We May All Be Bigots!
Four people holding quote movies.Image: Pexels. Bigot (noun) big·ot ˈbi-gət {Merriam Webster Dictionary} : a person who strongly and unfairly dislikes other people, ideas, etc. : a bigoted person; especially : a person who hates or refuses to accept the members of a particular group (such as a racial or religious group) Bigotry [big-uh-tree]. Noun. Plural bigotries {Dictionary.com} 1. Stubborn and complete intolerance of any creed, belief, or opinion that differs from one’s own. 2. The actions, beliefs, prejudices, etc., of a bigot. As I scrolled through my timeline on Facebook on the 28th day of June, 2015, I came across a post which made me do a double take. I scrolled back up and reread the post. On a normal day, I would never have dropped a comment on that post; but I did. The reason I went back to that post was because it was about one of the most trending topics that week. It was a post about the Supreme Court of the United States’ landmark decision on legalizing gay rights to marriage. This is the post. “#SameSexMarriage Well, what else do you expect of a hypersexual society where nudity and sex is the norm and ‘do-do-do’ right from kindergarten to old People’s Homes? They got bored and/or tired of their preordained opposite sexes! And if this rule that allows same sex marriage is not reversed, soon they may get bored of their same sex spouses and may end up dating/marrying animals too. Tir!! May Allah SWT preserve our Iman in sticking to our opposite sexes as spouses. Beautifully and/or perfectly as below…..” The picture above accompanied the post. Reading it, one line caught my attention; the line about a ‘hyper-sexual society’. I was surprised that the author of the post believed that homosexuality was only as a result of a hyper-sexual society. Since I had (in the past) discussed certain issues with this author, I felt that we could rub minds. So I posted this; “ME: Do you know that there are Arabians [sic] marrying transsexuals? Do you know that there are homosexuals in countries where nudity is not found? Where they wear Nikkab and Kaftan only? Do you know the effects of sexually repressing society? Evil persists everywhere, whether a society is hyper-sexual or having repressed sexuality.” When I posted this, I waited to hear his reply. I got one, but it wasn’t his. “BOY 1: I find ur logic pretty twisted…….may be we shud stop “repressing” armed robbery as well! In fact we shud live without code of conduct and allow our animal instincts dictate how we live. “Repressing”!!!” When I saw this, I was like ‘Hol’ up! Urhhh…..what is he talking about?’ Then I replied; “ME: @BOY 1….lol. I am glad you find my logic ‘twisted’. While you may not care about freedom, I am glad you realize that there is evil everywhere…or I hope you do. Maybe you should acquaint yourselves with the number of closeted homosexuals in countries that have….how did you put it…’code of conduct’? Covering up hasn’t prevented men (and women) from being evil; flirting, having multiple partners or even deviating by having sex with children, animals and the likes. So, while I may be ‘twisted’ in my logic, I do realize that society is innately evil and nudity or the absence of it does not make one society any better than another. Get knowledge and be balanced in your ideologies…or quite frankly, take a dive.” Okay…I agree I was a bit harsh. I could blame it on BOY 1 commenting when he didn’t understand what I was saying, but I wouldn’t. It wasn’t long before BOY 1 returned. “BOY 1: Take a dive?………not a chance. But besides dat, if fredoom [sic] were absolute we wouldn’t be having prisons don’t u tink?” To which I responded; “ME: @BOY 1…Freedom is never absolute. NEVER! I’m just saying that people should be balanced in their analysis. Quite simple if I dare say.” “BOY 1: Balanced kuma? (‘balanced again?’ for none Hausa speakers) Am [sic] lost…….” I realized I needed to douse the tension, so I responded with something I hoped will make him laugh. “ME: I pray you get found.” To which he sent a smiling smiley face. Now, as we were having this conversation, the author of the post had not said anything. But that changed after a while. AUTHOR: Yusuf Jnr Interesting! I have missed a lot’ooo….just where have I been all these while? ‘Ramadan tinz’. Yeah……it should be just that. OK, where do I begin? Tomorrow is another day In-Shā-Allah….am gonna cool off and come back a little calmer. From his response, I had a premonition that we weren’t going to ‘rub minds’. While he was cooling off, another friend of his came to the party. “BOY 2: Something Ramatu something, you made your point. Now who said “Arabians” (I think you meant to say “Arabs”) were saints? Arabs are humans and there are sinners among them. But get this clearly, no ‘straight’ government in this world would do this. America is gay. Well, now technically they are. And whoever finds this post offending could be the opposite of an arrow…If you know what I mean. Lastly, before you sing your narrow minded song about civilization [sic], and America being civilized [sic], zip it! I don’t see si.vi.ly.za.shon as sky scrapers and extreme atheism. Si.vi.ly.zay.shon is simply what it is…dunce. think about it, Summun-bukmun!” I am sure you can imagine the look on my face when I read this post. ‘Who the flying French was this guy?’ I asked myself. He even refused to recognize my other names because they didn’t sound like what he believed, instead using ‘something’. What a laugh! I was talking about something, and he was saying something else. And since he felt he needed to correct my mistake, I was quite surprised he made some of his own. Then I saw the words ‘dunce’ and ‘summun-bukmum’. Dunce I know; the latter I didn’t. So, Google to the rescue! When I typed in the phrase,
Buhari, Now That You Have Finally Settled Into Aso Rock II
(To get acquainted with the first part of this piece, click here) President Muhammadu Buhari in his office. Dear Mr. President, the first part of my advice may have packed quite a punch but I hope you can look beyond that and see the issues raised within. I am calling this part of the advice the second phase. This requires that you meet with technocrats and stellar business minds to see what can be done to make this a reality. They are not less important than the first phase. If anything, they are equally important. 