The Future Nigeria

Comedian AY allegedly let his temper get the better of him at the Murtala Mohammed Airport Lagos some days back.

Reports in Saturday Punch Feb 6 said that on eyewitness account, AY who was on his way to Port-Harcourt was pleading with security agents on behalf of a lady who had been stopped from boarding her flight because she didn’t check in some fluids she was carrying.

All hell was however let loose when a female security agent said something to AY as he immediately dealt her two dirty slaps back-to-back and shoved her out of the security post after which he confidently walked into the boarding gate before he was stopped by the other shocked security agents who prevented him from boarding his flight because of his violent act.

AY was reported to have stormed out of the airport with swear words, “f**k you and f**k your airport”

As a growing girl, I was lucky not to struggle with too many self-esteem issues but I did think my legs were a tad too spindly. Everytime I wore a skirt – few and far between! – I would stare at the mirror and wish I could spin some magic that would pile on some flesh on my bowling pins, especially at the ankle. Of course my wish never came true, and even though I grew up hearing that I did have a fine pair of legs, I was not so sure, and so I had many nights of cursing my DNA…

Then one fine day, I and some friends went to submit JAMB forms (yes, I’m from the pre-internet-JAMB-registration era) on Broad Street , very popular for its mad human traffic and general business. Whilst trying not to be killed by sweaty shoulders and smelly breaths, I narrowly missed walking over this guy who was crawling on his belly. He jostled me from underfoot and I quickly side-stepped into a tray of sweets; the commerce of a little trader boy. It was one confusing minute, trying to gather up the sweets and apologising to the crawling man and at the same time hollering at my friends who were unaware that I was far behind them in the throng…

A few I’m sorry-s after, I was up and on my way again, in search of my friends. When I caught up with them, I told them about the crawling man I’d just met. They in turn wondered why I had such a bewildered look. Was it the first time I was meeting a disabled person? Of course it wasn’t and I proceeded to explain. Of course the first few sentences alerted them to the philosophizing I was about to do and they were having none of it. ‘Abeg, don’t start!’, they hissed and dragged me along on our journey.

I had met many physically challenged people in my fifteen years so it wasn’t a novel situation, but for me, that was the day that a life-lesson pushed its way through the ordinariness of the world around me and etched itself upon my heart. All the time I’d been agonizing and paying too much attention to my legs, there were actually some people who didn’t have legs. You know the popular saying, ‘I complained that I didn’t have shoes until I met a man who had no legs…’? That was exactly how I felt.

I have come a long way since then and I’ve been known to be very grateful for everything and every step whether giant or pea-sized. I am one of those people who would readily console you after a loss and remind you to still be thankful for what you have left. Because that’s just how I see life. Borrowed. Unpredictable. Unexplainable…

And as far as explanations go, I have mentally dressed fate in a cloak and nudged him into the seat beside my bed. I have asked him what happened to Haiti . Yes, Haiti .

Like everyone else I have agonised about the earthquake and the destruction that was its Siamese twin. I have wept in my heart for a country fraught with so many disastrous natural phenomena yet one which has never been prepared for any of the episodes. I have had conflicted recognition for the help that has been coming the way of the Haitians. I am glad that people and countries are reaching out but it is not fun watching how the whole situation tends to portray Africans as helpless, hapless beings who are unable to have meaningful control of their own lives and are therefore doomed to constantly receiving handouts from the West. I have also managed to snap out of my angst as I continue to pray that more help finds its way through to the rubble that was once Port-au-Prince . Whether the aid comes from people who feel that they can never be complete without being caught on tape feeding some poor African chap, is neither here nor there. Whether egos are fanned or not, at the end of the day, our Haitian brothers and sisters will be the better for it and that is all that counts.

Personally though, I’m no longer looking at footage of the destruction. There’s just so much despair that I can deal with. One more shot of a bone-skinny baby being pulled out of the rubble or old people enduring the indignity of passing bodily waste on their make-shift beds and I’ll probably need some kind of therapy. Really, it is quite distressing to watch as children are brought into hospital in droves with varying levels of gangrenous wounds and fractured limbs which more often than not, beg for amputation; a process that has now attained the mundane nature of say, an eye-test.

Imagine growing up in a world where almost everyone you know, has only one leg or hand. Picture an existence where you and your best friend, boy friend, school mates, colleagues, boss have amputations in common. Many years from now, a limping community will be an ordinary thing, to thousands of Haitians. No one will stand and gawk at them as they go about their lives. Prosthetics will probably be as common-place as bandages. The neighbourhood beauty won’t shy away from being courted by the lackey next door just because he is missing a leg. What’s a leg anyway? After all she probably has none!

