Unsung Heroes: Trash Collectors
A while back, I wrote a series of tweets addressed to the Nigerian Federal Ministry of Environment about a refuse dump at a community in Abuja called Karu. The dump site served as the collection point for the communities surrounding it. If the dump site was located anywhere else, I probably wouldn’t have noticed enough to make an issue an about it. But…it was right there on a major road and in between houses, shops, schools, religious centers and banks. Most people have to pass that road to get from Nyanya to Jikwoyi, Kpeyigi, Kurudu and other areas beyond. And because these areas are some of the most populated areas in Abuja, thousands of people ply that road every day and see the refuse dump that kept getting bigger and bigger. Then the dump spilled beyond its boundaries and into the roads. The dirt and decaying substances were everywhere. And because the rains came in, puddles of really dirty water formed mini-lakes on the road. It was an eyesore. But beyond that, it stank to high heavens. Every time I had to pass through that spot, I had to breathe in as much clean air as I could, hold my breath and pray to God the driver of whatever I was in/on sped past as fast as he could. One time, we were caught in a traffic jam right at that spot. We were there for roughly ten minutes. I couldn’t hold my breath for that long. The first time the smell hit my lungs, I couldn’t be more repulsed. I wanted to puke! Desperately! But if I did, it would mean opening my mouth to the foulness that was the stench of that place. When I got home that day, I had to take a long bath to scrub the smell off my body. Yes, the smell was mostly in my head but having been there for so long, I felt like I had a cloak of the disgusting smell all over me. So I wrote a series of tweets asking the Federal Ministry of Environment and the Abuja Council to save us from that nastiness. About a week later, I was off to work when I saw large trucks at the spot with men clearing the refuse dump. I was so elated I forgot to breathe in the clean air I would need to pass through the spot. Because the men were clearing the refuse in batches, the smell was especially ripe that day. I drew in a nasty smell of rot and decay…and gagged. As I quickly covered my nostrils, I noticed that some of the men working at the site didn’t have their noses covered. How the hell were they comfortably breathing in that mass of horridness?! But more than that, why?! It got me thinking of a lot of the trash collectors I have seen in the many places I have been to. These men (and women) have to deal with some of the worst things in people’s garbage bags and cans. From rotten food to improperly disposed sanitary towels, these people come in contact with a lot of disgusting things when they collect trash. And because we don’t separate our trash into biodegradable and non-biodegradable, these people have to sift through all our trash to dispose of them. Most of these people usually have no face masks on when they work. And where they do, it is the flimsy faux surgical masks they use. Those masks in particular may be good for preventing dust particles from going to your lungs but it doesn’t prevent any smell from doing same. So technically, it makes no difference whether they wear a mask or not. Even more deplorable is the state of the local trash collectors who are not employed by the government or trash collection agencies. These are everyday people too poor to do anything else. So they get a wheel barrow or a mini-truck and go from house to house asking people to bring out their trash. These men have no protective uniforms or boots. They don’t have masks or hand gloves. All they have are their dirty clothes and even dirtier slippers. And because they mostly work in the ghettoes and poorer neighborhoods, the kinds of trash they have to deal with is even so much worse. To make matters worse, these trash collectors only earn minimum wage if they work for the government and not much better when they work for private corporations. Those of them who work in the ghettoes collect between ₦10 and ₦50 per house. So not only do they have to do a shitty job, they don’t get enough money to make it worthwhile. They also expose themselves to grave harm from the micro-organism found in and around trash. These micro-organisms can be disease causing or not. They stand in the trash, breathe it in, pick them up with their bare hands, and barely clean up properly before taking in food or water. I remember once when the trash in my house piled up because these guys weren’t working. The trash was an eyesore and the smell, horrible. My housemate and I would wait out for the collectors and even walk as far as our junction to find them. And when for a week we couldn’t have our trash emptied, we were disgusted by the sight that greeted us whenever we got back home from work. The day we finally saw a trash collector, we almost danced in celebration. We paid him way more than was necessary because we were reminded that they were an integral part of our sanitation and sanity. For the most part, we really don’t see these people. As long as we get our trash taken out, we barely recognize that these are people with needs, wants, aspirations, problems and what not. We get so engrossed in our lives that we do not see the danger these people put themselves in to ensure we
We Need Your Help!
