Ikhide

Father, Fighter, Lover

Category: Uncategorized

Cow leg nor be cornbeef!

America Police nor go kill me O! Every week for America, we dey do environmental, that is, for night you go put your dustbin outside, for morning, environmental people go come carry am with their agbegilodo lorry. The dog and the deer wen dey our compound dem plus the vulture dem nor like me at all at all. Dem be racist because dem nor like say Black man like me dey gbaladun for oyinbo neighborhood. I don call police for dem tire, still yet dem nor dey hear word. Di ting pass me. If I just put my dotty for outside like this those witch dem wen be animals go throway di dotty make everybody see dey laff me.

I go wake up for morning, come see vulture and dog and deer they laff my dotty, for road. See wahala O, all di cowfoot, abodi, roun’about, cowtail, chicken leg, chicken yansh plus eba and pounded yam and orisirisi rice don full ground. Whenever I put only oyinbo food like caviar, coleslaw, pasta and em corned beef for dotty dem nor dey troway my dotty for ground mek people know say I dey enjoy. Mba O, na only when I nack our native village food (oporoko, white soup, black soup, isiewu, etc.) naim this witch dem dey fall my hand.

So, last week for environmental (yes o, nor be only una dey do environmental for Naija, we dey do environmental too na) naim di yeye racist dogs and deer when dey our neighborhood come throway all our dotty for road for America. Our yeye oyinbo neighbor wen nor kuku like us before as she dey waka im dog now, naim e see our dotty plus all di bone dem. See wahala! Riiiing! Riing! Idiot racist don call Police with blackberry say e see with im krokro eye “what appear to be finely ground fragments of human bones and remains!” Chei! See me see trouble o, malu wen go America don become James Brown! So naim police run come with their wahala, come see ambulance (I nor know wetin ambulance dey come do with malu bone, maybe na to take am go hospital, SMH).

Even sef, police come with gun, whether dem wan shoot the malu bone I nor know. Some people come when dey call themselves HAZMAT (Hazardous Materials) team, with white coat, mask for face, gloves for hand, come dey touch everything for my domot. Fire Brigade come too! Meanwhile our neighbor don faint for our domot after e don call lawyer ( “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder on witnessing a possible murder scene!” Na money the idiot dey look for for my hand!). Dem tie one big rope all over our house wen dem write this nonsense: “STAY AWAY! YOUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK!! POSSIBLE CRIME SCENE! SUSPECT MAY BE ILLEGAL ALIEN!!” Me I nor even know say all dis penkelemesi dey shele O, I dey inside baffroom dey baff dey sing Jim Reeves like olodo wen never see hot and cold shower before!

Before you know am my iyawo and love of my life Mama_di_girl don run come meet me inside baffroom dey shout, “Ewooo! You kill person? Police dey look for you O! Abi you kill person when you dey drive and play with iyawo dem for Twitter and for Facebook? How many times I don tell you make you leave dem iyawo alone until you reach house? Agbaya! A whole old man like you! Shebi I tell you say dem take woman do you something, enh? You dis man, you nor go kill me! I hope say nor be oyinbo you kill o, otherwise na prison na im you go die put!! Olosi! If you go prison, who go take out the trash (dotty, for dose of una wen be ajepako!) If you go prison who go pay for this house? Shebi I tell you say mek you nor buy house, no, you must be like those wen better pass you! Papa_di_boy, if you die for inside prison, dem go still pay me your life insurance? Papa_di_boy!!! You nor go kill me for this America o! Why, Oh, Why did you go and kill an oyinbo person? Why are you like this?”

Na so our iyawos dey do for America o, any kpem like dis dem don throw you under molue! Before I fit say Jack Robinson, Mama_di_Girl don grab me inside baffroom, naked, “Oya go and answer your papa name for Police, olosi murderer. Goddamn sheet mora focker!” Na by luck sef na im I take grab towel take cover my blokos before my madam deliver me to police thusly: “Officers, this is the alleged murderer that you are possibly looking for. Just to be clear, he is no relative of mine, he happens to be the father of my FOUR WONDERFUL AMERICAN CHILDREN who were born here you know. Please be sure to return my towel around his waist when you are done with him, I would hate to lose it, I bought it on sale at Lord & Taylor’s, they don’t make towels like that anymore!”

As dem just dey measure my body to throw me inside their Black Maria na im I come dey shout like goat when see Christmas! “Officers! How family? Madam dem nko? They are goat bones! Goat bones! Malu! Malu! Oxtail! Oxtail!! Please don’t shoot!!!” Dem release me but them charge me for indecent exposure because the women police when come, when dem see my small chest when be like Papa Ajasco own and my small small muscle dem, and my flat yansh wen be like OBJ own, the idiots come dey laff so tay one of them come faint. Naim dem charge me for indecent exposure. Anyway dem don take the bone dem go lab for positive identification. Since dem born me, dis na di first time when I beg God make I fail exam! Come see me dey praise worship! “Spiritual powers die by fire! Die! Die! Die!” Until the result come, them say make I nor travel go anywhere. As if I wan travel before; where I dey go, who dash monkey banana, nor be money person dey take crase?

All this time when my iyawo and Police dey do me iso abi tire (“ olosi, you wan nail for inside your fat head abi you wan make we necklace you with tire wen get petrol?”) the dog dem and the deer dem when do me dis wayo just dey laff dey parambulate dey point at me dey fall dey laff dey parambulate dey point at me. Dem be witch I tell you. From now henceforth (oya laff my oyinbo now, hiss!) anytime when I eat goat meat and malu meat finish, I go grind the bone chop join, that is enh, I go hide the evidence like Baba Suwe. If I nor fit hide the evidence, I go wrap am with double Ghana Must Go bag, put am for the dustbin, then wait by the dustbin for the people wen dey carry trash to come carry am. Who wan die?

Life in America: Ring around the roses

First published 2002

It is Sunday morning in America. My wife is going to work all day and all night, she is the major breadwinner of the family. I am determined to see her before she leaves, maybe share a cup of coffee with her, and if I am lucky a conversation that is not interrupted by the wants of our children. I make it downstairs just as she is flying out the door cursing the gods of our forefathers for not waking her up in time for work. She is late, she will call me on her cell phone, no she won’t, she doesn’t want to wake up the kids. We’ll talk tomorrow she says. I stand by the door and wave her good bye as dawn licks the sleep off my weary face. America is hard.

