Browsing ktravula – a travelogue! blog archives for September, 2010.

One Nigeria: Nigerian Unity 50 Years post-independence (i)

I’ve spent countless sleepless nights figuring out just how to write this article without rehashing the same old rote of complaining that has become commonplace while talking about Nigeria and the relationship of its constituent parts. I have started and deleted this piece about four times now, for want of a perfect way to begin to write about the process of transformation that I think has taken place since independence worthy of celebration, or at least of some sort of embrace as the direction to the future.

The first one I wrote dwelt on my disgust with the amount of vitriol in the comment section of the article by Nigerian writer Adaobi Tricia Uwaubani who had dared to claim that tribalism and ethnocentrism in Nigeria is and should rightly be a thing of the past. The article, first published in the UK Guardian was reproduced on Sahara Reporters (arguably the biggest portal for anonymous rage from mostly left-wing, passionate and often misguided, and often faceless citizens) and had pissed off a bunch of faceless people who felt that she had sold out by even considering getting married to someone from a different ethnic group. And thus went my optimism for a submission on the prospects of a more metropolitan future devoid of  really redundant arguments of ethnic purity or superiority.

Then I thought about all the friends I knew whose circumstance of birth and growing up has defied all limitations of ethnocentricism: the colleague whose parents came from the Old Bendel State but who was born in Abeokuta and has lived all his life in Lagos and Ibadan with his Yoruba girlfriend, the friend who was born to Hausa parents in Kaduna but whose sisters have all married Igbo and Yoruba men and who is now dating a Yoruba man, and the neighbour I grew up with in Iwo road who has lived in Ibadan, away from his hometown in the East, for decades and raising his three children there in a home away from home. Then I thought of my other friend in Lagos who was born in Kano to Yoruba parents from Ondo, spoke Hausa as a first language, went to school in Jos, but now lives in Lagos because his family was evicted from the North after the 2002 riots heralded by the 2002 Miss World protests. So I closed that page, and told myself that I would not successfully write this article. Nigeria is a hopeless irredeemable mess of people ever so slowly embracing the value of civilization and peaceful co-existence. Behind around every silver lining was always a dark looming cloud.

Then I thought about this quote: “I tell you my country no be one/ I mean no be yesterday I born”. It was written by Wole Soyinka in his musical album of the eighties: Unlimited Liability, referring – of course – to the fact that the way each of the constituent parts of the country called Nigeria looked at the nation differed depending on where one lived, or the socialization process of one’s growth into adulthood. The problem with looking at the quote from the dark side is that we tend to overlook its redeeming tendencies. Nigeria, indeed, is not one country, just as the United Kingdom or the United States isn’t either. Like the many nations born out of compulsion, and sometimes necessity, it usually takes a long while to evolve into a state of true homogeneity. It has taken America more than four hundred years, and still, the attitudes in Chicago still differ greatly from the ones in downtown St. Louis just a few miles away. Diversity, and a different way at looking at the world may yet be the best gift with which we would head out into the second fifty years of this country’s existence, and may hold the key to the success we seek.

Then I remembered that we are a country with over 500 languages and 250 ethnic groups. Let us develop our agricultural system to have good food, good roads, good governance, good healthcare and good social services/amenties, then maybe we will forget our differences and not base every general election on where the president comes from as is bound to play itself out in the next election when the non-thinking General rolls out his agbada into the arena which he soiled seventeen years ago with a national military broadcast. Well then, it won’t really be politics if there is no mud-slinging and silly ethnic sentiments. After all, even the most advanced democracies have their racist tea party activists to provide the national political drama on cue. It is for this reason that I submit that I really have nothing to celebrate in the progress of ethnic socialization in Nigeria beyond the simple consolation that not only are the jingoists no longer in the majority, they do not have more than their own poisonous opinions to peddle and will become less and less capable of bringing other people into their fold as globalization makes intercultural integration possible.

And there’s nothing really special about a “One Nigeria” anyway. Let us seek means of expression of the many Nigerias present in this melange, but let them all be happy. The future could be more exciting.