Dear Friend, I need your help and I would appreciate it if you took time to read this post. So…thank you in advance for obliging me. I was seated in church – The Diplomats’ Centre in Kaduna – a few days ago when I noticed some people close to me. A young girl, whom I thought could not be more than 13, was feeding a baby. She wasn’t doing a great job of it and I craned my neck to find the mother of the child. I noticed that there was an equally young guy close to her who seemed to follow her every move. ‘Maybe he is her brother’, I thought to myself. I concluded that they were siblings of the baby and their mother was probably somewhere in the church. I decided to concentrate on what was being said but somehow, I couldn’t get my eyes off them. I watched how the girl handled the baby and kept waiting for the mother to show up. Boy and girl passed the baby between them and I was happy that the baby seemed to be a quiet one. Soon enough, I offered to hold the baby and they obliged. The baby was so small and he quickly warmed my heart. I held him for some minutes until he began to fidget. I soon returned him to his ‘sister’ who then proceeded to take him outside to, I assumed, find their mother. Since the baby was no longer in my line of sight, I soon forgot about him. It wasn’t until Dr. Uzzah Wado, the founder of The Diplomats’ Centre, invited them up and introduced them to the church that I was brought back to reality; and my heart broke. The girl, whom I would call Pre, was the MOTHER of the child and the young man, the FATHER. I was shocked! These were babies themselves! How were they parents?! Dr. Uzzah told the church that they were his new friends and he would appreciate it if they could help out with baby things, food and what not. It occurred to me that my first instinct about them was right; they were poor. As soon as the service was over, I walked to Dr. Uzzah and asked how I could help. I requested that he gives me their account number so I could send a little something to them every month. That was when he told me everything. Here is the summary. Even though they looked really small, Pre and John Doe (not real name) are 19 and 21. Their baby, whom I thought was barely a couple of weeks old because of how tiny he is, is 8 months. They grew up in the Television area of Kaduna state; a neighborhood marked with poverty, drug abuse, prostitution, drunkenness, high level of crime and other vices that are reminiscent of a typical ghetto. It was no wonder that Pre and John were drug addicts. When they had their baby, their families kicked them out and they have been living from ‘hand-to-mouth’. And because they can’t feed properly, they do not look well-nourished and their baby is stunted. Now, while Dr. Uzzah was glad I wanted to send them money, he didn’t want me to send it directly to them and he didn’t need to explain why. I knew! Addicts cannot be trusted with money. It was as simple as that. I asked what I could do then. Dr. Uzzah told me they were going to facilitate a rehabilitation process for the parents to wean them (completely) off drugs. This involves getting them a house where they can be monitored, feeding them, getting proper baby formula and drugs to help their baby develop and helping out with clothes. The goal is to make sure that they are in touch with the bare necessities they need on a weekly basis so they are not tempted to sell food to feed their addiction. I wondered if the baby wasn’t better off in some other home but truth is, our social services aren’t working well; if they are at all. And Dr. Uzzah has assured me that some of the mothers in the church were going to take turns caring for the baby as the parents went through the rehab process. I trust Dr. Uzzah. He has been helping young people like this since forever. Literally thousands of us have at one point passed through his house when we were in crisis. And I always say, if I hadn’t met him when I did, my life would have taken a worse turn. So it is time for some of us to give back. Pre and John Doe need a house, baby formula, clothes for themselves and their baby and other knick-knacks. I am deliberately keeping their picture and real names off this post because I don’t want their bad history haunting them when they get clean and have their lives back. And I know that it may bring up the authenticity of their plight but that is a risk I am willing to take. I am hoping that I am trust worthy enough for you to help me help this family. So I am asking that you help me ensure that this family gets clean and change the narrative of their story. If you want to help me do something about it, you can contact me on +234-905-912-7552 or send money to; Name: Ochekliye Ramatu Ada Account Number: 0314142011 Bank: FCMB And if you are in Kaduna and can only donate clothes or food or household effects to this family, please go to; Compassion and Wisdom Church, R2 Gwari Road, Opposite Gidan Hakimi, Behind Royal Tropicana Motel, Television. Tell them you are making a donation for Ramat and they will understand. I would really appreciate it if you can help in whatever way you can. I understand that people make choices that have consequences but I also understand that life affords us various opportunities