Unlike me, some girls won’t experience certain aspects of that journey from insecurity to self assurance. Really, what would they be worried about…? ‘Mum, I think I have an ugly leg?’ I’m not sure that’ll be the priority of many a Haitian young woman in years to come. Life and living will most likely take up centre-stage because unlike many, this generation of amputees will probably be more grateful for what they do have than sorry for what they do not. They will remember that life is what it is; borrowed, unpredictable and unexplainable. Therefore, they will treat life as only those who have nearly lost it know. They will live.

Nk’iru. Njoku.

WANTED: Your Practical Ideas

Current world population includes an estimated 1.2 billion young people between the ages of 15 and 24 years, which is about 24.7% of the world’s working age population.  Worldwide youth unemployment is high, almost three times higher than the adult unemployment rate. With the economic downturn, the worldwide youth unemployment is expected to reach 15% in 2009 (International Labor Organization, 2008).  In certain parts of the world, i.e., Sub-Saharan Africa , youth unemployment rates can be as high as 60%. More than one third of the young people in the world are unemployed, have completely given up looking for a job or are working but still living below the $2 a day poverty line (ILO), or have migrated.  Young job seekers face increasing difficulties finding work in the current economic scenario.

How can youths be part of the solution?

The Essay Competition 2010 invites youths to share ideas on:

How can you tackle youth unemployment through youth-led solutions?

Please answer both questions:

1. How does youth unemployment affect you, your country, town or local community?

2. What can you do, working together with your peers, to find a sustainable solution for job seekers through youth entrepreneurship?  Think specifically about the barriers youths face in the labor market and how to tackle difficulties in accessing capital for business startups.

We encourage you to give concrete examples if you have personal experience as a young entrepreneur and if not share your ideas about how you would go about creating a business/ work opportunities in your local community/ town/ country.

Awards are sponsored by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Norway , the Government of Sweden , and the World Bank.

1. Essay

Eight finalists will participate in the Final Jury in Stockholm , Sweden , in May 2010, and attend the Annual Bank Conference on Development Economics (ABCDE).

Money awards:

1st prize: 3,000 USD

2nd prize: 2,000 USD

3rd prize: 1,000 USD

2. Video

Author of the winning video will be invited for a screening at the occasion of the Annual Bank Conference on Development Economics (ABCDE), held in Stockholm , Sweden , in May 2010.

Money awards:

1st prize: 2,000 USD

2nd prize: 1,000 USD

3rd prize: 500 USD

The jury reserves the right to modify award amounts based on the number of winning essays / videos selected.

The World Bank International Essay Competition 2010 has been launched. This is the Seventh edition of the competition which continues each year with great success. Each year it addresses a specific subject related to youth, and this year the topic is about Youth Unemployment.

The International Essay Competition is open to all young people, students and non-students alike, between the ages of 18 and 25, from all countries of the world. You can also participate with a video instead of an essay. See the website for more details.
March 16, 2010 – Deadline for submissions

April 30 – Finalists of the essay category announced and winner of the video category announced

May – Final Jury in Stockholm , Sweden (only finalists in the essay category and winner of the video category participate)
To see full details, visit the website: http://www.essaycom petition. org/

#nowplaying
“Release me-Agnes”.
So said the twitter status of one Lekan Olanrewaju(or lex as his ghanaian friends call him) some days ago.
He’s back in his house music phase and this song is on repeat on his laptop.
Something else, however, apart from the poppy beats and unabashed synthetic sound of this song stand out to this young fellow. The message in the simplistic lyrics.

“I know it’s wrong…so why do I keep coming back?
Release me, cos I’m not able to convince myself that I’m better of without you”

How ironic… just the day before he was engaged in a serious argument with some of his female friends on this same issue.

“Why do good girls like bad guys?”

