Letter to My Nigerian Friend: Don’t mind your Business

Dear Friend,
Like a leaden weight, I have have borne this message for many months now. Only recently have I had the opportunity to commit these words to paper.
I know that your country will be having its elections next year. I know that expectations are high and low at same time. I know emotions in your country now oscillate often between despondency and hope. I do not blame you even outsiders think of Nigeria in such ambivalent terms. A land at once full of potential and yet perennially underachieving

You have seen three elections in this republic. They have been total charades. Ballot boxes stolen and stuffed, people maimed, electorates robbed of their mandates, inept leaders finding their way into office lacking a plan. All these has left you cynical. You no longer care. You have left the dirty game to the marauders. Even in power these highway men continue to insult your intelligence, your pride and your rights. They bleed your country dry and leave you raped, relieved of a living, relieved of your hope.

But still, in that indefatigable optimism that is undoubtedly Nigerian, you have begun to hope again. “Perhaps in 2011 my vote will count” you say. Perhaps a leader with a strategy to bring Nigeria from the brink will get elected. Perhaps our law enforcement agents will tackle the forces that will try to seize the ballot box. Maybe this time election riggers will be prosecuted. Maybe for once your politicians will stop playing ethno-religious cards which are actually just selfish cards. You fantasize; perhaps in 2011, kidnappings will cease, agitation will become non-violent, simple infrastructure will put in place. There will be power, you dare to imagine.

I know your hope is constantly being assaulted. Some Direct Capture machines for the elections were whisked away under the nose of airport security, leaving them bewildered. A state party chairman was murdered only three days ago, a presidential aspirant has threatened violent change if elections don’t go as planned. The doomsday strategists of the West suspect Nigeria might not survive till 2035 or even these elections.

But I charge you to remain resolute in your defiant hope. You must hold on stubbornly to your demands for a saner nation. You cannot allow the lethargy of the last decade to continue. For, if you do, it will be fatal. I am glad you roused yourself when a cabal started to rule Nigeria by proxy earlier this year.

I am however disappointed you appear unbothered that your national assembly alone consumes 25% of the government’s recurrent expenditure. I am surprised you have not taken to the streets. You appear to have many other priorities. Where are your student colleagues; the student unions that hounded and harangued Babaginda and Abacha? Did you see UK students protesting their increased fees? Where is your NLC and TUC that constantly questioned and stalemated Obasanjo’s fuel price increases? Why do you slumber, my friend?

I hope you will be awake next year. I hope you will protect your votes. I know the thugs and 'area boys' will be armed. I do not ask you to be violent or engage armed men. But I ask that you be curious and united. Register, vote, wait around to hear the results of your street’s polling booth, record the announced results on your phones, record happenings around you, document everything, send text messages to media houses, upload videos to YouTube, use Facebook and twitter if you wish. It will be dangerous but it is your future that is at stake here. You will be the ones that will have to look for those non-existent jobs, it will be your businesses that will be crippled by lack of credit, epileptic power and bad roads. Your wives, your children will have to visit those ill-equipped hospitals. Your siblings will have to struggle with several other millions to get one of the odd 350,000 spaces in Nigerian universities. You will then flock in your tens of thousands to the democracies that bother to care. You will then man their industries, guard their gates and clean their dead. You will lose the most if you choose to go back to sleep, look the other way and mind your business.
I must stop now and leave you with this one message. Don’t just be full of prayerful hope; be practical in your believing. I know you are deeply religious but I ask you to take your fate in your hands and not just leave it in the hand of the supernatural. Rouse yourself, rise and mind Nigeria’s business. Your country needs you!

Till we meet again.
P.E

The Internet, My friend

At the risk of sounding opinionated, I believe four things are crucial to any writer’s success. They are knowledge or content whether correct or otherwise, inspiration, an audience no matter how sparse and an inner voice.


Content or simply put; having something to say about something and inspiration are intertwined and the most important of the lot.