Smoke Screens and Fire
Have you ever had a false rumor spread about you? I have. Twice even that really hurt me. And it wasn’t good. The very first time was when I was in Junior Secondary School (JSS) 3. One of my friends came to me and said we needed to talk. I was surprised at his demeanor; something was obviouslywrong. My head went everywhere. Did something happen to him? Was he in trouble? And then I imagined…did he want to ask me out? I knew that would ruin our friendship so I hoped it was not the case. So after school, we went into an empty class and sat to talk. ‘Ramat, I am disappointed at you.’ he started. I was shocked. This was ABOUT ME? I HAD DONE SOMETHING? I laughed; skittish. He didn’t respond with his usual laughter. For someone who was so fun-filled and bubbly, his entire presence was such a picture of disappointment, that I was scared. What had I done? I asked, trying my best to keep my hands from shaking and my heart from exploding in my chest. ‘How could you? Like what were you thinking?!’ At this point, I was getting angry. I was in suspense already and I felt that he was being melodramatic. I said as much. He decided to cut to the chase. ‘If you wanted to have sex, you could have had sex with ONE GUY. What the hell was wrong with you that you slept with SEVEN guys? Like I am so disappointed with you.’ I swear, my mouth was hanging so wide, you could have seen my trachea. And no, this isn’t an exaggeration. When I got myself together, I ask what informed that thought. He said boys talk and the boys I had been with the week before had talked. Again, I asked for more information. ‘Were you at B’s bunk last week?’ to which I nodded in the affirmative. ‘Was there alcohol there?’ Again, I nodded, yes. ‘What happened after you all got drunk?’ First of all, I have NEVER drunk alcohol in my life. That statement still rings true till today; more than fourteen years after the allegation was made. I looked at him…and knew I had to describe everything that happened; in detail. So I did. A couple of us had snuck out of school. Three girls (including me) and four guys. They weren’t my regular crew but they knew I loved to have fun so they pitched a fence-jumping misdemeanor. Yes, I was that girl! Anyways, we went B’s bunk; a bunk being what we called a house owned by a student that was supposed to be in the school hostel. When we got there, it was a party! I was excited, more about the thrill of being away from school than the people I was with. Again, they weren’t my crew. Almost as soon as I thought of it, two of my ‘friends’ walked in and I felt like, ‘now that is what I am talking about’! We all laughed and talked about absolute nothing. Typical teenagers. Nothing untoward…until the last guy – whom I would say was my only true friend in that room – came in with a bottle of vodka or gin. I couldn’t tell. What I could tell was everyone was uber excited. So typically, I was too. I was finally going to drink some alcohol! As the bottle was passed around, I eagerly awaited my turn. I must confess, I was scared. What would I do if I got drunk? Would I be able to get home? Would my father kill me? And even worse, would my mother?! As these thoughts passed through my head, the bottle finally got to me. Soon as I stretched my hand to collect it, my friend – I will call him M – snatched the bottle. I went, ‘Hey! It is my turn.’ I tried to reach for it but he kept me at arm’s length. We struggled a bit and he dragged me outside. ‘Ramat, I no think say you get head for alcohol. Even if you get, I no go let you drink. The rest of us no get head for book. You get. We fit use drink spoil our head. If you do am, you fit no get sense again for book. So I no go let you drink.’ I was livid. I threw some choice words and we got into it a bit. In spite of my insistence, he refused to let me take a swig from the bottle. By this point, the rest of the gang were bored with our argument and one of the guys did them a favor by collecting the bottle and returning to the party. Mad at what I perceived was an epic embarrassment, I turned and left, swearing not to speak to any of them anymore. Fast forward to my conversation with my friend. Until that moment, I didn’t know the party went south; or was said to have gone south. So you could imagine my indignation; righteous that it was. Till today, I don’t even know if the group actually had an orgy or if it was a couple of boisterous boys who spread the rumor. What I do know is that most of them transferred schools for their Senior Secondary education and there was no one to ask who set fire to the rain. Despite everything I said, I don’t know if my friend believed my version of the story or not. He acted weird for a few days and I acted ashamed for more. I couldn’t bear to think that EVERYONE saw me as that girl who slept with SEVEN guys! Was there probable cause for the rumor? Yes. I had snuck out of school; I was at the apartment; there was alcohol and underage drinking; and supposedly, a lot of underage orgy. Why in God’s good earth should anyone believe that I wasn’t a part of it