My children are still sleeping, exhausted from harassing me all day yesterday. The Christians must be right, there must be a God. Perhaps, it is time for me to re-evaluate my life as an agnostic. It is too early to call my friend. He never sleeps but his family does and I don’t want to incur their wrath. But it sure would be nice to just talk with him about my latest ideas for saving the world. Well, maybe later. The sight of my new laptop interrupts my peace of mind. It is a thing of beauty; it has everything in it that money can buy. The people I write for occasionally decided that the cure for what appears to me to be writer’s block, is a new laptop. So they declared my old laptop too ancient for me. I thought it was still good – a 15-inch monitor 300 Mhz machine, loaded with 192 MB of RAM, 10 gigs hard drive, a DVD ROM, a zip drive, and enough software to write a prize-winning novel. So, the other day, the MIS folks came and took that away, because it was now too obsolete for whatever skills I posted on my resume. In its place, they gave me this awesome 850 Mhz behemoth chock full of everything that is out there that has been invented for the laptop. America is hard.

My two toddler boys are up and I must suspend my thoughts. They are exactly one year apart and the Americans call them Irish twins, I don’t know what that means. Let me clean them up and give them breakfast. I may be back… America is hard.

Ring around the roses,
A pocket full of posies,
Ashes! Ashes!
We all fall down!

The cows are in the meadow,
Lying fast asleep.
Ashes! Ashes!
We all fall down.

The cows are in the meadow,
Lying fast asleep.
Ashes! Ashes!
We all get up again.

My seven year old daughter is up and has the two boys linked in a circle and they are chanting the nursery rhyme, “Ring Around the Roses!” and falling down in a dizzy heap after every stanza. My gratitude to my daughter for distracting the boys while I make breakfast is muted by my rueful self-admission that I have failed so far to teach them African nursery rhymes. I must find a book of African nursery rhymes. Or maybe write one myself. Who knows the lyrics of Boju Boju? I wonder if anyone knows of any book of Nigerian nursery rhymes. America is hard.

We have two daughters. They are of school age and they enjoy taking the bus to school. They don’t know it, but I enjoy walking them to the bus stop and watching them board the bus to school. Thanks to my work schedule (I telecommute), the opportunities to walk my daughters to the bus stop are plentiful. Whenever I announce my intention to walk them to the bus stop, they get frisky, squeal with unadulterated delight and they are as joyous as Nigerian puppies offered ice cream, apologies to Peter Pan Enahoro. I wonder, where can I get a copy of his hilarious pamphlet, How To Be A Nigerian?

For a kid born and raised in Nigeria, the coming of the school bus, as I call it, is a miracle. Every school day morning, at exactly 8:25 a.m., the bus ambles to a stop at our neighborhood. The kids have already formed a long line, at the head of which is the bus patrol, a little kid who acts like the school bus prefect, ensuring discipline among his or her peers. The kid wears a brightly colored sash, plumage of the peacock, and it is unmistakable who is in charge. The bus lights are on, cars are stopped on either side, until the bus moves, and there must be no movement on either lane. The penalties for infraction are too painful to contemplate. This ritual is repeated all over our local government by more than one thousand school buses. As parents, we take this ritual for granted. We don’t stop to thank the bus operator for being on time every day. However, let the bus be late five minutes, and parents become placard carrying pro-democracy activists. They call the local Board of Education Office and threaten fire and brimstone on the elected Board members for allowing such an injustice against little children. Apologetic staffers scurry around offering apologies, crafting carefully worded memos that essentially promise an improvement in services. The under-performing bus operator is hauled to class to participate in the continuous improvement program of the day. It is simply amazing.

As a first-generation immigrant, whenever I witness this drama, I alternate between amusement, and amazement. The other day, my little girl’s friend claimed that as she was going to the bus stop all by herself (gasp! What horrid parents, to allow a seven year old walk 100 yards to the bus stop ;-)) she was accosted by a strange man as she dashed through the woods to the bus stop. Man, the ensuing fracas was a major performance. The school system held a press conference denouncing this strange man (who was never caught). The girl’s divorced parents united albeit briefly to denounce the school system and the police and everybody else for what happened to this little girl. And the police, not to be outdone, held a press conference to denounce itself and the strange pervert who almost abducted this sweet little girl. For about a week, there was a police cruiser at our bus stop to ensure that no sweet little girl would ever be irritated by a strange pervert posing as a man.

My children have no idea HOW lucky they are. They are cursed or blessed by a life of perpetual prosperity. They don’t understand real want, they’ll never understand the pain of not having and the joy of really getting what you really want. The other day, my little girl came running into the house from school, really upset. “Daddy! Daddy!” she shrieked, “The bus ride was bumpy!” Man, I really would have loved a bumpy bus ride to my primary school, FIVE miles from what passed as my home.

The divide between my adopted local government in the US and ALL of my country Nigeria is beyond a sad joke. The annual operating budget of this local government’s public school system is 1.3 billion US dollars. The cost per pupil for a regular education is almost $9,000. The cost per pupil for special education (developmentally disabled) children is about $17,000. My daughters have access to things I would never have dreamed of as a boy growing up in Nigeria. Sometimes I wonder if this is not unnecessary icing on the cake. They have teachers, school psychologists, and all sorts of counselors. Pray, what is a psychologist doing around a six year old? You should see the school’s library. It is really not called a library, it is a media center, chock full of the very latest in instructional computer technology. It just seems that Apple and IBM are in competition at these schools over who cares more for our children. So my children have everything that I did not have growing up. America is hard.

In America, it appears that power and resources bubble up from the local government up to the central level. That in my opinion is what a true federation should be. It took the genius of the perpetually troubled Bill Clinton and the vacuity of the perpetually clueless George Bush to convince us in America of the near irrelevance to our lives of the American presidency. The war over the annoying Gore and the blank Bush was really fought over the supremacy of two ideologies each of which some note, with biting cynicism, claim a difference without a distinction. We woke up one morning and realized that our energies were better spent at the local level trying to effect change for our children and us. The money is in our village. The advocates of a Sovereign National Conference in Nigeria (SNC) are right on the money. We must restructure Nigeria in the interest of our children.

I am not saying that just having gobs of US dollars is the panacea for whatever ails our society. Problems abound in America and throwing money at the problems appears to simply exacerbate a bad situation, like the war on drugs. Take my children for instance. As African Americans they have been identified early as at-risk children, least likely to succeed in America. There are all sorts of studies out there (outside the profoundly silly Bell Curve) that indicate that there is a persistent academic gap between African American children of all socioeconomic backgrounds and white children. This gap persists despite all the resources that my children are exposed to every day. It seems that excess is not enough in America. But then I wonder, would my children be better off in the Nigeria that I grew up in?