How many times have you heard this question? I know I’ve heard it far too many times for it to not irritate every cell in my body now.
But played out as I think it is I must admit there’s a reason for its recurrence.
Good girls seem to love bad
guys don’t they? The type of guys their fathers warned them about yes that category.
A good friend of mine recently started communicating with an ex of hers and apparently he wants things back the way they were.
What’s the big deal? Well nothing really…most partners will try to get back with their exes at one point or the other.
What gets me though,is the fact that she’s actually considering getting back with him.
Hey, don’t get this guy here wrong, there’s nothing wrong with getting back with your exes(if you dont mind swallowing your own vomit), it’s just the fact that they broke up cos he was, well, an asshole.
But of course now there’s this whole new “sweet” side to him…I mean really.
Wasn’t it that sweet side that attracted you to him in the first place? didn’t you run away once that layer was peeled off?
But of course, as is mostly the case, the realist comes off as a bitter grinch.
The other girls(read as hopeless
romantics) viciously(I kid you not) attacked me for being a jerk and not realising how people can change.
Now, I’m the biggest fan of change, but some things are clear.
There’s black and white, and then there’s grey.
Girls apparently seem to love the grey, and where it’s black and white they force themselves to believe its grey.
After much prodding on my part, I finally got two of them to admit they like the “work in progress” guy.Yes,the guy who’s painfully scarred for life…he’s either scared of showing his emotions or doesnt know how to.
He’s really nice deep down but he acts like he hates the world because he doesnt want his feelings to be taken advantage of.
Did anyone just roll their eyes?
Yes, it is THAT played out…I mean guys like this do exist though, but for crying out loud whi is everyone acting mean thought to be hiding something inside?
The effect of too many romantic comedies perhaps?

Anyone consider the fact he might actually, just be plain bad?

My legs shook a bit as I stood on the polished-wood podium. My mother used to tell me that every time I had to face a crowd, the best way to overcome the butterflies in my tummy was to look above the heads of my audience. It had worked tremendously during recitals and other such school activity. But this was different. I spotted mum in the distance doing her thing with her television crew; filming the event as she did every year. But dad was nowhere to be found. The one person who would make this easier for me to bear…
‘Njoku Nk’iru.!’
It was the voice of the Special Guest of Honour; Professor Grace Alele Williams, snapping me out of my musings. I walked towards her and stretched out my tiny hands. She placed the package in my hands and made a little speech which I would have memorised if I hadn’t been too busy wondering where my dad was. I received my prize and in a practised swirl, turned towards the flashing bulbs for my first taste of celebrity. A few missing teeth rendered the photographs naff, but it was a moment of glory for me…
The next name was announced and I had to leave the stage. My mind was occupied with trying not to slip on the recent wax-job so I was looking down the whole time that I descended the steps. And then I raised my head and caught a glimpse of him. I nearly knocked off one of the camera crew who was standing in my way, as I flew into the arms of my dad. I rubbed my face in his, enjoying the familiar tickle of his hairy jaw. He kissed me and then turned me towards a photographer. The flash went off a few times, capturing my tears of joy as father and child luxuriated in the aftermath of what was a great academic achievement…
It was my fourth year in primary school and I was sick of the pattern of my end of term results. I wasn’t the best thing that happened to my teachers but I was a smart pupil. It wasn’t unusual for me to be the top of my class at the first and second terms, but third term? No. I always came fourth or fifth or something like that. I couldn’t complain too much lest I be beaten up by the class bullies who constantly grazed at the bottom of the list, but I wasn’t very happy with myself. More so because third term was the prize-giving term; the one were you made your family proud and justified your parents’ hard work. It wasn’t that the first two terms didn’t matter, but third term was the icing on the cake and for three years of my life I’d watched people pick up prizes that I believed should have been mine! So I vowed that it would never happen again!
It later turned out that two other classmates had made the same dogged resolution. Seun and Titi were as ticked off as I was. So like three musketeers, we banded together, telling ourselves and one another that we would work so hard in the last term that we would each come first! It was a laugh because no one wanted second or third, even though they were prize-worthy. All three of us wanted to be the top of the class…
‘Working hard’ seemed very gallant when I made the resolve but in actual terms I realised it wasn’t anything more than paying more attention to detail. Not rushing off my essays before checking that every single tense was correct, being a bit more patient with my sums and making sure decimal points didn’t miss their places. It was also about paying less attention to other people’s errors and making sure my home economics projects were impeccable and my ‘current affairs’, current.
The three musketeers didn’t fail to check in with one another as the term wore on, and for each of us it was almost worrying to find that the others were doing as well as you in every subject. By the time prize giving season arrived, we were assuring one another that ‘everything would be alright’ even though we each were in a secret frenzy. Who would top the class? Who would come second and third? God bless Mrs. D, our class teacher, for putting us out of our misery.
A day before the end of year ceremony, she called us for a little tete-a-tete. We had all done brilliantly that term and our results were impressive. However, if she hadn’t been following our progress she would have found it weird that all three of us had scored the exact same percentage after the grades for individual subjects were collated. In other words, the three musketeers had all come first! There was no second or third! It was unbelievable!
My parents would have been proud of me as usual, whether I received a prize or not. But that day, balanced in my father’s arms, and smiling into his face, now oblivious of the crowd, it felt like a special kind of victory when he said to me, ‘Adanne…you said you would do it, and you did it! You can do anything..!.’
I still believe him.
The End.
Nk’iru. Njoku

It sounds so typically arrogant. Nigerians fooling themselves thinking they can take over everything.
Is this really taking place?
Or is it just Nigerians going a bit too far in the self-appreciation department?