Increasing Number of Agberos in Our Communities
‘Nyanya here! Nyanya one person!’ ‘Ikeja along, Mangoro, Iyana Ipaja, Igando! Ikeja along, Mangoro, Iyana Ipaja, Igando wole wole!’ ‘Yola, Yola, Yola! Shiga da changey! Yola, Yola, Yola!’ ‘Sabo! Sabo! Sister come enter this bus. E done full!’ ‘One chance to Enugu! Come enter direct moto go Enugu!’ These are some of the calls you hear when you are at motor parks in many cities in Nigeria. For the most part, these calls are not made by bus conductors as they are popularly referred to. They are made by young men – agberos if you may – hanging around such parks. So…here is the scenario. Young men find popular motor parks – whether official or otherwise – and loiter around calling out destinations to would-be passengers. When they fill up a car, the driver tips them with some money, ranging from ₦20 to ₦100; depending on the location and how much is charged per passenger. These men repeat the cycle as they make their daily keep. In any given location, you usually find two, maybe three men acting as mouthpieces of the drivers. They chase after commuters and generally serve to ensure each car fills up in quick time. Every minute wasted is a minute where they don’t make money. The longer they spend filling up a car, the more likely they lose out on other cars trying to get passengers. And no one wants to miss that ever crucial ₦20 or ₦50. Over the last few years however, I have noticed that the number of men at any given park have more than tripled. And beyond that, the number of spots where you can find these men has increased. In the past, these men could only be found at major transportation parks or bus-stops but now, you can find them at small junctions. What is with the increasing number of agberos in our communities? This can be partly blamed on the rate of unemployment in Nigeria, which is pegged at 14.2%; a figure quoted in the most recent National Bureau of Statistics (NBS) report. The negative economic growth and recession which Nigeria is just coming out of took its toll on many citizens and can be said to have played a role in increasing the number of these unemployed men. But that isn’t the only problem. Many of these men are uneducated and are not qualified for anything more than unskilled labor. So what happens when there are no jobs for even the unskilled and uneducated? The number of agberosincrease. They seem to be crawling all over themselves in an attempt to get more money; which is expected really. And funny enough, there are times when the drivers do not want their services. They specifically tell them not to call anyone. Do they listen? No! They literally just do what they want and stand around waiting to be ‘paid’. Sometimes, the drivers feel bad and give them a little tip. Other times, the drivers refuse to enable their truancy. When this happens, the agberos usually go into a tirade and sometimes bang the cars. In many of these instances, a physical altercation is almost always the end result. But drivers try to avoid that because they know that it would be a case of mob violence. So they pay. What makes this worrisome is that it isn’t only young men that do this. At the Jikwoyi Phase 2 Junction in Abuja, there is an old agbero who calls out destinations for Keke (tricycle) riders. They call him ‘Police’. This man must be in his sixties or seventies. It is either that or he has suffered a lot and life has aged him beyond his years. He looks haggard as he shouts out destinations, urging passengers to get into the Keke with their change. When he is done, the Kekedriver usually gives him ₦10 or ₦20; depending on how generous they are feeling. It breaks my heart to see that old man at the junction every day and night. Well…it did until I walked past him one evening and his smell hit me; he was reeking of cheap alcohol! From my deduction, the old man spent whatever he made drowning himself in alcohol. This was a man that had given up on life. Like the old man at Jikwoyi, many of these agberos are drug abusers. A simple walk past them can prove that and if that is too much, just watching them ‘work’ is all the proof you will need. They are so excitable, easily offended and quicker even to throw blows. It is no wonder that many of these parks are rings of constant turf wars between the young men and sometimes, with older men. These people need to survive and survival means being tougher, more high-strung, more willing to protect your little turf and being quicker than the next guy. I