Through the ages, writers have found content and inspiration from wars, love, deposed queens, disease, murder, and light. Those inspirations have certainly morphed from the hide-donning Neanderthals, to the crusades of the Plantagenets, the world wars to the birth of Industrialisation and explosion of technology.

Today human knowledge and experience exists and is propagated on a whole new plane; the virtual colossus known as the internet. Here, in this intangible place mankind does everything it has always done; live, buy, sell, love and kill. It is to this place writers must look for content, inspiration and audience. To ignore the internet is perhaps to wither as a writer. Pen-wielders of this age must understand and maximise the internet

The technique of optimising the Internet might pose a different kind of challenge for many a writer but also the promise it offers is unbelievable; no more demanding publishers, dusty libraries, crippling deadlines and inadequate reward?

Write what you want, under what name you want, when you want, where you want, how you want, for how much you want and for whom you want. Let loose your inner voice. Get on the internet.

SK 2010

Asejire LGA: Goldfish in a Global Pond.

The world is bored. People are looking for something fresh, untested and thrilling. The destinations in Greece, Rome, the Americas have lost their magic...no thanks to the economic recession and falling exchange rates. But there is a new bride around the corner. She is Africa and in extension…her most populous nation – Nigeria


Tucked away in South-Western Nigeria is a little miracle. Asejire is a small local government area of no more than 60,000 but it boasts of becoming the next Florida of the developing world. This week, Asejire’s Chairman announced plans to provide Spanish, Russian and Chinese translations to the LGA’s website that already existed in English and French. This is in addition its strong presence on Facebook and Twitter.


But what does Asejire have that the world needs? The answer is simple…Asejire has itself! Asejire has a rich history that dates back to the mid 13th century. Folklore handed down the generations resulting in a rich oral culture. Tableland, hills, beautiful scenery, colorful art and dye crafts, pottery, all these contribute to making Asejire, a safari delight. Wisely the local government decided to graphically document and protect these resources while entering into a public/private partnership with a culture management company.


However visitors to any travel location require certain things; lodging, security, transportation and a local economy to do business with. On the LGA’s website you will find links that will lead you to the websites of Asejire’s finest 3-, 4- and 5-star hotels. To meet up with global standards, these hotels undergo biannual regulatory and certification checks. This has made Asejire a perfect hideaway for company retreats, vacations, family holidays.


Last week Asejire marked a decade of its Community policing scheme that has become a national success and a model for the sub-region. The hallmark of this scheme has been the near zero crime rate the LGA has enjoyed. This has been partly due to the many youth entrepreneurship initiatives of government and its ability to attract investment into its tie and dye industry.


Asejire is a community that works. It is not afraid to tell the world that it does. It invites the world to come and see. This week Asejire began to advertise on Satellite TV paid for with exclusive rights to film some ancient and protected landmarks.


Google “Asejire” and you will find a goldfish playing in a global pond.




*All names used are a figment of my imagnation

FREEDOM

I can feel you
I know you're here
I sense you running
zig-zagging in my head
come to me
I can't wait no more
set me free
loose these bonds
quench my dryness


let me hold you
possess your substance
employing you to my diverse devices
Let me capture your randomness
and contain your liberty
Harnessing your energy
let me lead you by the hand
and show you where to go
Let me show you the rocks
the obstacles we must crush together
Let me send you an errand
Be my messenger

Heal this lameness
give me a crutch
erase my uncertainty
Explain to the winds
Tell the waters
describe to the grains
mark the annals
let it be written
let it be said
that you passed this place
and said my piece

A Mob's Heart

Trapped, he tried to evade them since he was too old to run. But he was unlucky as they dragged him from behind the kiosk where he had been hiding. They placed him in the centre of the road and surrounded him. Now, he had nowhere to run. The crowd grew. Children, Hawkers, Carpenters, they all came to indulge their morbid curiosity. Some stood on platforms and others watched from balconies. Everyone knew what would happen.

The first stone missed.The second home hit home with a heart-wrenching sound. Bright crimson lines suddenly emerged on the old man's face.That was when he began to cry and scream for mercy. But it was too late. The multitude remained insatiable. Nothing but death could quench their thirst. It didn’t matter whose father he was. It didn’t matter whether he was guilty. He didn’t matter if he had been good to any of them. He simply had to die.

