ktravula – a travelogue!

Saturday Morning

By the time you read this, I should be on the road. It is a scheduled post. I do not know which way the road might lead, but it is surely not southwards just yet, except maybe they’ve removed that narcissistic governor of ours with several skin colours from the Government house, and then there would be something to rejoice about.

Now here are the choices: Abuja (again), Kano, Sokoto (the seat of the Caliphate), Katsina (where the Christmas bomber hails from), Jos (again, where I had my national youth service, and where the Red Cross had been working with the victims of the January and March clashes), and Nassarawa (where a friend had invited me to come and spend a few days).

None of this destinations is in the Eastern or Southern parts of the country. That trip will have to come later. And definitely not in these days of journalists getting kidnapped for a ransom of up to 30 million naira. And not the Niger Delta area soon either. I may not look like an American, but who knows what a random search of my bag might show.

In any case, I’m on the last leg of my tour and home is calling me little by little. I hope my dogs won’t be disappointed that I left them for so long. I have had my fill of Nigeria, almost. One of the best places of interest in this trip was the Anglican Church at Wusasa, a very prominent place in the history of Northern Nigeria.

The only thing my mother says she is worried about is that I (must have) been wearing “the same shirt all over Nigeria.”

Grime!

From the dusty roads of Ibadan to Ife, and later to Akure, Akungba, Ikare and Ilorin, and then Kabba, Abuja, Kaduna and finally Zaria, my pair of black denim(?) jeans has literally seen it all, the good, the bad, and the downright uuuuugly. This is no joke. Through rain, mud, lawns, beer spills, dokunu which Peter made me eat, Chiedu’s ogbono soup, and suya spices from Hamdala Hotel, tonight, it will fairly contest as the dirtiest fabric south of the sahara.

On the other hand, my intermittent internet access has taken all the fun out of spontaneous blogging at historical or memorable sites. While sitting peacefully in front of the open bus park at Jabi in Abuja yesterday, I all but screamed at how much stress it was and no stable enough internet connection to put up a post. Unfortunately, three hours later, a new reality had replaced my latest impressions and I moved on.

Alright, I did changed my shirts many times along the way. I even managed to buy a few more hausa-type fabrics, and a fulani-made leather wallet in Kaduna for my American friend Chris. The problem however, like the fabled cripple, is not up but down. Shirts and tops well scented like fresh dew and a dirty black jeans with all the country grime from Ibadan to Wusasa just does not make a good combination. I am having sleepless nights. I know what you’re thinking: why not take everything off at night, wash them, sleep naked and hope that by morning there would be electricity to make them dry if the rain wouldn’t allow? Ah-ha, ask Wande Coal how that usually ends.

Lesson learnt, next time never ever leave the house again on impulse. Sit down and plan for it. That way, you would hold at least two pairs of jeans so you can change them at will. And wasn’t it Ife that you told them at home that you were going? Now here you are just returned with her from one of the oldest monuments to Christianity in Northern Nigeria. You could get an article or more or out of that, you know. Yes, na article we go chop? And what will you do with this jeans in the absence of another to change it with yet? Buy? Yes yes, I know. Just shut up and go to bed. But it’s raining outside? So what? Get your grimy self up and find your way home.

Picture is that of Zuma Rock at Suleja on the way from Abuja.

Footloose in Kaduna

Here is the deal: I’m not lost, but I have not yet informed my hosts that I have arrived in this town. I am discovering the city by myself. A chance meeting with a stranger at the bus park has got me far into town and here I am in the lobby of a famous hotel tapping out my thoughts to the world. I’ve seen the palace of the Emir of Zazau. There should be other things nearby to see, beside the barbecue of suya on sticks enticing me from across the road.

A few things have happened since the last time I blogged. I have been to Abuja. Yes, the famous capital city. I have visited the National Assembly and the National Mosque. I even went to Aso Rock. Truly. It all happened last night, like a dream. A few years ago, under military rule, all the places I visited last night might have been off limits. But here we are in a democratic government, perhaps with a little too much liberty. (Personally, I think the National Assembly Complex should be guarded a little more. We don’t want to have someone place an explosive device there in the dark of night, and still be saluted “Sir” on his way in and out.)