think these men should be banned by law so they do not take over every little street and corner where people may or may not seek public transportation. But that is not realistic. We need viable solutions that solve the problem in the long run so that we don’t have to return to it in the near future. What should these solutions look like? I think they should be tied to the economic recovery plan of Nigeria’s administration. The government is looking at diversifying Nigeria’s economy beyond an oil-based revenue generation to agriculture. With the wide variety of food and cash crops that can grow in Nigeria, the opportunities in the agricultural sector cannot be depleted. From farming, to processing and distribution, there are millions of job that can be created from effectively drawing up and funding an agricultural road map to success. How do these agberos fit in? Quite simple. The leaders of each local government area and state should recruit these men and train them on the basics of agriculture. The training should serve to separate these men into the categories that they
Quick Sand on a Plateau
She always knew she wanted to be rich and famous; she wanted the world to know her name, girls to aspire to be her and boys to want to marry her. She wanted to leave a legacy of strength, ambition, love, change, power and wisdom. She knew it was conceited but she wanted people across the globe to know her name…for her principles, her drive and her humanity. She didn’t want to die without having left a mark in the sands of time. And best of all, she didn’t want the want the fame or money for just herself; she wanted it for everyone she knew. She was 12 when she realized what she wanted. She took a book and wrote it all down. At 25, she was going to be a millionaire. At 35, she would set up her foundation. At 55, she would have helped at least 50,000 people in one way or the other. When she died at 80, people would troop to her burial and hold vigils in their countries to celebrate the icon that she was. She knew where she was headed and nothing was going to deter her. She worked hard in school and always came up on top. She was going to be the greatest actor there ever was. She knew it all had to start in high school and she needed to get those grades in good shape for the choice schools she wanted to go to. And she went a little further. She joined every drama team in her small town, ensuring she played every possible role that was open to her. She was preparing for her domination on the world stage. She needed to be ready. As soon as she was done with her education, she pieced together her show reel, packed a suitcase, counted the money she had hidden in her underwear drawer and left home. She knew her parents would understand. Or not. But she hoped her letter would reassure them that she was doing what was best for her. There was only so much she could do in their small town. And she wasn’t going to waste more time going through the motions. She jumped on a bus and headed to the big city; a city of lights, camera and action. She knew she was going to be a star! Then she could make money to help people from and in dysfunctional homes. When she got to the big city, the first thing that hit her wasn’t the beauty of the town or the exotic people. It was the fact that there was so many people who were like her; searching for the spotlight. She wasn’t fazed though. She knew that she was special and people would see her light. So she worked; hard. Everywhere she heard there was an audition, she went and performed her favorite monologue. The Plateau The first time she got a role in film, she was excited. She jumped and danced and laughed. She called home, ecstatic about her role in a crowd scene. It was small; and she knew that. But nothing could contain her excitement. Well…almost nothing. ‘It is just a small role. Why are you so excited? You could be staring in bigger productions here at home.’ Her mother said as soon as she blurted out her ‘good news’. Nothing turned sour quicker. She went through the motions of listening to her mother (and father) and as soon as she could, she hung up. She forced her spirit to seek its light and prepared for the role. That was the beginning. Every time she walked into an audition, she walked out with a role. They were always small; guaranteeing her 6 seconds of time in the shadow of a star. But she took them all with excitement. She knew that if she kept at it, she would become big and famous and rich. Soon acting wasn’t enough. Directors were asking that actors sing, dance, play an instrument, juggle, and be proficient with card tricks or whatever tickled their fancy. Not to be left out, she enrolled in all sorts of classes. She took burlesque, magic, singing, martial arts classes and whatever new thing was the rave of the moment. She even took jobs as a gaffer to ensure she was always in the know of film world happenings. She worked hard, slept