The stones were more frequent now. He fell to his knees, dazed by a small boulder thrown by a boy young enough to be his son. The excited crowd sighed in unison. They could sense the end now. In his final moments he stopped begging and became defiant. Inflamed, the crowd rained the stones on him till he was dead. Still unsatisfied, they dragged his corpse to a side and set it on fire. Then they dispersed.

Lynchings are still commonplace in many parts of Africa. Many excuses leap to mind. The failure of justice systems In trying  suspected offenders, faulty conflict resolution methods, frustration, poverty, anger, ignorance, inefficient security forces…….the reasons are numerous and mind-boggling. But when does a group of people decide to take another man’s life? Not just any group of people but regular, civil, law-abiding citizens? When do they become a murderous bunch? What happens in the heart of every man who throws a stone or lands a blow on an armed robber, kidnapper or enemy without fair hearing? What rage drives them to cross the line? Is this not the death of humanity itself?

A Union of Hills

                                    

“Wale! Wale!!" she shrieked.  Oh no, it was going to be my third sleepless night in two weeks.  it was the loud one again. I hadn't gotten round to her name yet. Sleep usually disappeared with the first ecstatic screams. If they stopped by 3am, I would be lucky.

I suspected he was on some aphrodisiac. Those thrashing sounds were too super human.

I turned on the radio trying to drown out the sounds, hoping for a miracle. The music was appalling as usual. Her screams were getting louder. Perhaps the end was near.

I might have to have a word with him at this rate. Things could not continue like this. I had to go to work tomorrow. He would probably think I was jealous because he was living the Dream. The dream every male corper nursed secretly or openly, depending on his pretensions. They dreamt of starting or maintaining the most fabulous sex life- the life of a Casanova during that one year; teaching in some secondary or college during the day then 'servicing' the female students at night, changing partners as they got bored. Maybe he would be right. The youth service year could be very lonely. Thousands of miles away from family, friends and Facebook, many corpers turned to sex for recreation. This night, I did not lay claim to any self-righteous beliefs or moral high grounds. I just wanted to sleep and drown out my own stalking nightmares.

The other corpers in the lodge were teachers in a college of education in an obscure town in Ekiti. The college being the town’s only claim to fame. Ugede High, it was called, the name gotten from the treacherous hills and valleys surrounding the tiny enclave. I was a microbiologist in the college’s clinic.

“Hey Chairman," he hailed me mockingly.

“Oga Sir" I answered in the lingua of young Nigerian men.

My courage had failed me, for my greeting was tacit approval of his exploits of last night. As I rinsed out my mouth, I watched him leave with our noisy guest of the previous night. She was a light-skinned girl with small horizontal tribal marks probably not more than seventeen years old, far too young to be calling my neighbor by his first name.

"Good Morning, Sir”, she was definitely a student.

My confrontation with Wale would have to be another day then. My lethargy would cost me. More sleep to be lost I thought as they left for the school area.

One evening, as I flirted over a game of dice with a cute female corper, Wale walked in, distraught. He ambled past us, mumbled a greeting and headed to his room. A few minutes later, I left Ifeanyi with a novel to check him out.

“Ol’ boy, wetin do you?” I cut to the chase, wanting to get back to unfinished business.

He hissed …in that peculiarly African manner; long, hard with plenty of meaning and spit.

“ppppssshhewwwwssstttt”

“wetin do you?” I insisted.

“Doctor, abeg I don tire”.

After a little more prodding, it came tumbling out. Ireti, the loud one had become his nemesis. My mind raced; pregnant? HIV? Ogbanje?