I am convinced that they would be worse off in today’s Nigeria. I am really thinking of the Nigeria of the sixties, the seventies and the early eighties. I don’t know. I am stuck in time; of a halcyon period that holds some really pleasant boyhood memories. My children will never know the thrill of going to BATA to try out new shoes. They seem to get new shoes every month! They will never know the thrill of sitting down at Christmas in true anticipation of a once a year bounty of lots of rice and lots of meat. They will never know the pleasures of traveling through books to far away places like New York, London, and Paris. They have been to those places already. Where do they get their joy from, I always wonder as I watch them from the corner of my eyes. I am convinced that these children derive their joy from things and events that are alien to me. I have seen them at the beaches squealing with what has to be pure delight as the waves kick their little butts. What kind of fun is that? I have seen them at the pool chase the ice cream truck with my wallet and marveled at the pleasure in their faces as they emptied my wallet into the wallet of the ice cream man in return for soggy ice cream sandwiches. Well whatever turns them on, to each his or her own…

So you can see that there is a lot on my mind this morning. There are several stories in my head and my editor expects them out of my head and into this new laptop. Seeing how disoriented I am this morning, I wonder how Chinua Achebe and Wole Soyinka wrote their classics without a computer and definitely without the Internet. Excess retards progress. America is hard.

So, you, my friend in Nigeria, think about my children here in America and I shall think about your children in Nigeria. If we think about what we need to do to help all our children, perhaps, we can save both nations, America and Nigeria. I shall be back. I have a lot to talk to you about. Maybe my writer’s block is wearing off. Maybe. My boy wants me to pick him up and pirouette around the living room. That is his favorite treat. Hold on, with luck he might go to sleep… America is hard.

 

Life in America: How to be a man!

Today did not go well. I woke up in America where civil servants do not have house help, gatemen, cooks, big fat SUVs to bring big fat sautéed escargot (em snail!) to you in bed, etc! I don’t like it! I miss Nigeria! Where is my cook? I want my coffee! The other day I had to take my sons myself (!) to their football practice! No driver! Lawd have mercy, I can’t live like this! I want to go back to Nigeria! I don’t like being a man in America! Waah! Wail! Sniff!! I would like to be a man. In Nigeria. Yeah, I just got back from Nigeria where real men are treated like real men!

Allah, I swear, I am moving back to Nigeria because they know how to treat men with respect over here unlike in America where men are glorified houseboys. I really loved and enjoyed being a man in Nigeria. People brought the food to me, gave me water to wash my hands and then someone came to take away the plates after I was done and then someone thanked me for eating the food! Wow!

In America, things are back asswards, the children eat first and because things are expensive I have to wait for them to finish eating after which I polish off their leftovers. So it will not go to waste. For this, my children call me Father Dustbin! So after being treated like a king in Nigeria, I must say that readjusting to life in America has been a big problem. My family has a different view of the crisis; they think I brought a big bad attitude from Nigeria and they don’t like it.

When I was in Nigeria, I loved the way the women treated the men over there. With major ‪#‎RESPECT. The men hang around places drinking Guinness Stout and chomping nkwobi and complaining about Nigeria (“Goodluck na badluck!, no road, no water, problem has changed name again, whine, whine, whine!”) The women would bring the food to us. If they were too big to serve us (eg Madam Minister), they hired servants who chased us all over the house offering to do anything for and to us.

Yes! I was a man in Nigeria, hell, I even looked down there and my blokos was there! We would belch and they would thank us for eating the food! Then Safuratu the house help would come take away the dishes! Wow!

My first night in Nigeria, when I saw the food was ready, I rushed to the kitchen with a bowl and spoon ready to get my own by myself. The women didn’t like that. They ordered me back to the parlor to wait to be treated right, like a man. All the men in the parlor gave me a big speech about how I should be a man and stay away from the kitchen and not do womanly things!

I apologized and I was referred to my chair where I proceeded to join the men and complain about Nigeria while waiting to be served like the man I had become. After the meal, before I could get up to take the plates to the sink to wash them I was tackled by several house help (“Tank sah! Tank sah! You want tooth pick? You want Gulder?”). They would not allow me do the dishes.

 At this point I was beginning to really, really, really like Nigeria. I mean, this is how to live if you are a real man! Why, someone even polished my shoes! Hell if I dare ask Ominira to go get my shoes she would go “where did u put them daddy?”) I really really, really love Nigeria.

 The first time I saw a Nigerian friend of mine eat his food, leave the plate where he sat and walk away with his toothpick in his mouth, I panicked. I thought the wife would be upset, run after him and give him an upper cut for leaving his manners on the table!

I ran after him and I said “Ol’boy I am sure you forgot and I don’t blame you for forgetting because the ofensala was good but you need to do the dishes or madam will be angry!” He didn’t understand wetin be “do the dishes” and I explained it to him, you know, washing your plate, blah, blah, blah. He thought it was funny, he started laughing and he stopped laughing after he realized he would have a heart attack from laughing and there was a shortage of helicopters to rush him to a hospital in Saudi Arabia! He said America has made me crazy!

When the wife found out he had left the table, she grabbed a bottle of Gulder and chased after him and said, “My lord you forgot this. Drink it before it gets warm!” He belched in gratitude. I love Nigeria! When I went home, Africa gave me my blokos back and said, “nna men, you are a man! Act like a man!” That was fun! When I landed back in America, Customs took my blokos away, called it contraband, shook my hand and said, “Welcome to America, man!”

J. M. G. Le Clézio: Onitsha, their Onitsha

The novel Onitsha written by French author and 2008 Nobel laureate J. M. G. Le Clézio is a beautiful piece of fiction. Originally written in French and translated into English in 1997, it bears prose that steals your heart. Le Clézio can sustain quiet tension in a book and build up suspense. It does get silly in places where it succumbs to a puzzlingly mythical babble in which case it deteriorates from haunting prose to malarial hallucinations about the deities of Egypt and Ethiopia. As for the content and what it says about how the West sees Africans, it is an ugly book for it reveals the insidious patronizing attitudes of white liberals.

According to the blurb, “Onitsha tells the story of Fintan, a youth who travels to Africa in 1948 with his Italian mother to join the English father he has never met. Initially enchanted by the exotic world he discovers in Onitsha, a bustling city prominently situated on the eastern bank of the River Niger, Fintan gradually comes to recognise the intolerance and brutality of the colonial system and gives the novel a notably direct, horrified perspective on racism and colonialism.”  I agree with the blurb for different reasons. I think Onitsha is a racist book. You can smell Africa in Le Clézio’s Onitsha. Unfortunately, Africa reeks in his imagination: “Fintan breathed in the odour. It entered him, soaked into his body. Odour of this dusty earth, odour of the very blue sky, the gleaming palm trees, the white houses. Odour of women and children dressed in rags. Odour which possesses the town” (p20)

onitsha

Hear Fintan’s surprise as he comes in contact with Africans, when their ship lands in Africa from Europe: “Fintan discovered the source of the sound: the entire foredeck of the Surabaya was crowded with blacks! They crouched down and were beating with hammers on the hatches, the hull and the frames to remove the rust.” Blacks! You almost hear ‘Vermin!’ The first time he saw us, we were immediately labeled the other, apart from whites, human-like but not quite. In 1948. And once the book encounters our humanity, everything starts to get wretched, dark and savage. Europe is light; Africa is darkness. In 1948, the visiting white expatriate sees Africa as exotica and the otherness of the African reeks of savagery. We are talking of a time when our folks were returning home from England, armed with the Golden Fleece. In 1948, Nigeria’s premier university, The University of Ibadan was founded. This was after the era that inspired Wole Soyinka’s Ake: The Years of Childhood, that wholesome memoir of childhood and family values. This is not the same Nigeria of Nnamdi Azikiwe’s epic autobiography, My Odyssey that so wonderfully captured the intellectual passion of 1930’s Africa.