3. Make Proper Education a Priority You cannot overhaul the economy without proper formal education…and yes, I said formal education. In this sense, education is allowing the mind to be free and open to think up innovative ideas and not filling it with supposed outdated knowledge. I got this definition from Innocent Usar of Innocent Minds. You should consider working with him. We need a school system that encourages innovation rather than one which celebrates certificates. Certificates should only be as good as they can be translated to solving everyday societal issues. With proper education, a door to infinity will be opened in the minds of the recipients. Let me tell you a story. My younger sister who is a mechanical engineer passed by a mango tree. She stopped abruptly and turned back. She stared at that tree for a bit and came back home. When I asked why she acted that way, she in turn asked what I noticed about the tree. I told her I noticed it was a mango tree with lots of rotten fruit beneath. Then she asked me if I have ever had vodka. I was surprised because she knows that I am a teetotaler. She laughed and said abstinence was no reason to pass up a chance to make money. Yes…like you, I had a stupid look on my face. She smiled and asked me which country drank vodka more. I said Russia or Germany…wasn’t too sure. Then she said, ‘Do you know vodka can be processed from rotten fruit?’ Then it hit me! My Biochemistry came back to me in that instance. She said we can export rotten fruit to Russia for their vodka and make some money out it. Talk about waste-to-wealth! Only the illumination that comes from proper formal education would have made her open her mind to the possibilities that was beyond what she saw. If schools are properly furnished and equipped, have teachers who know their onion and are willing to not just teach but learn and students are made to understand how important their collective visions are to the country, then research and development will shoot at tangential velocity until as a nation, we become a force to be reckoned with. 4. Revamp the Military As a former military general, it shouldn’t be hard to realize that our military needs a touch-up. Get the military to look inward. Let them design weapons, machinery, and strategies that prepare them for unplanned circumstances. I’m talking tactical knowledge that can rival Jack Bauer in 24, or Sherlock Holmes in the BBC series, Sherlock. The military should be so elite that physical strength is not the only criteria to get in. I want to see a military that can hold its own without having to beg other nations for help. New and innovative maneuvers and tactics should be common place. You need to bring the glory and pride back to the Nigerian military. You can do this by flushing out redundant military top brass and propagating fairness in recruiting and admitting military personnel. As you prepare towards that, buy advanced arsenal and train and retrain our military personnel for the uphill task they have ahead, a task that will ensure that Nigeria is as safe from foreign invasions and attacks as is humanly possible. 5. Make Security a Prerogative Security was not my first point because I know that when the things I have mentioned above are in place, especially regarding our military, security will naturally fall into place. But, you can still go further on the issue of security. You have to make do on your promise to end the insurgency that brought this nation to her knees. While doing so, you also have to make sure the military, police and other paramilitary agencies are prepared for another form of terrorism that may or may not spring up from the South-South region of the country, or anywhere else for that matter. Security agencies, especially the police and paramilitary outfits, need to be trained on intelligence gathering, quick response and the ability to nip crime in the bud because in truth, many of these personnel are not proactive in carrying out their jobs. Get security personnel to curb armed robbery and kidnappings so that foreign investors and citizens can go about their duties without fear for their lives. Urge the police to respect the basic human rights of anyone they address and/or arrest. Nigerians need to trust the police and other security agencies to be able to effectively carry out their jobs. 6. Ensure that there is Proper Healthcare This especially has to start from you. You need to use your veto power to prevent ALL public office holders from going abroad for treatment, even if abroad is our neighbor Ghana. This will mean that our lawmakers will ensure proper legislation for the health care sector. This is how you can do this. · Ensure that all Federal hospitals are well equipped with state-of-the-art facilities and well trained and empathetic personnel. Many people do not go to Federal hospitals because, even though it is cheaper than most private hospitals, the staff can be completely apathetic to the plights of patients. I have two examples. My mum had a car accident sometime in 2012 and was taken to National Hospital, Abuja. After stitching her up, they discharged her that same day. I was shocked because she had head wounds. In my view of what standard procedure
To Hell With Saying ‘I Do’
Loulette Bride. Image: April + Galina Potography As soon as Biola clocked thirty, the pressure on her to get married reached fever pitch. She was an extremely hardworking TV personality with the leading entertainment channel in Nigeria. She had over N50 million in her account and ten plots of land. She drove her own Sedan and rented her own house in an upscale part of Abuja. In her view, she had everything and that was why she was constantly tired of the prodding urging her to ‘settle down’, ‘start a family’, and to ‘become responsible’. She couldn’t go anywhere without people reminding her that she was ‘advancing in age’ and should be worried about ‘what people will say.’ Though she had lived almost all her life in Ibadan, she didn’t hesitate to move to Abuja when work opportunity came. In her view, she had freedom; what blissful freedom. Or so she thought. ••• Her aunt – Aunty Folake – called her once a week to remind her that she needed to get married. She laughed and usually responded by telling her that she would. ‘Biola mi, you are thirty. Time will not wait for you oh! Your mother might not be worried but the rest of the family is. Ha ahn! When will you have children? Do you want to be old before you give birth? As a nurse who has worked for 25 years, I can categorically tell you that pregnancies of women advanced in age are usually trouble pregnancies and the risk factors for the child are high oh! Is that what you want? Ehn?!’ To which Biola would always respond, ‘Aunty mi, I will get married soon. Don’t worry.’ After which she would look for the slightest excuse to end the call. She was surprised at her Aunty Folake’s insistence that she marry. Her aunt had been married twice before deciding to settle down with her current husband. She still got angry when she talked about her ex-husbands, especially husband number one. He had deceived her into thinking he was comfortable enough to take care of her. It wasn’t until they were married that she realized he was poor. He had a mat, two plates and one spoon. He spent all his money trying to live a lie and something as basic as feeding had been a struggle for them. When he had any money, it quickly disappeared in the gambling pits in town. She had hated him because she suffered real poverty with him. It wasn’t until she got a job that things got better; better being that she filed for divorce and left him. Her second husband had been the worst. She had come home one day to see him sexually abusing her adolescent daughter. She nearly killed him with a knife. The only reason she didn’t was that the neighbors stepped in and stopped the fight. He spent some hours in the police cell but was released because he was an aspiring politician who had a lot of money to bribe the police officials. Her current husband was nothing more than a Muppet in the hands of Biola’s aunt. He had no say in the house and visibly resented his powerlessness but Aunty Folake would have it no other way. ••• Evelyn Oshoeke, her hair and makeup stylist was another person putting pressure on her. ‘Biola, there is this man that wants to meet you. Girrrl, he is loaded! He is a commissioner and men! He has money!’ she blurted as soon as Biola came in for a touch-up. ‘Evelyn, drop it all ready. Like I’ve said over and over again, I will not get married.’ Biola said defiantly. ‘You are a beautiful woman. You don’t even need this make up. You are successful and loaded. Why then won’t you want to be complete? Girl, you know I will keep asking until you tell me the reason.’ she said as she tried to contour Biola’s cheek. Biola shifted angrily and huffed! ‘You want to know why I don’t want to get married?! Simple! I will not have any man try to limit me to kitchen and bedroom duty when I have so much to do in this life. I intend to leave my name in the sands of time and trust me; I will not put my goals on hold to please any man!’ Evelyn looked at her and frowned. ‘First, you just messed up my work and I’m none too pleased. So keep your face in one place so I can do my job.’ Biola eyed her a bit but obeyed. Evelyn started working again. ‘Second, a man doesn’t have to limit you. He can be your greatest supporter. Take my husband for example; he is helping me achieve my dreams and so much more. When I was just plaiting my friends’ hair, he pushed me to go to take a course in beauty regimen and when I was done, opened this big shop for me. He is my biggest support and you could get someone like that too’. She continued talking but Biola wasn’t listening. She remembered when Evelyn had come to the shop with a swollen red eye which she had tried to hide with her makeup. Upon further investigation, Biola found out that Evelyn’s husband, “her biggest support”, beat her up for the slightest infraction and that she had been beaten badly on so many occasion that she lost three babies as a result. A day after she returned home from giving birth to her first child, her husband had slapped her for being too slow in bringing his food. And here she was, gushing about her husband and using him as an example for why Biola should get married. Biola let her talk and when she was done, she left more resolute not to marry. ••• Mrs. Kayla Griffin was an affluent branch manager of a telecommunication company in Abuja. She was a beautiful, well educated, cosmopolitan woman. Her company was one of the sponsors of Biola’s
Inconsiderate Neighbors
Flustered Black Woman.Image: Huffington Post. Papa Emeka was home. Oiza knew this because the horrible sound of his rickety generator set woke her up from her first opportunity to sleep in five days. And this time, she was pissed! The stress from her office was enough to down a mule and whenever she got home, the sound of a generator badly in need of repairs kept her awake at night. She got up with such fierce anger and decided enough was enough! She was going to give Papa Emeka a piece of her mind. As she put on her slip, she remembered how she had reached this point. ••• Oiza Anave was the only daughter of Adam and Ozohu Anave, a middle class family who lived a comfortable life in Kaduna. Being the only girl in her house, she was the easy favorite of both her parents. Coupled with the fact that she was the last born of their five children, she held a good spot as the baby of the house. Like most last born children, she was almost smothered with the fierce protectiveness of her father and brothers and the unabashed love of her mother. She grew up almost in a cocoon and didn’t have the opportunity to venture out, make friends or even date. But university cured her of all that. As soon as she tasted freedom, she couldn’t go back to being caged by her family’s love, no matter the good intention. She prayed her compulsory National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) would take her as far away from home as possible, hoping that she could finally get to live in the bustling city called Eko, or to non-indigenes, Lagos. She didn’t get Lagos but at least one of her wishes was fulfilled; she got sent to a faraway city; Gombe. As soon as she arrived Gombe, she promised herself that she was not returning home. She was finally her own woman and could live how she wanted and follow her own dreams and aspirations. When she was done with her service, she stuck to her word and refused to go back home. Despite pleas and threats from her parents and siblings, she remained adamant. To try to convince her, her father got the family together and commanded everyone not to send her money or render any help to her. She wasn’t bothered. She had learned to manage what she had and had saved N50,000 from her NYSC ‘allowee’. She set out looking for a house and got one that cost the exact same price. The house was in one of the less affluent neighborhoods but that was the only option she had. She needed to vacate the ‘Corpers Lodge’ and houses in better suited areas were either too expensive (N90, 000) or not even in her price range (N350, 000). In the end, she felt she could live in a gutter and still be comfortable if she really wanted to. So, she got a friend to loan her the rest of the rent and went to pay for the house. When she got to the house, she realized how crappy it was. She had only been told of a house and had not seen it before hand. As she looked at the house, she saw that the paint was peeling off as a result of water rising through the blocks. She also realized that there was a permanent putrid smell in the room and upon further examinations, discovered that a gutter ran directly behind it. It was a two bedroom apartment without a toilet and kitchen, which meant that Oiza would have to share with other members of the compound. The toilet was not a pit latrine as is expected in public houses but a water-closet system. Oiza didn’t like that one bit. Diseases could easily be transmitted from her neighbors to her. What was worse was that the toilet was really dirty when she glanced in, prompting her to quickly scrunch her nose and pull her head back out of the toilet. Though Oiza was in no way happy with what she saw, she still paid for it because of the pressure to move out of the lodge. That same day, Oiza moved into her new house. As Oiza settled in, she started noticing some really horrible attitude of her neighbors. Now, there were ten two-room apartments