In the past few years, Nigerian entertainment has undergone radical changes. As such, you have to be just as radical to fit in… or better still stand out. It is at the stage where you have to be either really, really good, or very, very bad to get any attention.
It is safe to say that the Nigerian entertainment industry as a whole has taken the position of frontrunner in the whole of Africa .

My experiences in Ghana have taught me that such has not been the case with Ghanaian singers for instance. The artistes have not been appreciated the way Nigerian artistes are by their countrymen.

“Ghanaian artistes sing absolute rubbish, only a few of them actually make fresh” says Elom a student of the University of Ghana .

Now, the case in Nigeria is a sort of gave and take if you ask me.
A solid output by artistes results in pleasant uproar from the public which only encourages them to do better. Yes it’s all just one vicious cycle of talent and creativity and appreciation.
Unfortunately, as seen from Elom whose opinion echoes a lot of what I’ve been hearing, Ghanaians do not really have that sort of appreciation for their artistes.

“Why won; t they want to sing like Nigerians? After all Dr Poh did it and it was an instant success.”
When it all comes down to it, all any artiste wants to do is put out good stuff thats gonna be appreciated. This is the opinion of one Ebenezer Anangfon.
He says that Ghanaian artistes are simply copying a formula thay have seen to work for their Nigerian counterparts.

“I have noticed with dismay over the years how the Ghanaian (artiste) always wants to behave like a westerner or look like the Nigerian and copy what a Nigerian has done,” Ebenezer once wrote with bigger vigour. “It is confirmed that Nigerians have taken over our once vibrant industry and are now dictating the pace”

True words of a concerned citizen? Or just the ramblings of a has-been with a serious complex?
The truth is, his words represent the feelings of many in this country that their originality is being lost to Nigerians.
However, this really is not the case.
To the ears of a Nigerian, there are similarities in music coming from the two countries but it doesn’t really go beyond that. Granted the Ghanaian musicians seem to have adapted to a more modern sound and like their Nigerian counterparts are becoming less afraid to experiment with western influences. But still, even a complete outsider would be able to tell the difference.
This doesn’ t change the fact that Nigerian music is quite popular here.
Take a listen to your radio here; you’re bound to here a good number of Nigerian songs played. Perhaps a night spent at the club would also be needed to convince you.
Virtually all the music played, will be, yes WILL be, of Nigerian origin.

Television is quite different though.
“I really enjoy Nigerian movies. Most of the ones in this country are about the same thing”

Sit in front of a TV and flip through channels.
Eight out of ten movies you will see are products of Nollywood. A significant number of TV shows as well are from Nigeria . Shows such as Flatmates (yes, the same one) and “Half-sisters” are very popular here.

This whole topic has been paid a lot of attention in recent times. People have taken to various media to state their opinions; from newspapers to blog posts, to Nairaland and the discussion boards on Facebook.

One thing is certain; there certainly is a Nigerian presence on Ghana ’s entertainment scene.

Enough to deserve all the fuss?

Well, you be the judge.

Four days ago, I bought a Christmas tree for my small mini-flat; complete with lights, corny Christmas music, and those fake boxes of gifts underneath. My friends don’t understand what is going on. But my mission is straightforward: I am looking for the Christmas spirit.

You see, ever since I left high school, Christmas – that end-of-the-year season of joy and laughter that Yorubas call “Feferity” (with the abundant food at home and from neighbours, and music and light) – has steadily become sourer.

Last year, I thought staying at home and watching the local TV stations (those delightfully clichéd “I want to make a request to my muuuummyyy, to my daaaaddyyy and to Aunty Helen, our house girl” broadcasts, with “Father Christmas” lurking ominously behind) would help bring back those memories. I didn’t even go to church because my congregation doesn’t do all that Christmas Day stuff. Bored out of my skin though, in the night, I decided to join friends for one of those yearly praise jams.

By the time I was through praising the God of Christmas in the midst of “true believers” however, my Nokia E71 had changed hands. Stolen, on Christmas day! Good tidings of great joy for someone else, obviously. It would have been better if I had stayed bored at home.

So this year, I have methodically planned my Christmas. I have been planning it for weeks in fact.

I will worship at a church with a colourful Christmas service. I will have many good laughs with my mother. I will aggressively visit my favourite aunts and their kitchens, and, in the evening, I will drive slowly by Ajose Adeogun to view the beautiful lights that Zenith Bank gave to Lagosians as a gift.