In this semi-autobiographical tale, Le Clézio exposes the racism of the colonialists in the era in copious detail. Fintan and his mother Maou are saddened by the verbal and physical abuse that blacks endure in the hands of insensitive whites and the experience is quite gruesome. Black prisoners work in chains digging swimming pools for the pleasure of whites, getting injured as the walls collapse on them. In the process, though, Le Clézio seems to unmask his own prejudices as he describes Africans in the patronizing lingo invented and perfected by white liberals: “She has never cared for anyone as much as she cared for these people. They were so gentle, their eyes so luminous, their gestures so pure and elegant.  When she walked through the different neighbourhoods to reach the wharf, children came up to her, not shy, and caressed her arms; women took her by the hand, spoke to her, in the gentle language which hummed like music” (p118)

The research is sloppy and it shows. There is no excuse for what passes for Pidgin English in the book. What Le Clézio calls Pidgin English does not exist in West Africa, it was clearly contrived: “Big black fellow box spose white man fight him, he cry too mus!” p40. Go figure.  Le Clézio is at pains to showcase his knowledge of African gods, mythologies and history; unfortunately the result is error-prone. He places Benjamin Adekunle, the “Black Scorpion” on the Biafran side of the Nigerian Civil war (p193).  Sigh. Don’t ask me how Le Clézio got to Biafra from 1948.

In Le Clézio’s Africa, everything is pristine, filled with a contrived innocence. It is truly fiction so he could be forgiven for liberal applications of poetic license. Africa is storm buckets of thunder and rain and mud and more thunder. Everything is dark. Africans are subhuman and primitive. And sweetly angelic in a childlike way. The book is populated by black people with distended exaggerated features. The title of the book should be The Great White Hope Comes to Save Africa Again. Joseph Conrad, meet Le Clézio. This is history liberally distorted, romanticised to fit a liberal orthodoxy. How can a book written in the nineties be so bigoted? The real question is this: Why do many Western writers who write about Africa persist in seeing us as hapless sub-humans?

The many joys of fatherhood

When I was a little boy, I looked forward to being a father. We did not call them dads in those days, we called them ‘father’ or ‘papa’. Any other term of endearment was liable to get us in big trouble which usually meant an adult fist or something more malevolent colliding with a sensitive area of a child’s head. It just seemed at the time that my dad did not have much responsibility. Our main connection with Papalolo was extracting money from him. In retrospect, he was a generous giver, but at the time I remember us going to him for stuff with great trepidation. There was always drama accompanying any request. There would be the history lesson on how children of nowadays do not value money, blah, blah, blah. There would be the interrogation; “What do you need money for, do you think money grows on trees?”

Dad was the breadwinner and he made sure we knew it. He went to work in clothes that we had starched and ironed and in shoes that we polished so well we could see our teeth in their shine. He would return from the day’s job loudly protesting the stress of work, blah, blah, blah. One of us would be deployed to grab his briefcase (we don’t remember ever seeing the inside of that briefcase, maybe it was for show), one of us would take the shoes off him once he had sat down to continue his tale of woe about work and one would hand him a glass of cold water from the pot (we did not have a fridge at the time, we heard rumors that some families had it). Then my mother would, with great drama, produce his dinner. It just seemed like a great life, this patriarch that got his way without as much as snapping his fingers.

I am a father now and I can only say that I should sue my father; he cleverly hid all the indignities that fathers are subjected to in the household. The good news is that unlike the male praying mantis, our heads are not decapitated after sex. In my generation, men have lost the perks of patriarchy and added other responsibilities to the weighty ones that my father hid so well from us. For one thing, the children seem to be in charge around here, and heaven help you if you complain. They may call the police and social services on your black behind. The Princeton sociologist Viviana Zelizer, perhaps inspired by a tall glass of cognac (VSOP, straight, no ice cubes), blurted out the other day that today’s children are “economically worthless but emotionally priceless.” This truth told under the influence inspired hundreds of angry essays in support of her great words like this one called, well, Why Parents Hate Parenting. We are about to #Occupy our kids’ bedrooms. Kids have gone from being our cheap labour to being our bosses.

Why, the other day, our teenager Ominira’s phone broke. I remember the day quite vividly, when she came to me very calmly and assured me that her phone was broken and we would need to go to the store right away to get a replacement. In Ominira’s world, breaking a phone is like breaking an arm, and our daughter’s pain threshold is pretty low, more like zero. We had to go to the phone store right away. Ominira goes everywhere with her friends, all 5,000 of them. They tweet, they Facebook, they instagram, they snapchat, they rarely see each other in person, in fact like every other member of her generation, she has only physically met five of her 5,000 friends.

So, we went to the phone store with the offending phone. Ominira was not happy with the phone; the stupid phone had made the mistake of falling into water all by itself. This is one stupid bumbling phone; I don’t understand why they call it a smartphone. Why would you drop inside water all by yourself? Ominira was in the car fuming at the world. She had commandeered her little brother’s phone because she needed to do some really important stuff with her friends on Facebook. Her little brother was unimpressed with the urgency of the moment and insisted on accompanying his own smartphone with Ominira to the store in case Ominira attempted to drop the phone in the water like she did her own phone by accident. This unnecessary move was not appreciated by Ominira and a huge fight broke out in the car with all 5,000 Ominira’s Facebook friends witnessing. This she accomplished by posting on her status the kinds of gory things she would do to her “doofus stoopid” brother once there were no parental witnesses. Little brother Lion Cub did not take kindly to these Facebook threats and blamed me for not allowing him to have a Facebook account, otherwise the whole world would know that Ominira has a boyfriend! Until that moment, I had not known this very important distressing news. Sigh! I want my mommy!

[Guest BlogPost] Stanley Onjezani Kenani: Waiting for departure in Port Harcourt

‘I am going to Nigeria!’ I said when the Africa39 list was announced.