in the compound and each room, with the exception of Oiza’s had at least four people in them. There were whole families and friends just living together to cut costs. So the compound was really full. As soon as they restored electrical power, the occupants of each room – seeming to compete with the others – would put on their radios and television sets at the highest volume. It was usually a competition between some Bauchi-based Gospel artist and the likes of Don Moen; a horrible mix for all she cared. And to make matters worse, the loud music always competed with the sounds of Catalina fighting Diego and Amarachi placing the curse on the people of Akpogwu! There was never any peace or quiet in that compound. Since Oiza spent almost all her time at the office, she felt she could handle it even though it irritated her to no end when she was at home. What she couldn’t handle though were the dirty toilets and bathrooms. They were never washed! They stank like dirty toilets should and Oiza felt poisoned every time she went in. People – grownups – used the toilet without flushing, leaving their disgusting fecal matter for others to see. One night Oiza was pressed and she ran into the toilet. The smell hit her before she turned the light on. What she saw made her rush back out without much ado. She didn’t use the toilet again for a whole week! Each time she felt pressed, the sight she saw came rushing back. That was enough to shut her excretory organs.
The Gods So Decide
Image link here. Amara was still shaking. The village juju-man, Opowkri, was baffled by the blatant refusal of the evil spirits to bow to his incantations. Did the spirits aim to ridicule him? And in front of the entire village?! Well, he was having none of that! He cast a furtive glance at her parents who were huddled in the corner and quickly turned his attention to the shivering girl lying on the thatched mat in his dimly lit mud hut. The room was smoky from the tiny calabash filled with dry, burning herbs and he had to refrain from coughing as the smoke choked him. He was, after all, the intermediary between the gods and the people. He took the white speckled fowl he had asked her parents to bring and raised it to the sky. He implored the gods of hale and hearty health to prove the uninvited spirits wrong; to show he was stronger than these spirits. The fowl cackled, seeming to know that its end was near. Its loud crows were nothing compared to the cacophony Opowkri was making. He finished his incantations and in one fell swoop, pulled out the head of the fowl from its neck. Blood spurted everywhere. He quickly directed the spurts towards the naked body of the girl. In normal times, her parents would never have allowed their daughter to be naked in front of a man but these were not normal times. He had insisted that they removed her clothes so he could work his voodoo. And as expected, they quickly obliged. She was their last surviving child; having watched six of their children die in the last three months. They didn’t want to lose her and at that point, they would have done just about anything. Opowkri rubbed the blood all over Amara’s body, pausing ever so slightly on her breasts and trying his best to hide his arousal. As his hands traipsed over her body, he muttered incantations that were only understood by him and the gods. The fetid smell of fresh blood mixed with smoke from the burning herbs was enough to make anyone retch; and that was what he was going for. On cue, Amara raised herself up and retched, only managing to miss hitting him by a few inches. ‘Yes! Get out of her you evil spirit! Get out of her! Remove him from your body my child!’ And he went into more incantations. He started dancing around Amara, chanting, beguiling and asking the gods to show them strong. ‘Wa….wa…I ne…eed wat…ter.’ Amara croaked. The juju-man paused in his dance and shouts and watched her for a second. Her parents scrambled to give her the calabash filled with dirty stream water. ‘NO!’ The juju-man bellowed! Her parents cowered and froze inches over her face. ‘The spirits are getting weak and they need to increase their strength! She will not be given anything!’ Her parents retreated to their corner of the hut and held each other. The ‘dance-cantations’ continued for two hours; two hours where Amara progressively got weaker, threw up five more times and croaked for water over and over again. The filth was not cleaned up nor was her thirst quenched. The smell in the room was worse than the village outhouse at the edge of the forest. The last time Amara vomited, she didn’t even have the strength to raise herself up. She just threw up and gargled in her own vomit. After that, she stopped shaking. She was no longer hyperventilating or as Opowkri came to find out, breathing. Her parents started screaming. ‘Get out!’ The juju-man shouted so loud, her parents fled the hut. That didn’t stop the whimpers of her mother from filtering into the silence of the hut. He checked Amara and saw she was perfectly still. Her skin was losing the hotness that it had a few minutes ago. For the first time since she had been brought to him three nights ago, she looked peaceful, finally at rest. He didn’t need a fancy white cloth and a rope around his neck like that missionary medicine man in the village square to know that Amara was dead. This was the twelfth child he had seen die in the last two moons; and all of them in his tiny hut. He had told the parents that the gods were punishing them for taking the little drops of evil liquid from the missionary medicine man. The evil man had invoked the anger of the gods when he said the gods were non-existent. He had gone further to say that diseases were not from the gods to punish them but as a result of their dirty environment. He said he had a thing that could prevent diseases and that was when he convinced some parents to take those little drops of his own type of voodoo. It didn’t matter that every child who wasn’t sick before they had taken the city man’s evil medicine was still hale and hearty. It didn’t matter that the families who had made certain lifestyle changes like weeding the grass in front of their houses, boiling and filtering their water and using his fish net to sleep were healthier than those who didn’t. It also didn’t matter that the man had insisted that Amara was suffering from the disease of the mosquito and dirty water and that he had something he called ‘drugs’ for them. What mattered was that he wasn’t going to allow any other medicine man take his place in this village. His father had been the village juju-man as had his father before him. He was definitely not going to allow a twit from the city come up and outwit him. His mind made up, he got up from his kneeling position in front of Amara and wiped some vomit off his knee, unaffected by either the smell or the grossness. He turned to the door…and walked out. The people gathered around him. He shook his head and
Hustle! Hard!
