ktravula – a travelogue!

Adventures in (Dis)honesty

There’s no reason why I should be impressed, really. This is how things should be in a normal society. But I guess that the event has sufficiently moved me to write about it only because a few months ago, an even far less careless slip had cost me so much more. What happened then was that I had gone to Six Flags for the first time, with friends, and at some point decided that I would join some of them in swimming. Now my small point-and-shoot Canon camera has always had a spot in its pouch around my waist. My belt always held it firm, and it was easier to bring out at the slightest notice of any memorable sight. Then I had to remove my jeans in public since none of us wanted to go into the locker rooms. We were all outside, beside a tall tree full of leaves. The process must have been: remove shoes, remove socks, unbuckle belt, unbuckle jeans, remove jeans, take everything off the ground and proceed to the pool. Approximately thirty seconds later, when I must havhollye taken not more than twenty steps from that spot, it struck me that my camera was missing, and there was only one place where it could have been: that spot outside the locker room. I went back there and it was missing, for good. I made a report, asked around, hoped and prayed, even searched Craigslist for lost items, but I didn’t get it back. It wasn’t so much for the camera but for the photos in it. In any case, there was no reason for me to have hoped that such a crowded public place like Six Flags would have been a safe place to leave a camera for that long, even for less than a minute. It kind of reminded me of some places in Lagos.

That could be why I may have been impressed when I arrived in class on Wednesday and found that my iPod earphones were still on the front table, exactly where I had forgotten to take it off from after the class on Monday. I have tried to rationalize it this way: the table is used mostly by Professors when they stand in front of the class, and it is not likely that any Professor would fancy a used $30 Apple earphone that doesn’t belong to them. I made a similar rationalization for the many students who had used the class between 3pm on Monday and 1.30pm on Wednesday, yet I did not doubt that a few of them must have noticed it lying there idly seemingly belonging to no one, and just ignored it. I should really not have been impressed. Nothing extraordinary has happened, right? Wrong. Right. I have no idea, but I am not taking up the challenge of my now mischievous self to make an experiment with my iPod classic. Place it carelessly in a public spot and come back after two days to see if it’s still there. That stuff cost me $250!

One of the very first things Papa Rudy told me the first day he gave me his bike to take home was this: “Never ever forget to lock the bicycle up whenever you’re outside, cos they’re gonna steal it. That’s why I’ve given you a lock with it.” He spoke in earnest and I did not doubt his conviction for a second that the bike would be stolen if I ever left it outside the house without fastening it properly with a solid lock. The second time I heard this kind of talk was from Holly Ruff, my friend the artist. It was Halloween night. According to her, all the times her bicycles had been stolen, it has always been on Halloween nights, and not always because she didn’t lock them properly. People always seemed bolder on that prank night that they get away, it seems, with anything. For that, she had warned me sternly to not think about coming out of the house with my bicycle – lock or no luck – for that one night. Last week when Mafoya and I went to the swimming pool with Ben, I went with a lock in my bag. But when we were putting our stuff in the available lockers in the gymnasium locker room, Ben looked at me calmly and said, “You don’t have to worry about that. Nobody’ll mess with your shit,” and I sighed, then smiled. My “shit” included a passport, an iPod, my wallet and cards, my camera and some cash, so I shrugged and locked it firmly away anyway. It felt better to be safe than sorry, but we both came back to find our things still intact. I remember having lost my bike helmet on campus more than two times since August. I always found it at the same spot where I left it, untouched. It might be safe to say that this campus environment is generally a safe one for personal items.

The last time it snowed here, I had gone out for a walk behind my apartment when I noticed a mobile phone in the snow around a series of small footsteps that went out towards the parking lot. Nobody else in sight, and the phone wasting away in the snow, I picked it up and took it into my apartment. Later in the evening, I told Mafoya about it, and we both waited for the owner to show up. He did about seven days later while I was out, and was very grateful that someone had kept his mobile phone for him even though he had no idea where he had lost it. He was a teenager or so. Now, I wonder whether, like me at the sight of my earphones lying there on the table, he was impressed that nobody had taken the item and made it theirs. Perhaps he was relieved, and grateful, that it didn’t take him too long to locate his property after countless calls to the number and no one answering. (I’d left it in the living room and I always missed the calls, not deliberately.) Or perhaps he took it for granted as a contented citizen, believer in the power of good: “Nobody needs another person’s phone anyway. This is America. Everyone has their own mobile phones…”

I would never know, because I never met him.