Of Ghosts and Cemetries

The conversation at the dinner table last night eventually led to talk about ghosts and cemeteries, only because one of us had expressed her fear of burial grounds. I was asked if I share the same fear and I said no, which is only a half truth. For, as I have discovered, to my own surprise all fear of ghosts and burial grounds always disappeared whenever I set foot on foreign soil.

Throughout last year, while riding back to my apartment at eleven or twelve o clock at night, I get to pass through a dimly lighted bike path with thick woods on its either side. And I’d always wondered to myself where all the trepidation went that I would usually have while walking at a similar place in Ibadan or anywhere in South-Western Nigeria around the same time. The conclusion, of course, was that the fears were only conditioned by familiarity. Perhaps it is impossible to import fear across such a wide ocean as the Atlantic. Note: I noticed a similar trend of artificially acquired confidence while in Northern Nigeria, and in Kenya. Suddenly, it seems that the best way to rid a human of fear is to transport them to a different environment.

Now when I see cemeteries and tombstones, at whatever time of the night, the only thing I want to do is to take pictures of/with them. It must come from watching too much of Michael Jackson. And yes, I’m still going to spend a night at the Lemp Mansion sometime soon.

Yeah Yeah.

There’s magic in company, perhaps the best known means of socialization known to man. I spent yesterday in good company after a long sytax test, and it was all justified in the end. From the early birthday card from faraway that had lovely words written in my language, to the beautiful and thoughtful one surprisingly waiting on my office table when I got there early in the morning, to the happy hugs, virtual and text messages from near and far, calls, and beautiful birthday songs of friends and family, I should say I had fun.

Special thanks to everyone who thought of me. I appreciate it. The after party eventually ended at a dining table in a professor’s house, all – as usual – within wine, laughters, food, fun, photos, socialization, nostalgia, and all the perks of warm happy humanity. I should probably have my birthday every day of the year.

Twenty-nine and Counting

It’s probably been a while since I last celebrated my birthday in contemplation. Ah, it was just twelve months ago, on the wings of an earlier interesting travel experience. But other birthdays before then manage to fade away in comparison and I tell myself in the mirror as I go out that I’m an adult already. I think the idea has properly sunk in by now. Perhaps the most memorable birthday was that one of whose memory I don’t even possess beyond that which is shown to me in the glossy photos of childhood. I had just turned two years old (or is it three), and was looking good and innocent behind a cake and a horde of neighbours invited to celebrate. I still look at that picture every now and then. All the invited guests of that day are now scattered all over the world in different endeavours.

Starched new clothes, shiny shoes, jollof rice and chicken (or fried fish), and cake (of course) made by mum to make the day feel special, I have fleeting images of birthdays looked forward to with such eagerness and delight. It always helped when the day fell during the week. I would be except from wearing the school uniform. I could show off a new attire and get the whole class to sing me a birthday song. Of course I also had to go to school with sweets and biscuits for those said classmates and teachers. I remember chocomilo, bazooka and sumal chewing gums, and Marie biscuits, and 7up, Crush and Mirinda. And some little solid sweets of many colours we used to call eyin alangba. Birthdays during those years of innocence were one of those days of the year when you get to be king for twenty-four hours and dictate your choice of food and drinks. The other day is whenever you came home with a report card that said you took the first position in the school year.

Gone are those days now. Today I will spend the early part of the evening taking a syntax examination with no singing, and no jollof rice whatsoever.

But in the distance between the pleasant innocence of childhood and the now grown maturity of youth, there has been very much to be thankful for, too many to count. From love of friends and colleagues, the assuring presence of family, to even the reliable permanence of season, every turn has been rendered a blessing not quantifiable by words. And for that will I spend this day in the gratefulness for all things good, happy, cheerful and soothing. I’m a year older again, it seems. It is a prime number, a number divisible only by 1 and itself. Ah, the delight of arithmetic. This is also the last year of my twenties.

This is the oldest I’ve been yet. So maybe it’s time to prepare for all needed rites of real adulthood, in within a mouthful of the best delicacies of this day, thankful in the process for the great gift of life.

What is your best Yoruba proverb?

There are so many of them, but here’s one circling my head at the moment: “T’omode ba mowo we, a ba agba jeun.” Translation: When a child washes his/her hand well, s/he could eat with elders. What’s yours?

Ask me anything