 Online newspapers in Malawi did not know what to make of the news. ‘Malawian writers Stanley Onjezani Kenani and Shadreck Chikoti have been named  among 39 under 40,’ one paper wrote. In the comments section, an anonymous reader rightly asked: ‘What does that mean?’

 Another paper probably understood too much about what the news meant, because it wrote: ‘Kenani and Chikoti have been selected among 39 best African writers under the age of 40.’ They put a photo of a smiling me at the centre of the article. I weigh slightly over a hundred kilos, and my stomach looks like I am seven months pregnant.

First comment: ‘Is the man in the photo really under 40? Please, let us not be like African footballers, always understating their age.’ Farther down the comments section, a former classmate in college jumped to my defence. ‘I was in the same class with him,’ he wrote. ‘He was tiny before he started working for a hotel.’ But the news had by that time ceased to be about what the Africa39 list meant.

I wrote the editor of the online outfit to clarify that we were not 39 ‘best African writers under the age of 40.’ There were finer writers out there who were not on the list. I mentioned NoViolet Bulawayo as an obvious example. We were, instead, ‘39 of the most promising African writers under the age of 40’. Ignoring my point, he wrote back: ‘How much money have they given you for making the list?’

 I gave up.

But the way the news was received showed that Africa39 meant different things to different people. To me, it meant going to Nigeria to eat jollof rice. My work as an accountant gives me few opportunities to interact with like-minded individuals. In Geneva, Switzerland, where I live, there is hardly any friend I could meet and discuss writing with.

So I looked forward to interacting with all those wonderful people, colleagues I had known for a while like Rotimi Babatunde and Abubakar Adam Ibrahim, and lots of others I would be meeting for the first time, among them the brilliant Kenyan poet Clifton Gachagua, whose poetry collection, Mad man at Kilifi, I was reading alongside Kei Miller’s awesome The Cartographer Tries to Map a Way to Zion.

I was curious about the format the Port Harcourt gathering was going to take. I hoped it would be like Macedonia’s Struga Poetry Evenings where, after reading our poems back in 2007, we poets would gather at the balcony of the Hotel Drim to drink free wine or beer or coffee while talking about Ezra Pound or any of the greats. Or Poetry Africa in Durban where I had the chance to sit down for dinner with Dennis Brutus two years before his death. In short, I hoped for a collegial atmosphere that would make it possible for me to build new friendships.

Port Harcourt, however, turned out to be a disappointment in some way – and I am speaking for myself. The only time the writers got to meet as one group was when they sat on the bus to go to the University of Port Harcourt, or to the Ken Saro-Wiwa Centre, or to the Alliance française.

Africa39  1There was an attempt at organizing a cocktail on the festival’s opening day. The only drink featured was fruit juice. It was a colossal failure.

But not all was lost. Those who knew each other before Port Harcourt gathered in smaller groups in the evenings to chat. They sat next to the swimming pool at the foot of the ten-storey Presidential Hotel where those who could afford ordered drinks from the hotel’s expensive poolside bar.

I got to know Eghosa Imasuen this way. Desperate to shake off boredom one evening, I wandered to join a group of people I was not familiar with. And there was Eghosa. And Lola Shoneyin. And Ken Saro-Wiwa Jr. And Chibundu Onuzo. And a few other wonderful people.

Eghosa is the type of person that makes you feel as though the two of you have already met before. He started off with imitating my voice in a way that made everyone laugh. He had heard me earlier speaking on behalf of the other writers at the opening ceremony, and it was the delivery of that speech he imitated with admirable exaggeration. Great guy, Eghosa. I looked for a copy of his book, Fine Boys, but by the time I got it, he had already left the festival, depriving me of the chance for his autograph.

Ad hoc gatherings like these are what rescued the book festival from becoming too boring for me.  Organizers, friendly and helpful whenever you accosted them for help, gave me the overall impression of being overwhelmed by the enormity of the moment.

Africa39 2Days were long and empty, especially since there was only one event per day. Some of those once-a-day outings were not as satisfactory as I would have wanted them to be, because it mostly meant mentioning your name, which the audience were probably hearing for the first time, and in all likelihood forgot it as soon as you finished introducing yourself. You could also probably say a sentence or two about your work, and that was all. We were, after all, 22 of us, and moderating such a crowd was far from easy. Perhaps if it were any person other than the brilliant Ellah Allfrey as moderator, the events could have been without life.

I tried to enjoy the Nigeria I had come to see. I tasted the food and ventured into the streets. I saw excellent buildings of a city on the rise. I saw churches of various names and sizes. Cars seemed to be in a perpetual ‘go-slow’ or ‘hold-up,’ terms meant to classify various types of traffic jam. If Port Harcourt is like this, I wondered, what about Lagos?

On our way to the University of Port Harcourt, I saw a giant billboard touting the Rivers State development agenda. At the foot of that billboard a man was passing urine, and for a moment I wondered whether that was a kind of protest, that he was deliberately pissing on his state’s development agenda.

At the Ken Saro-Wiwa Centre, a poster on a building across the street said, ‘We must try our best to make the next governor of Rivers State an Ijaw man or woman.’

Horrified by such blatant tribalism, I said to the man standing next to me, ‘In Malawi, where I come from, that would be illegal.’ The man, probably Nigerian, said that maybe Nigerians were right to drop the pretences. ‘In Kenya, for instance,’ he said, ‘I hear such a poster would also be illegal. But, believe it or not, privately Kikuyus would in general say they want the next president to be a Kikuyu; and Luos would say they want a Luo.’

I ventured back into the Ken Saro-Wiwa Centre. I found that writers had quickly organized themselves for an impromptu show. Ricaredo Boturu from Equatorial Guinea read us a beautiful poem in Spanish; Chibundu Onuzo sang, Nana Brew-Hammond and others read from the Africa39 anthology or recited poems of their own. Glaydah Namukasa presented an interesting piece in Luganda.

But aside from such flashes of interesting outings, the entire event, on my part, passed with me lying on bed and yawning, waiting for departure.

Finally, we left. At the airport, the security guard nearly blocked me from proceeding to the departure gate. Apparently, he did not understand French and German – the only languages written on my Swiss residency permit.

About five people inside the airport asked me for money: the police who searched my bag, immigration officials who stamped my passport and security guards who screened my hand luggage. But it was the sixth person who impressed me, because he asked for a book. I gave him José Saramago’s The year of the death of Ricardo Reis.

We were three hours early for the flight, but an interesting chat with Tope Folarin made those hours fly by unnoticed. Tope’s work ethic left me so inspired that I boarded the plane looking forward to a lot of writing back home.

As my plane shot into the dark skies of the Port Harcourt night, I told myself that it had certainly been worth my while to come, to see the Nigeria I had always wanted to visit. I wished, however, that the event had been shorter and more compact.