Today in Nigerian History

Today, forty-four years ago in Nigeria, a few army majors took steps towards what they felt was the right direction in righting the wrongs of a new nation. It was the first major step towards our division, and the many other troubles of the nation. On this anniversary of that extraordinary event in the life of my country, after a civil war, several military coups, and amidst the many effort in pursuit of a lasting solution to the many problems as a nation, let us remember the sacrifices of these men, and the very best of their aspirations.

(Image source: google analytics)

So Where Are We From Then?

The most famous story about the origin of the Yoruba people is that we all descended from one man called Oduduwa. It is also the most misleading of stories because the man called Oduduwa who was said to have come from a place called Mecca (or, as historians have agreed, somewhere in the Middle East) most possibly found some indigenous people already living in the area now called Yorubaland when he landed with his travelling party from Mecca, and could not have been the sole progenitor of the now over thirty million people. In any case, he was said to have had only one son, who later had seven. So, for all intent and purposes, it was a conquest, kind of like the Founding Fathers arriving on the American continent from Europe, or Christopher Columbus “discovering” America after a long ride on the ocean, or Mungo Park “discovering” the Niger river. If that is the case, then when as citizens we use the now famous self reference “Omo Oduduwa” to refer to ourselves, we engage in a kind of deceit, or self-disservice, or at least a subservient acceptance of the prehistoric conquest. The verifiable children of the man Oduduwa were the original seven kings who descended from his son Okanbi, and their own living descendants who now occupy the kingship thrones in Oyo, Benin, Popo, Sabe, Ife and two other Yoruba towns. That said, we are all Yorubas, just like the occupants of Britain are now all Brits, not Normans, or Romans, or Celts just because they were once occupied by those forces.

But where did we come from, the Yorubas? Going by the Oduduwa story, we (at least those Yoruba citizens that have “royal” blood) are all descendants of Oduduwa, who in turn is a descendant of Lamurudu. Lamurudu interestingly is the Yoruba’s corruption of the name Nimrod from the bible, according to the Reverend Johnson in his book The History of the Yoruba. So there it is! We’re confirmed descendants of the Jews. Yet history does not rule out the possibility that Lamurudu/Nimrod was not even the immediate ancestor of the man Oduduwa, or that Oduduwa himself was not the immediate ancestor of Okanbi, so it is fair to take liberties with the fact. It is possible, almost certain by these accounts, that we were descendants of Nimrod the son of Cush, grandson of Ham, great-grandson of Noah. Now, even to me, that’s far removed. Why? Because Nimrod’s personality has never been fully established, and every once powerful civilization from Egypt to Greece to Jewish cultures have their own written perception of him that are not always complimentary.

So where did we come from then? A literal mecca? Quite possibly. The islamic civilization has it recorded that many years before/after Mohammed the prophet, many so called idolators were expelled from the city into the world outside. The man Oduduwa and his entourage who later settled South West of the Niger river were believed to have arrived there not only with magic and graven images (which were markers of idolatory for which they were said to have been expelled from the religious middle eastern city in the first place), they also came with peculiar forms of dressing, communication and way of life that marks them as from that part of the world. They worshipped man-made gods, they made sacrifices to them through priests, they wore long robes, greeted each other in a particular way, and their women covered their heads as part of their cultural identity. The staff of Oranmiyan in Ile-Ife today still has the words “Oranmiyan” engraved on it in Jewish letters, and it was erected before the coming of the Europeans to that side of the world. Have you ever wondered why the Yorubas name their children on the eighth day of the birth of the child? I have. Could it be, as suggested to my surprise by an American student in my Yoruba class on Wednesday, that we are following the tradition of the old Hebrews who always circumcised their children on the eight day after birth, as ordained by their God? I don’t know, but I won’t bet against it. There is so much that I don’t know, that I wish I knew. There is so much more we need to know about ourselves.

The real wonder for me is where we are from, we Yorubas who are not descendants of kings or the patriarch Oduduwa. Any takers?

___________

Photo credits:

Earthquake in Haiti

Here’s a link for those who can afford any kind of monetary donation to help the people of Haiti deal with their devastating earthquake that has left hundreds homeless and many dead. The website and the donation/relief effort is hosted by Planusa.org.

https://www.planusa.org/contentmgr/showdetails.php/id/1189150/tp/VE1HUj0xLHRpZD0xMTg5MTYyLA%3D%3D

It may be the sign of the end of times, but it doesn’t have to be the end for those now helpless folks. They need our help.