African man arranging his tomatoes to sell.Image: The Fiscal Times. I am really irritated with able-bodied people who are lazy. Let me start by telling you a story of someone I am going to call Ahmad. I went out to get some eggs one evening. The shop which I usually get provisions from was out of eggs and I was directed to the nearest Mai Shayi. When I got there, I saw a line of men waiting to be served. The speed with which the noodles and eggs were prepared was a testament to constant practice. The Mai Shayi had all four of his stoves on, plus a firewood fire for the huge pot of tea. It was a study in efficiency. I am sure Ahmed must have thought I was waiting for dinner like the rest of the men. He didn’t speak to me immediately but I was fine with it. It was an opportunity to watch him and how he ran his business, how he interacted with his customers, how he timed his meals, and how he served said meals. I watched him for about 15 minutes before he saw me. He asked what I wanted. I said eggs. He asked if I wanted pepper with my eggs. I said I just wanted raw eggs. He said they were N35 each. At this point, I smiled. Even though most people sold eggs for N30 apiece, I told him to give me two. As soon as he had answered me, he completely deleted me from the framework of his mind. This was at 9:20pm. I went home quite impressed. He had shown a good degree of management in running his small business. I wished more young people were like him, eager to work hard and make that money. On another day, this time in the morning, I went out in search of a place to charge my phone. You see, we had not had power for days and though my Nokia battery was faithful, it had given up on me. As I walked down my street, I took my time to search for a phone shop. It wasn’t long before I got to Ahmed’s shop. He was already busy at his shop. As usual, he had a line of people waiting for him. As I registered the fact that this guy worked for at least 12 hours every day, I caught sight of a charging joint, which was a surprise to me because it was just adjacent to Ahmed’s shop. I quickly went there and realized that the shop belonged Usman; who turned out to be Ahmed’s brother. I felt really inspired by these two brothers. They ran businesses for at least 12 hours per day and they seemed to be doing well. What was really interesting to me was how obvious it was that they were not formally educated yet so industrious. On the flip side, many young people are unproductive because they feel they are graduates and should be paid at least six figures in a plush company with heavy benefits and vacation in Fiji before they should work. I must say I was quite impressed with Ahmad and his brother. Another thing I saw that really inspired me was a Mai Ruwa who was physically challenged. Now, for many people who do not understand the concept of a Mai Ruwa, let me explain it a bit. A Mai Ruwa is a person who pushes an Amalanke (a mini truck or maxi-wheelbarrow as the case may be) with about fourteen or sixteen 50-liter jerry-cans of water. It requires large upper-body strength to push the Amalanke uphill (as most Northern towns are). Most Mai Ruwa are lean, lithe and very strong. Back to my story. The Mai Ruwa, like I said, was physically challenged. He has just one hand. Looking at him, I could tell that it was a lot of hard work pushing his Amalenke to his customers, balancing it when he needed to stop, maneuvering it when it got stuck in sand or a collection of gravel and generally, transporting each jerry-can to the homes of his customers. Yet, with all these limitations, he still gets up every day, heads out to where he fetches the water, transports his goods and sells them. If that is not inspiring, I don’t know what is! One of the secretaries in my former office whose name is Mary is a very industrious and wonderful lady. I don’t know anything about her academic background but I know that she can hustle! Her 8-4 as a secretary is quite stressful but it doesn’t deter from going to her shop to sew clothes for people as soon as she closes. She seems to make lots of money from that venture – or so I assume – because most ladies in the office use her services for their African dresses. And to add to that, she bakes! And girl can bake! Her cakes are great; they might not stand a chance against Cake Boss’ but they are okay. And when she is free, she also plaits women’s hair. In essence, she is an enterprising young woman who knows how to get her hustle on. Why am I inspired by these people? It is quite simple. In a country where many youth are 25 and lazy, depending on the government to provide jobs, refusing to be innovative and what not, these people are shining examples of productivity. Nigerian youth are content with hand-me-downs instead of maximizing their exuberance. Quite frankly, it really is telling on our economy. I have to give it to the Igbo people though; they know how to hustle hard! They begin to groom their kids from about age ten in business and enterprise. Before they are eighten, these kids begin to branch out with their own side hustle and though I have never been to Aba or Onitsha, I know that great goods which could boost our economy are created there. Already, we have made-in-Nigeria cars by the Innoson group. Add that to the vast human
The Plight Of The Displaced
Credit: The Guardian Nigeria Terror struck the morning of Sunday, 7th August 2014, when members of the insurgent sect – Boko Haram – took over Michika town in Adamawa State. Many people were not aware of the news until they began to see huge influxes of people into Yola, the State capital. People were on trailers and lorries, and jam-packed in other smaller vehicles. The fear factor reached fever pitch when news spread that the military had closed the gates of Mubi, keeping the fleeing residents trapped in the town. I was in the office, totally oblivious of what was happening, when I got snapped out of my false sense of security. One of my colleagues came in and said he had seen over seventeen army trucks lined up in town and many fleeing refugees with nowhere to go. When I went outside, it was to see other colleagues in a state of frenzy. I walked slowly, hoping to find out what was happening and telling myself over and again that getting scared wouldn’t help me. I realized that many people were making speculations and no one really knew what was happening. At that point, I was tired of the rush of emotions I was feeling and just wanted to go home. The company driver said he couldn’t head out because the roads were clogged. At that pronouncement, staff members – including those who had their own cars – decided to head out on foot. I followed them. I asked my program partner to join us and she