­­­­

stanleyStanley Onjezani Kenani is a writer from Malawi. Shortlisted for the Caine Prize in 2008 and 2012, he was named as one of the Africa39. His short story, The Old Man and the Pub, is part of the Africa39 anthology edited by Ellah Allfrey and published by Bloomsbury in October 2014. An accountant, he currently lives and works in Switzerland.

Ikhide Ikheloa: Analog Origins, Digital Destinations

The Internet for me has been invaluable in networking, propagating and sharing ideas all over the world. There is no way I would have reached so many people in an analog world. I do find it frustrating on one level: One’s works are scattered all over the place and it is virtually impossible to gather them under one roof if one is prolific or garrulous. I am garrulous. Take interviews, I have granted quite a few of those but it is hard to remember where and to whom. I would like to start the difficult procees of collecting my documented thoughts under one umbrella, perhaps using this blog. Here is an interview I did with Sola Osofisan. It is one of my favorites. Here is how I introduce him in the interview:

Sola Osofisan: Chief Ikhide…I still think of you as Nnamdi, that faceless guy shooting out those occasional musings on our varied experiences in America. We published a whole chain of essays from you on Nigeriansinamerica.com as far back as 2002. But I never asked you why you had to publish under a pseudonym back then. Is it time to share the story of how and why you came up with Nnamdi? And when did you realize it was time to retire him and let Ikheloa roar?

Ikhide Ikheloa: Sola, so, I don’t know that many people know about you, certainly not about your pioneering work in the field of African literature, in introducing an entire generation of writers and thinkers to that huge canvas in the sky that we call the Internet. I am thinking of your work with your websites Nigerians in America and africanwriter.com. I am also thinking of your leadership on the listserve Krazitivity, the first real digital watering hole for Nigerian writers, artists and thinkers, from Ngozi Chimamanda Adichie to Helon Habila, folks like Afam Akeh, E.C. Osondu, Toni Kan Onwordi, Remi Raji, Chika Okeke, Wumi Raji, Unoma Azuah, Jahman Anikulapo, Victor Ekpuk, Chika Unigwe, Olu Oguibe, Nnorom Azuonye, Obi Nwakanma, Obemata (Abdul Mahmud), Molara Wood, Victor Ehikhamenor, Lola Shoneyin, Amatoritsero Ede, Pius Adesanmi, Tade Ipadeola, Tolu Ogunlesi, etc. etc. In those days, if you were not on Krazitivity, you had not arrived, as a writer. We should hold a reunion. This is my long rambling way of saluting you for your quiet, purposeful work as a digital visionary, helping to shape, without fanfare, the trajectory of literature. The world may not know you, but I hope history shines a light on you as that mysterious near-mythic force that helped nurture African literature on the digital space in the 21st century. I salute you. You are famously reclusive, and so unlike many of your peers, you are not an e-household name, but you do have a cult following (me included) who adore you for your mind and awesome prose poetry. For those who do not know you, I would recommend your latest book, Blood Will Call of which E.E. Sule did a wonderful review (here).

I love this interview because it is as comprehensive as you would get into my ideas about literature and the Internet. It also compiles at the end other interviews I have done.

Now read the rest of the interview here…

For our son, Fearless Fang: The gift of you…

“Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.”
― Albert Einstein

I have this essay in my head I would love to write, inspired by Fearless Fang and Lion Cub, our teenage sons. It is about multiple intelligences. Fearless Fang is almost indifferent to books, but he is built in the oral tradition of my ancestors. He is a smart kid, he loves to play, he could be on the football field for hours and that is just fine with him. He’ll spout off ”stats” about different kinds of football plays (he literally sleeps with his football “playbook”) but tell him that he is reeling statistics, and he shuts down. I don’t think he likes to read books, but he loves the iPad. I can tell when he is on it; the sound of his liquid laughter carries the house away from its foundation as he travels the world through its glowing monitor. America’s schools prefer his brother Lion Cub, the geek who loves books and can stand the rigid sage on the stage 19th century style of instruction that still holds the world’s classrooms hostage.

FearlessFangTodaYyI once watched Fearless Fang during “Black History Month” recite a Langston Hughes poem to the accompaniment of riffs from his guitar and I understood something – it is not about the book, it is about the ideas in the person. I wish the classroom would understand Fearless Fang. I am not knocking books, I would not be here without them, I am only saying that in the 21st century, we should consider the heresy – which is that the book is dying a long slow death. I think also that the digital world offers creative opportunities for thinkers and teachers to reach all children, especially brown children. Our son is fine. The iPad may have saved him from state sanctioned academic ethnic cleansing.

The book is powerful. It can open doors. It can slam doors shut. In the 21st century, the “book” threatens to be the most stifling word ever written. In the 21st century, in the digital age, the thinker cannot think outside the confines of the book. The thinker insists on being a writer – of books. The book will not go down without a fight. I say, read, read, read, read everything, not just books. Write, write, write, write everywhere, not just in books.

Our sons and I go to this barbershop that is owned by this dude with a college degree. The degree hangs on his wall; he is a great barber though. I imagine he took thousands of dollars in college loans simply for the privilege of hanging a certificate on the wall. Somehow one feels complete with a degree. Which is a shame. The other day the locksmith came to the house to install an electronic Bluetooth enabled lock. $125 he said it would cost us, for a basic installation. We would have to get a computer technician to program the lock with Bluetooth. We laughed harder than Unoka and sent him away, too expensive. Lion Cub took down the old lock, and with a video he found on YouTube he installed the new lock and programmed all our smartphones to open and lock the door. My Lover (ML) and I have the manual keys in case the app fails – or Lion Cub locks us out of the house. He is also our network administrator, which gives him incredible control over our lives in the house. It is a new world; patriarchy is under attack by the forces of technology. Lion Cub is going to college. If he simply knocked on doors and installed locks, in four years he would be wealthy. He is going to college. In four years we will owe what he would have earned if he had been a locksmith. It doesn’t sound right. But America is weird like that.And yes, Fearless Fang is going to college, even if it kills me. I hope he gets a football scholarship. It is what it is.