We’re No Longer At Ease

Here is the text of an open letter released by Nigerian Writers in reaction to the current political situation in Nigeria. Over thirty writers have currently signed up to the letter which has this morning been released to the media. It calls on concerned Nigerians to add their signature, and support, in a comment box beneath. You can also listen to and download an audio version by clicking on this link: audio. I support this because I think it represent some of the best aspirations of all Nigerians in pursuit of happiness, good health, success, and aspiration for country worthy of its name and one that lives up to its potentials. I like the introductory paragraph, especially.

An Open Letter from Nigerian Writers

Nigeria’s failure to make the progress commensurate with 50 years of nation-building is not just a failure of leadership. It is first and most catastrophically, a failure of followership.

As ordinary Nigerians, we have failed to create an environment where good leadership can thrive. By glamorising fraud and ineptitude, we have created a country hostile to probity. Our expectation from Government House is mediocrity, so that good government surprises us pleasantly and excellence continues to amaze us. Instead of an environment of accountability, we have fostered sycophancy. We have been content to follow every stripe of leader, from the thief to the buffoon. The consequence is that for months we have been happy to be ruled even in absentia.

Today, we say, no more.

Protest is not a dirty word. Even babies have a voice, long before they learn language or discernment. The child that is too docile to cry when it hungers or ails might die in the hands of the most benevolent mother. A leadership, however benevolent, requires an intelligent, demanding, and courageous followership to excel.

It is the responsibility of every Nigerian to voice the legitimate expectations of nation and to establish the standards to which our leaders must be held. We must expect great things from this country, so we must look for the leaders who can deliver. There is an acceptable standard of leadership, and then there is an unacceptable standard. We must honour leaders who excel, and censure leaders – at every level, and in every arm of government – who betray our trust.

If failure is not censured, there is no incentive in pursuing excellence. If sacrificial leadership is not recognised, then leaders of merit will not come forward, and the heroes in our cenotaphs will be the very architects of our failure as a nation. Although we are justly famous for our generosity of spirit, for our ability to forgive and forget the gravest transgressions, Nigerians must also now boldly condemn the errors of leadership, and end the complacency that has brought us so low as a country. The only reason for the existence of political leaders is to offer service to nation. Leadership is not an end in itself. It is a privilege to serve your country; leadership is not a right to be served by your country.

Today, Nigeria stands on a precipice. Behind us is a history that can push us, irrevocably, over the brink. Yet, we are writers. If we bring anything collectively to society, it must be the imagination and the inspiration to bridge impossible gulfs. Today, we must plumb our history, not to evoke despair, but to inspire resolve. Today, we call on Nigerians to hold hands across the trenches of our deep divisions and, somehow, find the resolution to dream again. Let us, as ordinary Nigerians, reject the ethnic fictions that local despots have used to colonise this country over the past five decades.

Let us dream a simple dream made fantastic by our present circumstances. Let us dream of a Nigeria that works, that evokes pride, and that inspires faith. Let us dream of a Nigeria of servant-leaders and sacrificial statesmen, a Nigeria which calls the best characteristics out of ordinary men and women. Let us call on that capacity for renewal to bring opportunity out of this crisis.

Let us recreate the excitement – and the possibilities – with which we approached the Independence Day of 1960. In 50 years, the resources and destiny of this great country have been hijacked by private carpetbaggers and adventurers. Let us take back the sanctity of our polls. Let us rejuvenate the recall process. Let us police our resources, our leadership. We must liberate Nigeria anew. Today, we must take back our country.

As writers, the past and the future are fertile fields for the work of our imagination. Today, in this love-letter to our nation, we call on all Nigerians to take authorship of our nation’s next 50 years. Our destiny is in our own hands. Shall we write into it a bigger civil war? Another half-century of mediocrity and international disgrace? Then we need do nothing.

But if we, the people of Nigeria, must write an inspirational epic of a humbled nation on her knees, who, breaking free of bondage, soars into the keep of eagles, we must begin by demanding only the best of our leaders. In the days and months to come, we the people must find our voice, our votes, and our true values. And we must make them count.

Thank you.

(Culled from African-writing.com)

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