I know. My determination to be merry this Christmas no matter what the devil may say, still gives my friends something to talk about.

But, you see, the truth of the matter is rather simple: what I really have is a longing for those Christmas days when my father (who is late) and my mother (who will live forever) would take their seats in the sitting room I grew up in – smells of her rice and stew enveloping the entire apartment – and share delightful anecdotes, exchanging banter, while I listened in awe and couldn’t wait to grow up. Without a doubt, those were the days.

As a child, I hated being embarrassed. I could never bear to be disgraced especially in the presence of people who knew me. So until I grew up and started having real issues, the event you are about to read, ranked as the most shameful thing that happened to the little me…

It was a balmy evening with no electricity. My siblings were already asleep and I was hanging out with dad in the living room even though mum had warned me to go to bed thirty minutes before.  She was tinkering around in the kitchen and all I could think was why wouldn’t she stop all that noise? I was playing with my daddy and she was disturbing us…

Then she strolled into the living room, sweat glistening on her forehead, and wiping her wet hands on her jeans.

‘It’s hot o..’ She announced.

‘Have you finished?’ my dad asked in response.

I saw her shake her head as she walked into their room whilst packing her hair into a bun.

A few minutes later she emerged from her room now wearing shorts. The heat was that bad and she was probably antsy. Knowing that I could get a nice yelling if she saw that I was still awake, I squeezed myself into my father’s side, struggling to stay out of sight. But the hawk-eyed woman caught me.

‘You what are you doing there? Won’t you go and sleep?’

I looked into my daddy’s eyes as if the answer to her question was there. He smiled and asked her to leave me. ‘When she is tired she will go, there’s no school tomorrow’.

Ha! I was the victor. I sat there chuckling as she walked back into the kitchen.

‘Be spoiling her o! Anyway why don’t you go outside for some fresh eggs…’

Okay. ..fresh eggs, huh?  So that was why she wanted me to go and sleep? So she and dad could sit on the balcony and eat fresh eggs all by themselves? Busted!

Dad got up and I followed, of course. We went outside and he sat on the bench while I resumed one of my regular positions at his feet. I clapped my tiny hands as we recited the folk songs he had taught me over the months. I jumped on his pot-belly and remained there ‘pinching’ the heat rashes on his chest. By the light of a lantern we solved a few puzzles from his news-paper crossword. I eventually became drowsy but the thought of the fresh eggs kept me going…

Several minutes after, mum sauntered unto the balcony, still griping about the heat and worried about mosquitoes as dad had forgotten to shut the front door.  I looked at her hands and didn’t see any saucer or bowl. What was wrong with this woman?  Who was she trying to fool? Wasn’t it obvious that I wasn’t going to leave without tasting this mid-night snack of boiled eggs?

So I blurted, ‘Mummy…where are the eggs?!’

My mother stopped in what I presumed to be mock shock. ‘What eggs?’

‘The eggs you were supposed to bring for daddy, you think I didn’t hear?’ my eyebrows shot up. I was like a cynical detective interrogating an obviously guilty criminal.

‘Adanne, what are you talking about?’ Dad patted my forehead with the back of his palm…checking for a fever, maybe.

‘I heard when she said you should go outside for fresh eggs! Me too, I want!’ I finished petulantly.

Then my parents looked at each other for a few seconds after which Dad laughed under his breath as mum hissed at me, ‘I didn’t say fresh eggs, I said ‘fresh-air’! My friend, will you carry your long-throat inside the house and go and sleep like your mates!’

Oh my goodness I was so embarrassed, I could have wet my pants! I ran into the house with a stomach full of shame and it was a very long time before I could sleep. I had been disgraced in front of my dad and tomorrow, everyone else would hear my shameful story…

The next day, I expected to wake up to mocking laughter from my big brother and sniggering from my younger sister. But it wasn’t happening.  Nobody looked at me funny or passed silly comments my way…my respect was still in tact. What was going on?

It turned out that dad had made mum promise to not tell anyone my story. He had told her that I would die of shame if it got out. Mum was willing to be lip-sealed, but there was however a catch. From that day onwards, I was to let them spend their evenings together without my meddling, daddy’s best friend behaviour!  It was hard, but in view of the situation, it was a small price to pay…

However, for a long time after, every time my mum said certain words, I would diligently check to be sure that I wasn’t hearing things. I’m not sure I could have lived it down a second time if I one day heard ‘rice and stew’ instead of ‘give me my shoes’!

The end.

Nk’iru. Njoku