuji music star Musibau Alani, memories of your six years in secondary school torture you. They were spent away from home and from your parents, except on the few occasions you were home for holidays. You were free and many of your seniors and juniors misbehaved: sex, cigarettes and a few even tried Marijuana. You had strict housemasters and housemistresses, but despite that those who wanted to be bad found a way to be. Your school was surrounded by bushes and many escaped to smoke and do all sorts. Classrooms at night were also dark enough for shenanigans.

    As far as your parents were concerned, you were in strict hands and were bound to be of good behaviours, but there were instances when the teachers who were supposed to keep you all upright were the ones sleeping with the girls, many of them between 15 and 16 years, and the ones who refused were targets of punishments. At least three of the girls are now wives to their ex-teachers, one even wrote the Senior School Certificate examination pregnant for your housemaster. You only knew when she was delivered of a baby some six months after completing her studies.

    Now, your phone Playlist is treating you to Lara George’s ‘Ijoba Orun’. You become sober. Your head swells, your tear duct seems to open and you are suddenly seized by the quest to be holy as you prepare for life in the hereafter. It does this to you each time you listen to it. It has done so since it was released over a decade ago. Sinach’s world famous ‘Way Maker’, Ayewa Gospel Singers ‘Amona Tete Mabo’ and some Tope Alabi’s songs give you similar vibes.

    Lara George is reminding you that money can’t take you to heaven, your car can’t either. And neither can a spouse nor a friend. Only following God’s path can and you long to be pious, to be in this world but not of this world. But you fear that once the music stops, the world and its iniquities will not give up easily on you. And it dawns on you that life is an ever-continuing battle you can only win if you guard your heart jealously.

  • Osundare’s poem Justice Kekere-Ekun should read

    Osundare’s poem Justice Kekere-Ekun should read

    My Lord Honourable Justice Kudirat Kekere-Ekun, I congratulate you on your confirmation as the substantive 23rd Chief Justice of Nigeria, a position many of your colleagues never attained because they had to retire before it was their turn. It is also key that I should double my congratulation because you are the second female to hold the position in the nation’s history.

    You deserve the position given your pedigree. And it is because of this pedigree of yours that I am looking forward to judicial reforms under your leadership.

    During your September 25 screening at the Senate, you emphasized your dislike for corruption in the judiciary and promised that all pre-election matters would terminate at the Court of Appeal.

    I sincerely believe that for you to do the right reforms, you need the help of Professor Niyi Osundare, a leading African poet, dramatist, linguist, and literary critic who was born on March 12, 1947 in Ikere-Ekiti, and has received many  international laurels.

    Before you wonder what pieces of advice you need from a poet and teacher, I will quickly point your attention to Professor Osundare’s poem titled “My Lord, Tell Me Where To Keep Your Bribe”. I know  you may not have time to interpret the poem so I will interpret it in this letter.

    In the satirical monologue from  a bribe-giver to a corrupt judge, he seeks guidance on where to conceal a hefty bribe, revealing the systematic corruption plaguing the judiciary. The bribe giver sarcastically suggests hiding the money in the judge’s chambers, mansion, or even septic tank, noting that wealth can mask even the worst offenses. The speaker also proposes distributing the bribe among the judge’s paramours or using the names of servants for fraudulent accounts.

    The poem expands beyond personal satire into a broader critique of the Nigerian legal system, describing how judges, once seen as protectors of justice, have become tools of the wealthy and corrupt. Bribes are no longer a scandalous secret but a routine, with criminals securing favorable rulings through bribery.

    In the poem, election tribunals, once places of recourse, are depicted as goldmines where victory is assured for fraudulent politicians. This is instructive given the fact that tribunals are soon to start sitting, first in Edo State and later in Ondo State.

    Osundare’s scathing indictment of the legal system is vivid, with images of dozing judges, bags of cash hidden under kitchen sinks, and the courtroom itself described as collapsing under the weight of corruption. He reflects on the broader decay of society, where impunity thrives, and even religious piety becomes a hypocritical act.

    The poem shows that in our country, justice is for sale, and the nation’s “Temple of Justice” is but a façade, crumbling under the termite-like greed that eats away at its foundations.

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    The poem concludes with a grim vision of a Nigeria decaying under corruption, likening the country to a rotting corpse preyed on by those who should defend it.

    My Lord, this scathing indictment of our legal system and our society where money and power trump ethics, I sincerely believe, holds the key to your legacy because of its reflection of the despair of our nation where greed has overtaken morality.

    At your inauguration, you promised: “We will make sure that people have more confidence in the judiciary, and I believe that it is not a one-man’s job. We all have to be on board because we all see the areas that are in need of improvement. I believe that there will be maximum cooperation because we all want to see a better judiciary.”

    These are hefty promises and we will hold you accountable to them.

    My final take: In the last few years, the judiciary has been under trial. Two of your predecessors could not even conclude their terms and squabbles in the judiciary have been public knowledge. At the moment, the judiciary hasn’t been able to be the last bastion of the common man, rather, it has been the voice of the oppressors. It’s time for a new era, an era where we can truly be proud of our judiciary.