little, rehearsed a lot, and attended lots of auditions. While these ensured she always got a role, it didn’t improve her straits. Directors only cast her in small roles with even smaller pay. Soon, the Ferris wheel began to take its toll. She started to reflect about her life. Why didn’t directors cast her in bigger roles? Was there something she wasn’t doing right? Was she giving off a bad vibe? Was her talent not good enough? Was. She. In. Any. Way. Special? Reality began to set in. Of course she wasn’t special. If anything, she was…average. There were millions of average people like her and directors saw that every day. She didn’t stand out in a crowd; she fit right in. She called home, hoping for reassurance from her parents. Her parents were understanding, but they reminded her that she should never have left. She had the world at her feet in their small town, and would have always been a legend. She could always come back home and start again; the town hadn’t forgotten her yet. She hung up with one resolve; she was never going to call her parents. They didn’t understand that she didn’t want to be queen of a small town. She wanted to be queen of the world! She wanted people from all continents knowing her name. And even if took forever, she was going to achieve that! Her resolve didn’t force the universe’s hand. Or cause her to get any big roles. And soon her excitement wavered…and like the hamster, she got burned out. She was 20 when she
The Review: Think Like a Man
When you put the eccentricity of Kevin Hart, the sexiness of Meagan Good, Michael Ealy and Romany Malco, feistiness of Taraji P. Henson and Jennifer Lewis, relatability of Gabrielle Union, Regina Hall and Lala Anthony, a list of basketballers, a happy white guy and the goofiness of Chris Brown, what do you have? Think Like A Man! ‘Think like a Man’ is a film by Tim Story that broke the bank at the box office. It was well received even though most critics rated it ‘average’. Was the film average though? We discuss in THE REVIEW!Listen here
The Review: Goodbye (Slaughterhouse)
One of the greatest things you can expect from underground rap artists is the content of the song. They always have a message that is deep, strong and powerful. This is why we were so excited when Yusuf ‘Y10’ Ma’aji from Abuja, Nigeria, requested that we review Slaughterhouse’s ‘Goodbye’. Listen to THE REVIEW of the GOODBYE here. PS: Use the comment section to suggest songs we should review.
The Review: Crooked Smile (J. Cole)
The Second Single off J. Cole’s second album – Born Sinner – was Crooked Smile. As a song, ‘Crooked Smile’ had an impact message, which stays true to the hip hop artist’s persona. We review the song and share our favorite lyrics off the song, what we think could have been done better and invite you to share your views of the song. Listen to THE REVIEW below.
The Review: Pretty Hurts – Beyonce
Hello you! As promised, here is the first episode of our new show – SHADES OF US: THE REVIEW. We are huge fans of Beyonce and we knew we just had to start this show with her song. On this episode, we discuss PRETTY HURTS. Listen to THE REVIEW here. If you cannot see the audio controls, your browser does not support the audio element
Announcing…Shades of Us: The Review
Credit: Giphy Shades of Us is designed to address social issues affecting Africa, Africans and people of African descent, and because of that, we had a struggle defining how we wanted our platform to work. This is because we love entertainment here at Shades of Us; music, movies, poetry, dance, radio, television, production and all things entertainment. So we did any and everything and we were at sea for minute. This is especially because we didn’t know how to marry the serious stuff and entertainment. But…we solved the problem! Nothing says Shades of Us CANNOT be both; serious and light hearted. So, starting from today (August 1, 2017), our articles, stories and video logs would address the serious stuff and our podcast will provide you entertainment. Exciting yeah? Having said that, we would love to announce our new show on the blog called SHADES OF US: THE REVIEW! THE REVIEW is an entertainment show where we discuss songs or movies by black artists (African, American, European, and other artists of African descent). THE REVIEWwill focus on how aspects of each song or movie reflects issues in society and what can be learned generally from the song or movie. We will have facts about each song or movie, favorite and least favorite parts of the art and an avenue for you to request that we review a song. THE REVIEW will come up every Tuesday and Thursday at 1pm on our social media platforms (Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, Instagram and Google+). Are you excited? Because we are dancing like fools! Welcome to SHADES OF US: THE REVIEW. Listen to the first episode here. If you cannot see the audio controls, your browser does not support the audio element