What else, the National Mosque is a very magnificent structure that make for good photography. It is somewhere to sit and contemplate, free from the bustle of the big city. And the city really is big. Sorry Lagos, you lost the battle a long time ago. Abuja is also a city of contrasts, like every big city. On one side are sprawling landscapes of wealth, and on another side of town are huts and small houses for the “ordinary people”. But don’t let that tag fool you. An apartment for rent even in those low cost areas cost a fortune compared to other parts of the country.

I have not had my fill of that capital city, but I am at least out of there, thank goodness. As soon as I’m done devouring Kaduna, I’ll see what else these parts can offer to the footloose traveller.

PS: This town is like Ibadan all over again. Or is it just me? I’ll put up photos as soon as Starcomms allows.

Ilorin

I’m in the University town of Ilorin, having the time of my life in the midst of old friends that I last saw in Ibadan years ago. Right now, we are watching the Uruguay-Germany game at a bar. Paul the German Octopus has predicted that Germany would win, but right now, Uruguay is leading with two goals to one. I wonder how this would end. Something tells me that we might see an Octopus peppersoup dish by this time tomorrow.

I have been to the University of Ilorin. I went there today for the very first time. We tried to see the dam which was not far from the gate but we were turned back by the security folks who said they were acting on instructions of the Vice-Chancellor. Why five young men might be a threat to a University dam is still beyond my comprehension, but I was able to at least get some shots. The University is a nice place. Far more beautiful than the Adekunle Ajasin University at Akungba Akoko. But I had a very nice time in the house of the Dean of the Faculty of Arts of the AAU. He has a nice family too.

I have left the German and Taiwanese linguists from SOAS behind in Ikare where we last parted. They will be proceeding to a village called Ikakumo, and later Ayere later in the week. I on the other hand will move on towards Kaduna, and wherever else until I get broke, bored or disinterested. Right now, everything is going well. I’ve had moin-moin, ponmo and some drinks. And right as I’m typing this, Germany has equalized, and the scores is 2-2.

I’d better get back to watching the game before I miss all the action. Of course, there are many photos to share. Greetings from the Nigerian countryside. How have you been?

In Little Moments

A peep into a dark office reveals a face that he instantly recognizes as that of the erudite Yoruba Professor A.I. famous for several classic plays that have now been turned into famous movies. There were a few others there. “Good morning sir,” he greets, bending almost double towards the floor. The man doesn’t recognize him, but he is obviously used to being greeted by one and all within and out of a University environment. “That is …’s son,” the other teacher volunteers, as he always does without prompting, and the visitor withdraws. “Ah, ah,” the Professor says, “I used to know your house in -. Don’t you have a brother just as tall as you?” “Yes,” the boy responds, as he mentally calculates how long it will take to exhaust the conversation, while at least happy for a little connection. “He’s fairer than me in complexion,” he says. “Yes, yes,” the Professor agrees. “How are you?” “I’m fine sir. I used to greet you many times, but you never seem to recognize me.” “Yes. I know your brother very well. He’s abroad now, right?” “Yes he is,” he replies, wondering how the man knew, “but I was the one who went to the US.”

He was silent for only a few seconds, and then asks. “Oh, you went abroad?” “Yes, sir. To teach Yoruba.” “Oh, that’s great. So why are you back here?” The boy laughs for a short second and responds, “The programme was over. I had to come back.” “Oh really? Why didn’t you just stay there for about three to four years to do some more academic programmes?” In other climes, this might have been a trick question, and the other teacher interjects rather excitedly, sensing that the Professor was serious. “No, they weren’t supposed to stay there permanently. One of the stipulations of the programme was that they return home immediately afterwards.” And there was something a little too perky about the response. Teacher was one of the ones who had insinuated that he might not come back if allowed to go out. “Boy, wasn’t there a time when you were all asked to promise to return at the end of your programme?” “Yes,” the boy responds, sensing an opportunity to strike back, “And I always found it funny and insulting at the same time. Had they expected me to simply disappear into the thin air of the American space. I could never understand it.” The Professor just beams and nods. “Well done, boy. So will you be returning there now?” “I don’t know sir. Maybe,” he responds in the same way he has now learnt to answer the question to everyone that asks in much the same way.

Yet, he wondered as he always did if the question was borne out of a certain love for him, or a desire to be rid of his presence as soon as possible. Some altruistic sadism, perhaps? It always seemed that everyone felt him better-off in a faraway land. And for few moments afterwards, he always found himself questioning whether that occasional desire to return to the old place that sometimes spring up on him unexpectedly is conditioned by anything other than his own restless feet.

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