was adamant because she didn’t know what we were going to be walking into. I was sure we would be safe but she needed some convincing. After a few minutes of cajoling and threatening to leave without her, she finally budged and then we set off. We took a short cut and came out on the main road after walking for about ten minutes. It wouldn’t have taken a magician to know that something was really amiss. The cars were lined up as far as one could see and at each other’s bumpers. All the cars were full, and in fact, over loaded with people, bags, properties and what not. Adamawa had become the latest to suffer at the hands of the insurgents. Months after that first major attack, there have been many more, which has prompted more and more people to flee into the state capital: Internally Displaced People or IDPs for short. They were talked about in the news, among traders and drivers and even among the elite. To many, they are nothing but statistics and numbers. But today, they were real to us. One of my colleagues decided to spend his birthday with these displaced people. He called on friends and family to support him by bringing clothes, food, toiletries and other necessities for the IDPs. The response was massive. People went all out to help in whatever way they could. On his birthday, we all headed out to the Bajabure IDP camp in Adamawa. There was a convoy of cars filled with materials for the people. When we got to the camp, I must say that we were a bit surprised. The camp was an estate built by Vice Admiral Murtala Nyako on the Numan road. The area is a bit far from town and the houses were largely empty. As a result of the overwhelming influx of people into town, the estate was turned to a camp for the IDPs. So you can imagine our surprise when we got there and saw a row of nice houses. When we got to the gate, the security man made a fuss about our visit and only let us in when the celebrant called the camp director or someone like that. As soon as we got in, people started trickling out to see the visitors. It wasn’t long before the word spread; visitors had come and they came bearing gifts! Soon enough, people started coming out in droves. We were suddenly surrounded by a sea of people. I must admit, I never knew they were that many. They couldn’t wait until the address from the celebrant was done. All they cared about was the piece of the bounty they were going to get from us. Some of the women and children moved closer to where I stood. Their murmuring drew my friends and I even closer. We asked what the problem was and they told us that we had to stay for the distribution of the items. When we asked why we needed to wait, they were quick to tell us that certain individuals had crowned themselves bosses and were hoarding relief materials for their personal gain. My friend and I shared a look. We proceeded to ask more people if these statements were true. It turned out that they were in fact true. A few people were using the pain these people were facing to dominate them and accrue more materials to their selfish selves. I spoke to a boy whom I’m going to call Kwaji. He sounded very intelligent, somehow knowing my Hausa was stilted and proceeding to speak in English. He didn’t speak the Queen’s English but he wasn’t far off. His tenses were correct and his grammar sound. I asked if he was a student and he said, quite clearly I might say, that he had been in Junior Secondary School 3 (JSS 3). My next question would have been what he wanted to be in life but looking at his condition at that moment, I couldn’t bring myself to do that. I kept repeating that it would be well, not sure whether or not he believed me. As soon as the distribution started, any dignity of their person fled. They crowded the distributors like ant to sugar. I was shocked at the desperation I was seeing. It was no surprise that a fight broke out and got out of control. People started clawing their way to get the items. I must admit
Children Should Not Hustle!
Young girl hawking sachet water.Image: The Guardian The little girl ran up to me, somehow balancing the crate of boiled eggs on her head and trying to keep her falling wrapper in place. Her feet were clad with slippers that were well worn and designed with holes. She couldn’t have been more than eight years old and as she reached me, the smell of her unwashed body repulsed me more than she could have imagined. As she raised her head to ask if I wanted the eggs, I had a full view of her face. She was made up, with a haphazard line taking center stage on her brows. Her eye pencil was dripping, making her lower lid look heavy. Her powder was in patches, with more shades of grey on her dark skin than there was on a wiped chalkboard. Her pouty lips were made more so with the red lipstick she wore and the very black liner she used to line her lips. She was wearing a torn Hijab made of a print material. The Hijab was bunched at her shoulders as she held the tray that held the crate. Her skirt was a different print from her top though they were similar in one way; they were both threadbare, dirty and reflected just how poor she was. I took all these in as she advertised her eggs. The makeup, dirty clothes, torn slippers and the over coat of unwashed funk all reflected one thing: poverty. In one glance, I could tell that this young girl was forced into child labor. It didn’t take Einstein to figure out that this little girl was doing this to make money for her family. She was probably going to walk up and down the town in her quest to sell the eggs. The more eggs she sold, the more likely her chances of eating something that night. If she returned the eggs home, she was most likely going to sleep hungry. As I continued to look at her, imaginations of how hungry she might be kept flicking through my mind. Though her smell repulsed me, I was drawn to her in a way that was against my personal principle. I was torn. A common sight in many African communities if the presence of child hawkers who are working to sustain their families.Image: Signal You see, when I was in primary school, I had a teacher called Mrs. Williams. She died. But before she did, she had imparted so much in me that I owe some of my life’s principles to her. She urged us always to be the best and always had little quips that stayed with us; with me. On one of such occasions, after a field trip to the airport, she said something that stayed with me till this very moment. As the school bus slowed at a traffic jam, some children ran up to it to display their wares. From candy popularly called ‘alewa’ to groundnuts and what not, these kids had enough to attract our attention. Many kids started pulling out their lunch money to get things and only refrained