Sadly, none of my dark fantasies materialized. It was a bit less dramatic. Apparently, Ireti had become so besotted with Wale or his bedroom prowess that she now stalked him all over Ugede, chasing off all his other exploits. Imagine in this third-world backwater; a real life stalker.  Wale had enjoyed the unrelenting attention of this village belle until it became a nuisance. He had become dismissive until one day Ireti, frustrated, had decided to share her predicament with her father. Yes, her father, , the most dreaded and successful Juju man in the seventeen towns that made up Ekiti. So fearsome was he that Vigilante groups from across crime-ravaged Nigeria traveled to Ugede to buy from him, potent Juju for fighting armed robbers. Ireti had spared few details about her trysts with Wale. Scandalized, The Alapinni had given his daughter the beating of her life and then summoned Teacher Wale. The Alapinni offered Wale two options, well one actually.

“Marry my daughter or…….”.

Or he would place a curse on Wale. He would invoke the forces of Irumole (the Yoruba spirit world) and make sure Wale suffered consistent and systematic misfortune until his life lost all meaning.. We had about two weeks left to the end of service.

I laughed it off, trying to cheer him up.

“Nothing go do you, this na 21^st century!” I could hear the false bravado in my own voice. The Alapinni had a time-tested reputation.

Everyone hailed her and clapped as she fed him the wine. We were back in Ekiti. One year had passed since we left this hilly town. Wale, smiling, was underweight in his flowing white agbada. He looked happy which was a lot, considering what he had been through in the last few months. After submitting his applications in dozens of companies in every imaginable industry, attending tens of interviews, he had given up looking for employment and gone into business for himself starting a small photo studio. One day he had come to work to find his neighbors weeping, the State Environmental Task force had cleared the row of shops where he had had his studio.  He had lost everything, even the equipment he had bought on loan from his aged mother’s thrift and credit society. His constant visits to hospitals to treat a mysterious fever only worsened matters. Wale had become withdrawn, inconsolable and about to suffer a major nervous breakdown.

One thing had led to another, someone spoke to someone, and the elders were consulted. So we were all back in Ekiti, this time for a wedding.

Ireti dropped the glass of wine and leaned forward to kiss her husband. The Alapinni smiled the fulfilled smile of a father. The slim sweating comedian cum MC announced gleefully

“A round of applause for the latest couple in Ugede”.

The End.

A battle at a time

I met a man once. His name was Austin. He was gabonese and  living with HIV.

The day we met, he was speaking some interesting english as he waited to collect his drugs at a general hospital where I interned.[i]

“Vous parlez francias?” I asked him

His eyes brightened.I saw real joy as he launched into machine-gun french that was definitely too tasking for my few weeks at French School. His story was a bit disjointed.

A former cabman in Gabon, He came to Nigeria in search of a better future. Not longer after he was diagnosed with HIV. Nigeria turned out to be much tougher than he anticipated. Earning a living while living with the condition was an uphilll task. His relatives had spent a fortune on his care.

We saw each other many times after that. My ailing french improved while his health did not. He suffered a disturbing symptom of the disease - Urticaria. An itching rash seemed to defy every remedy.

The overworked doctors at the hospital did their best but the management of HIV is still relatively new terrain at many government hospitals in Nigeria. The drugs were novel, the queues were long and complaints were numerous and varied. Urticaria ia actually not the deadliest of complications but it was enough to cause Austin great emotional distress. So much so that one day he told me.

“Mon ami. Je retournerai a Gabon”. I was sad. My friend was going home. He was weary and home sick. We hugged, shook hands and through teary eyes, we exchanged numbers. Did HIV just win another battle?

The challenges before developing countries with significant populations of PLWHAs are daunting. Facilities are inadequate. Documentation systems are still largely dysfunctional. The rate and quality of capacity building is still too low. Consequently casualities are still high.

Healthcare practitioners need to be trained and retrained, not just lodged at 5-star hotels with allowances shared at the end. Monitoring and evaluation systems must themselves be evaluated to measure their effectiveness. Drugs, free and otherwise must be adequately utilised. We must make it easier for PLWHAs to receive treatment at hospitals without perpetuating stigmatisation. National HIV policies must be reviewed  and improved constantly. Only then can we win these battles and perhaps win the war. I haven’t heard from Austin in a while.

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[i] The names  used here are fictitious and are a figment of my imagination