At the barbershop the dudes yell at each other about ideas. They don’t read books. I have this feeling that they hate books. All their lives they have been shepherded from stifling classroom to patronizing teachers to prison. You should see the tattoos on these guys. They don’t read books, they hate books, but they are intellectuals, they just don’t know it. I go in there for a haircut, me and my book and my iPad. Their eyes point at me and laugh, and go, “The intellectual is here!” I think they are mocking me.

the boys

For Linda Ikeji: Wole Soyinka on Mukhtar Alexander Dan’Iyan (@MrAyeDee)

Those following the Linda Ikeji saga will forever remember her adversary, who goes by the Twitter handle @MrAyeDee. His real name is Mukhtar Alex Dan’Iyan. My views about the whole episode may be summed up in this interview with 9jafeminista. I promised to share on Twitter Professor Wole Soyinka’s views of him; it is rather harsh, but is very important to understand the man that Linda Ikeji was up against. I have known Mukhtar since the early 90’s, first on Naijanet where I was the towncrier, and then as members of the Association of Nigerians Abroad, where I served as Secretary General, and then as adversaries and allies inside the pro-democracy movement.  I shall have more to say about those heady, exciting and dangerous times, indeed I felt it was necessary for folks on Twitter to know his real name, it wasn’t obvious that they did. I don’t regret that outing, folks needed to know what they were up against. I shall have more to say about that someday. Let’s just say he was formidable enough to attract the attention and ire of Professor Wole Soyinka, a rage which spilled into his memoir, You Must Set Forth at Dawn. Here is a direct quote from Soyinka on Mukhtar:

“One was a self-hating Igbira, a minority tribe from the Nigerian hinterland, whose yearning to be mistaken for a Fulani aristocratic scion had resulted in his changing his name from Daniyan to Dan’Iyan. Partnering him was an ambitious youth from Swarthmore College, Jude Uzowanne. The third member was a labor unionist from Edo in southern Nigeria, Tunde Okorodudu, an activist in his own right who fell under the spell of the fourth member and center of intrigue, the liaison officer for the U.S. Boston chapter, Maureen Idehen, a pharmacist who had worked closely with me and was central to the coordination of activities for much of the United States. Together, this Gang of Four—the accolade was spontaneously bestowed—succeeded in serving a timely lesson on the power lust even among a yet inchoate formation that sought to curb power at its most virulent and malignant. It was a low point in the career of the anti-Abacha movement, suddenly compelled to confront the banal distractions of trite intrigues and personal ambitions. Expelling the miscreants took its toll. The liaison officer, the Boston-based Maureen Idehen, made off with our scant funds, leaving behind a trail of bad checks.”

Now read what Soyinka had to say in its entirety. I am intimately familiar with most of he issues, I lived it along with Mukhtar and many others.  Soyinka was NOT happy with “The Gang of Four.” I don’t think he should have mentioned them in his memoir and in some cases things got muddled up a bit. One day, there may be a need for a Truth Commission to unpack all of this. Oya read… Linda Ikeji never knew what hit her. Mukhtar Dan’Iyan is one of the most brilliant and tenacious fighters I have ever engaged in my life. As an adversary and as an ally, I grew to respect and in some cases fear his mind. Those were the days. Oya read…

“I HAD HARDLY recovered from that exercise when, thanks to a meeting with the South African poet Breyten Breytenbach, a former prisoner of apartheid, we found an opening through which we could advance the newly unified organization from the beginnings made at the Johannesburg/Oslo meetings. The George Soros–sponsored Goree Institute in Dakar, of which Breyten was a board member, agreed to facilitate the second meeting of the umbrella group, now going by the name of the United Democratic Front of Nigeria (UDFN). That gathering took place over strong diplomatic representations by the Abacha regime. The Senegalese government replied that it did not make a habit of intervening in “cultural” meetings, which, to the best of its knowledge, this was meant to be, since it was sponsored by the Goree Institute. It was a moment to be savored, the solidarity of the Senegalese government with the democratic cause and the coming together of twenty-seven organizations spread all over the globe, from Australia to Canada. Alas, the affliction I sought to escape in NADECO traveled with the luggage of a handful—a mere quartet, American-based—of the delegates. It served to increase my bewilderment at the craving for position and power in human disposition, one that seems especially absurd when an intervention in the fate of millions is initiated from the position of a weak challenger. It proved to be a near death at nativity; a movement that had been formed to liberate a nation from the very bane of power found itself enmeshed in a tawdry tussle for position. I had declined any formal position within the new body. This, however, signaled a contest for what the ambitious quartet read as an opportunity for self-promotion into a vacuum and the complete takeover of the organization. The plot had been hatched well in advance. It began from the moment that the liaison officer for Boston discerned, with absolute certainty, that I would not run for office and would remain content with my functions as an informal ambassador to the movement. The irony of such jostling was totally lost on the conspirators. One was a self-hating Igbira, a minority tribe from the Nigerian hinterland, whose yearning to be mistaken for a Fulani aristocratic scion had resulted in his changing his name from Daniyan to Dan’Iyan. Partnering him was an ambitious youth from Swarthmore College, Jude Uzowanne. The third member was a labor unionist from Edo in southern Nigeria, Tunde Okorodudu, an activist in his own right who fell under the spell of the fourth member and center of intrigue, the liaison officer for the U.S. Boston chapter, Maureen Idehen, a pharmacist who had worked closely with me and was central to the coordination of activities for much of the United States. Together, this Gang of Four—the accolade was spontaneously bestowed—succeeded in serving a timely lesson on the power lust even among a yet inchoate formation that sought to curb power at its most virulent and malignant. It was a low point in the career of the anti-Abacha movement, suddenly compelled to confront the banal distractions of trite intrigues and personal ambitions. Expelling the miscreants took its toll. The liaison officer, the Boston-based Maureen Idehen, made off with our scant funds, leaving behind a trail of bad checks. I should have been warned by the extralong talons, garishly decorated, that she affected in place of fingernails, but this highly efficient intriguer was the daughter of an old schoolfriend and classmate. His visits to his daughter in Boston had even served as an updating source for much of what was happening on the ground at home, and his support of the cause was quite vocal. As it turned out, he had also immersed himself in position grabbing on behalf of his daughter, even to the extent of poring through the minutes of the Dakar meeting and placing transatlantic calls to argue with my son—elected secretary-general of the UDFN—to assert the position of his daughter in the movement. To say that the entire episode constituted a personal embarrassment would be understating an experience of intense chagrin. I had the unpleasant duty of reminding the doting father that he was not a member of the movement and would he kindly keep sons and daughters outside an already draining undertaking. Ironically, it was the “vengeance” of one of the subversives that raised the profile of the opposition in the mind of the Abacha regime, far above its own ambitions or capabilities. A “confession” appeared in a Northern-based newspaper run by the brother of the inspector general of police, Alhaji Ibrahim Commassie, contributed by Jude Uzowanne. In it the writer claimed that he had been involved in the recruitment and training of a secret army, that he was in fact chief of staff of this force under my military command. In the meantime, naturally, he had had second thoughts, was now opposed to violence, had voluntarily quit the organization for this reason, and was doing his patriotic duty by revealing these terrorist plans.