when Mrs. Williams bellowed. Thankfully, the traffic jam lessened and we got going. That was not before we saw the disappointed looks on the faces of the children as they saw us go. We had been their hope for some money but Mrs. Williams crushed that hope. I was, for the first time in my young life, furious at her. When we got to school, I was still furious. As we settled into our seats in class, Mrs. Williams demanded our attention. When she got it, she started teaching us about child labor and abuse. She told us it was wrong to send kids to the streets to hawk. She asked how we felt knowing our mates were hawking on the streets and highways when we were in class, learning and getting an education. In truth, we didn’t understand what she was saying – we were just in primary three – but the passion with which she spoke hit me. The message I got that day was that children shouldn’t work when they should be in school. As little as I was, I felt bad that I could afford to be in school while others were out there fending for themselves and their families. I really cannot remember if that was when I made the choice to never buy something from a kid but I know that as I grew up, my resolve strengthened. My ideology was that, as long as we buy things from kids, we were also promoting child labor. I felt that if children went home every night without selling anything, then their parents would be wise about sending them to the streets. At that time, all of these made great sense to me. As I grew older, I realized that the ideology I had was hard to keep, especially as child labor came closer to home. A close friend of mine, whom I will call Williams, had to work to make ends meet. Williams came from a comfortable family. He had two brothers and one sister. They had most of what they wanted. They ate right, dressed well and even went to good private schools. The fairy bubble burst when his father lost his job after the Kaduna textiles closed down. They were tiding over until they just couldn’t keep up the pretext anymore. They had to move to a much smaller house and even sell most of their stuff. After a while, his father travelled to find work and was not heard from for months. They had absolutely no idea where he was or even if he was alive. His mum had to pick up the mantle of leadership to keep the family going. She got a job working as a cleaner in a school where the pay was barely enough to cover utility bills. Gradually, they had to be pulled
Ripple Effect (II)
To get acquainted with the first part of the story, read (here) After what seemed like eternity, the lights came back on. He opened his eyes and saw himself. He looked around, noticing how small he had become, how very insignificant and…trapped! He felt the presence of seven different entities, all vying for dominion of his body. The angrier they got, the more they pushed his spirit into something smaller, something less significant. As the entities vied for power and control, he couldn’t help but remember just how bitter and aggrieved his spirit had been because of his deformity. He also recalled how he found out about the cause of his deformity; a result of a failed abortion by his mum. The memories came flooding in. His mum had wanted to be a career woman. Even though she said yes at the altar, she wasn’t willing to give up the power that came with independence. This was clearly defined when she refused to have sex with her husband without a condom for more than three years after the grand wedding. She definitely was not about to lose the career she worked so hard for just because her husband preferred to go skinny. A broken condom was how he had been conceived. A cliché indeed! Haniel remembered how he had overheard them talking about it one night when his mum was drunk. She had lost her job and found solace by befriending the liquor bottle. He remembered he had been seven then. As she shouted at his father, she called him a ‘freak of nature’, an ‘unwanted child’ and went on to call him a ‘mistake of the highest order’. As the forces continued to fight each other for dominance, he couldn’t help but think of the sadness he had lived with just because of his mum’s admission. He had hated her with all his might, blaming her (rightly!) for creating a freak of nature. While that thought danced in his memory, he also remembered how his father never came to his aid, never looked at him like a person, never hugged him nor allayed his fears. His brothers, who had been born seven years after him, were no solace to him. All attention shifted from him as his parents basked in the perfection they had created…and at one go. As his brothers grew up, they went from awed wonder at his difference to downright meanness. The picture of his brothers taunting him until he couldn’t cry anymore kept flicking in his head. He didn’t know when he had become hardened, but hardened he was. His only solace was porn and he was sure that if he hadn’t been addicted, he wouldn’t have been in the mess he was in now. A force stronger than the others bellowed from somewhere outside of him. He watched as a cloud hovered in front of, and around him. The cloud was both a person and not a person: there but somehow elusive. He was sure of one thing: he was freaking scared! Never before had he felt such a malevolent spirit like the one he was seeing. The others paled in comparison. He wanted to run, but even without the other forces, he was sure he couldn’t have been able to go anywhere. The spirit spoke in some language that could have been Klingon for all he cared. While it sent down chills up and down his spine, it had the effect of stilling the other forces. He watched as the spirit walked – literally – into his body, experiencing in totality all the vile forces which its invasion enacted. Even his cells seemed to shrink in the presence of the ‘being’. His body bent forward and began to convulse. His eyes bulged to the point of popping and the searing pain he felt in every nerve ending of his body was something he could not have fathomed possible. He wanted to die at that point! He begged death to take him, to have mercy on him. It seemed like forever but it was soon over. In his view, it was still the worst moment of his life! The being settled and all was normal…or as normal as it could be. As soon as it settled in, making sure the other forces were cowering in its presence, it made Haniel’s body stand up. It looked around, seeming to look for something. Then it (using his body) walked to the door, put its hand on it…and opened. He was no longer in control of his body. It had taken over and become one with him. With purposeful strides, it marched down the stairs and followed through to the dining room. Though he was completely taken over, he couldn’t help but enjoy a brief moment of satisfaction at seeing the horror and revulsion on his family’s faces. His dad dropped his wine glass, shattering it, while the clattering sound of his mum’s cutlery could have been deafening if he had not been enjoying himself so. The being strode to the table, pulled out a chair and sat down. His brothers, with mouths agape, stared at him. ‘Serve me a plate mother dearest.‘, it said in a voice that was deep, husky and surprisingly very, very sexy; something his voice had never been. The pensiveness of the forces was escalating and they wanted to have a go at his family. They were bustling to escape his body, to attack his family. He was not surprised that he didn’t feel any iota of pity. In his view, they deserved what they were going to get. They had put him through so much and now, maybe they would feel a tiny bit of the pain he had had to suffer. He hated them and he was unapologetic for that! The domineering spirit turned in his body and looked at him. He cringed, trying to make himself even smaller (if that was even possible) than his minute existence. The spirit grew bigger,
Ripple Effect (I)
Credit: Google He was masturbating at his bedroom desk. He had become addicted to self-pleasure since he had clocked thirteen. The internet had become his haven and pornography his past time. The past three years had been a breeze for him. He didn’t have to deal with the abject rejection that spewed from his parents and the pity that came from strangers. It all began at his birth. Everyone balked at his deformity. He had lazy eyes, his mouth askew; resulting in a constant drool of spittle down the side of his chin. His arms and legs were thin and could hardly support his malformed torso. His head was constantly lolling to the side, requiring his shoulder for balance. As he grew up, it didn’t take him long to realize that people were repulsed by his grotesque figure. It wasn’t long before he learnt to keep to himself. He had asked his parents to remove the mirrors and all shiny surfaces from his room. Even he couldn’t look at himself. Whenever he looked at his body, he was greeted by the ugly, huge splotches like eczema traversing his entire body. He found they were called psoriasis. The only parts of his body that had developed well were his brain and his penis. At sixteen, his brain was as sharp as Albeit Einstein’s and though he hated it, his penis was as huge as Mandingo’s. While most people with a brain like that would have thought of changing the world, he couldn’t be bothered. The world had rejected him and he was returning the favor with a flip of his middle finger as the nice Cherrie on top! There were two things that couldn’t be taken away from him; his active imagination and libido. Put those two together and even the best porn sites couldn’t match the scenes he came up with. He pulled up dark, painful ways of having sex. His imaginations aroused him so much that he masturbated every day. It started out once a day until he was fully addicted to getting off. That was his only respite from the life he was forced to live. After all, he couldn’t pretend anymore that the looks from his parents were anything but hurtful. When, at fourteen, he told his parents he could home school himself (using the internet), it was all they could do not to jump in glee. They gladly accepted his proposal to shut himself in his room. Even his personal maid couldn’t look at him without that slight disgust ‘normal’ people gave the physically challenged. One day, he cooked up a plan to see just how repulsive he was to the world. He lay naked on his bed as his maid was about to do her routine. When she entered, her reaction was epic! Though her scream was funny, it showed just how much everyone in general (and women in particular) was repulsed by him. He wasn’t ever going to get laid by anyone, so he did himself. His room was his prison but the internet was his gateway to whatever world he wanted to see. His family would be having Sunday dinner now. The maid had brought his in and told him she’d see him tomorrow. Her jangling backside in her uniform had set him on edge. As soon as she closed the door behind her, he went to his desk with his body oil and opened his new fetish: lesbian porn. He was slowly working himself to pleasure when a pop-up ad caught his attention. ‘Want to have women flock around you and kowtow to your every desire?’ He stopped his rhythmic stroke and looked at the pop-up again. He moved his right hand to his mouse and moved the cursor to the ad. For a second there, he was torn between continuing his pleasure ride and finding out about women bowing to him. In the end, masturbation was okay but he wanted to bury himself in a woman. He clicked the ad and was redirected to the full webpage: Satan’s Lair. He quickly skimmed through the introduction and perused the website, mentally praising the creators for their ingenuity. He admitted to himself that the moment he saw the domain name, he thought he would see images of what the world defined as demons, but all he saw were well clad people and simple, everyday grammar that anyone could understand. He wanted to exit the page and continue his pleasure when the screen metamorphosed into a slide show of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. The message popped up again, this time, bolder. ‘Want to have women flock around you and kowtow to your every desire?’ At the base of the message was a simple ‘Yes’. No ‘Not now’ or ‘Maybe later‘ nor even ‘Cancel‘. He laughed a bit. ‘The devil is pretty cocky huh?’ He thought to himself as he clicked the ‘Yes’ button. The page expanded to show a sign up page. Odd. No ‘Sign In’; just ‘Sign Up’. He shrugged and started filling in his details, making sure to fill the wrong ones. Full Name: John Huge (he snickered as he typed that) Email: johnhugeD@yahoo.com Password: ************** Re-enter password: ************** I agree to all terms and conditions SUBMIT He hovered over the submit button, a small part of him urging him to read the terms and conditions, but he was too eager to see what the site could offer. He quickly submitted. The screen went blank! No icons, no nothing, almost like he had turned off the computer. He bent down to look at the CPU, and saw that the system was still running. He took his head back up just in time to see the monitor come back on; opening at the sign up page with his details. Like something out of a movie, his entries deleted themselves, one letter at a time, slowly but surely. His eyes were riveted to the screen, shocked beyond measure. That was when he felt the presence of something malevolent, something deliberately evil and very rotten at its core. He wanted