Of all the fabrications put out by Abacha’s men about our activities, this was by no means the wildest. In any case, armed struggle, even from the start, was a subject that was openly introduced into discussions. This young man’s claims, self-ingratiating concoctions though they were, did have one decidedly negative effect. They had, after all, emerged from one whose earlier membership could not be denied, albeit that he was now expelled and had turned into a born-again pacifist. He had come into the UDFN through an affiliating group and been assigned the role of mobilizing the youth wing of the movement. If young Uzowanne’s claim had been true, it would have been his second conversion within a year. Revelations came tumbling in, confirming earlier rumors of his instability. He was confronted with a position paper he had sent to Sani Abacha, outlining how the dictator could turn himself into the Pinochet of Nigeria. His intellectual prowess, of which he had no modest estimation, was humbly offered to Abacha for the historic transformation. A small, ambitious Walter Mitty character, emotionally unstable, Uzowanne would indeed have been a most unusual choice for a military assignment, additionally being shortsighted, virtually blind, behind his inch-thick lenses and of such physical insubstantiality that the slightest wind from the heat of New York streets threatened to blow him right off the sidewalk and on to summary execution by the traffic. Alas, some of our supportive foreign embassies in Nigeria did swallow this “revelation” without any qualification and reported to their governments, which began to distance themselves from the opposition movement. This would have been a minor nuisance, on balance, since we were also positively served in other ways by this egregious piece of fiction. Certainly it played havoc on Abacha’s peace of mind; all reports indicated that it contributed to imbuing in him a holy terror at the very mention of W.S. or NALICON.”

Soyinka, Wole (2007-12-18). You Must Set Forth at Dawn: A Memoir (pp. 402-404). Random House Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.

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My mother’s cell phone

My dad, Papalolo served the colonialists in the fifties’ Lagos and was fond of telling anyone who would listen that he loved the white man’s orderliness, governance, discipline, etc. My mother is similarly contemptuous of my generation of looters (her word). She says ruefully that in the previous life black folks were in charge but they screwed things up so badly, God said never again. My mother half-jokes that the white folks know where God is but they won’t tell us, so we don’t go and kill Him.

I understand my parents’ cynicism; they and many people live in our village under appalling conditions. I reflect on my parents’ feelings a lot these days. President Goodluck Jonathan’s administration must be the most reviled in the history of our nation. No one that I know of has anything good to say about him and his hapless sidekicks. However reading Nigerian writing and its anxieties through the decades, you cannot help but notice that the refrain is constant. Except for the changing dates, the story is the same; massive corruption and inept governance, no accountability. I half joke that the only civil servant that ever went to jail in Nigeria was Obi Okonkwo in Chinua Achebe’s No Longer at Ease and that was fiction.

It is sad. Nigeria’s intellectual and political elite have used democracy to demonstrate convincingly that they are devoid of credibility and incapable of governance. It is sad but again this is not new. Chinua Achebe has raged at colonialists, postcolonial leaders, VS Naipaul, Joseph Conrad and anyone that questions our humanity as black people. I identify with his anger; a pox on the mansions of all racists. But I wonder at what point we should take personal responsibility for the circumstances we find ourselves in. What passes for democracy in today’s Nigeria, for example is a perverse mimicry of the real thing and foreigners may be forgiven for being skeptical of our progress and expressing this in condescending patronizing ways. It is important to demand respect but it must also be earned.

To be fair, globally, many assumptions about democracy and governance are changing. Orthodox economic theories are falling by the wayside because they were crafted under assumptions of demographic homogeneity and fixed physical boundaries. The world is browning, walls are falling and old assumptions about how we should live are no longer as useful as they once were. In Nigeria however, not much is changing in terms of governance. The intellectual and political elite seem genetically wired to look out only for themselves and their immediate families, the people be damned. The distinction between Nigeria’s ruling Party, the PDP and the pretend-opposition, the APC is a distinction without a difference. They are both profoundly corrupt and incompetent, with the PDP only marginally better in the sense that it lays no dishonest claims to honesty. Nigerians are still howling with laughter at Mr. Atiku Abubakar’s declaration that he will stamp out corruption in Nigeria if elected. He is stupendously wealthy and he has given feeble defenses to robust and compelling accusations that virtually all of his wealth came from state-sanctioned looting of the treasury. Get this, he is the most credible of the APC front-runners, yet he has refused to quash credible rumors that he is wanted in the United States. At least one of his associates is in jail for fraud. This is what the New York Times piece says about this embarrassment:

As for the money in the freezer, agents found it in a raid at Mr. Jefferson’s home in August 2005. Prosecutors said it was from a Kentucky businessman and was supposed to be used to bribe a high official of Nigeria, later identified as the vice president, Atiku Abubakar, who denied being part of any scheme.

Mr. Abubakar might end up being the first Nigerian president to be arrested by the law enforcement authorities of another nation. We are in a very humiliating place as Nigerians. But then Nigerians’ expectations for even a half-decent government are pretty low. It won’t happen anytime soon, especially given the shady characters on social media, former thug-rulers, now writing lofty tweets and posts about the Nigeria of our dreams. They would dearly love to return to the scene of the crime; they left a lot of unresolved loot behind in Abuja and elsewhere. We may be stuck. Our only hope perhaps is a second colonization. I see the harbinger of this coming dispensation in our willingness to mimic, and be assimilated by Western values. The West is an asymptote that even the most Pan-African of us has bought into. Nothing is original and valued unless it is from the West. Our leaders’ children do not go to our schools because they are not good enough. I don’t blame them, have you been inside any of our schools lately? In Nigeria, the children of the dispossessed are being abused in the name of education.

So, what am I saying? There is hope. Yes, stop laughing. The lowly cellphone saved Nigerians from the tyranny of state-sanctioned incompetence and corruption (NITEL!). So will Wal-Mart save us from the hell that our intellectual and political elite have put us in. America needs new markets, she is saturated with consumer goods, you can only buy so much. Black Africa is the new frontier; there are a lot of unthinking consumers waiting for Western capitalist detritus. Wal-Mart needs to reach my waiting mother. In order to do get to her, Wal-Mart would need to fix the broken roads and hire armed robbers as toll booth attendants. Our elders would be people greeters, taught by professional development experts to say in perfect American accents, “Welcome to Wal-Mart!” Just like they did the chaat wallahs of Mumbai’s bazaars. Wal-Mart will sell do-it-yourself (DIY) municipal kits aka Gofment-in-a-box. If you have the money you can use Wal-Mart’s roads, water, police and schools, all in a safe environment. As long as you pay for it. Just like in America. There is hope my people, go to church today and pray for deliverance through my prediction. In Jesus Name! Insha Allah! Ise! What has all this got to do with my mother’s cellphone? You will need to ask her, I don’t know. Goodnight.

 

 

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