ANOTHER BORING CONVERSATION?

 I stared at him with ease.  I was no more the little girl growing up in the quiet Ughelli so it was easy. Besides I was sitting directly opposite him. I tried to put my feelings into words- Cockiness, Confidence, Victorious, Strong, Anger, and Pity. All these flowed through me as he spoke. 

“Hmmn! This Indian”, I thought to myself. “Just who did he think he was?”

Time truly has passed. We live in a country where anyone in white skin was glorified and treated with too much respect. I call it backward colonialism. I could not understand why someone would rather than settle for the old colonial rule where our roads were all tarred with sidewalks decide to glorify another mortal who would disrespect you and ill treat you for nothing. 

My thoughts were formed early. Maybe because I still topped my class in spite of the presence of white boy Richard or because I was used to seeing Kelvin, a mixed blood, hawking tomatoes when my family eventually moved to Warri, I simply did not see anything extra ordinary in being white that would allow for first class treatment especially on my Nigerian soil.

I do believe in respect. Anyone; white or black, deserved this. But when the Indian wanted to take me for a ride I had to bare my fangs.

It reminded me of the encounter I had with one of his kind in the penultimate month where I had, in the line of work, gone to demand money owed. The man, feeling superior, had refused to see me initially. Imagine the debtor; but I blame am? The manner of people who give them rights in the street gave him the audacity. When he saw I was having none of that, he came down and after all the talk he felt sorry that this small girl (my apologies to my stature) was talking to him like that. 

Now back to this one before me. He said my words sent him to his sick bed and that if he dies I will be held responsible for his death. At that point I had to control myself and not laugh out loud. My small size must really be deceiving them.

In case you are wondering what the bone of contention is, it was nothing out of a routine as it applies to landlord and tenants in this city. 

I decided to shift from the contentious angle that he was in. So I asked him to invest in Nigeria. He began to curse. He ended by saying he will never do that even if a gun was put on his head. With that word I decided it was time to hit the road and push this man out of my sight. I said my goodbyes and I was off. As I journeyed down the road I could not help but think that I would never even in neighbouring Benin Republic and act like I was a Don.

What effrontery does this man have to speak all my ears heard? 

My Conclusion, we need a shift of values we must move to begin appreciating our own even if it’s the man by the junction who owns little but makes an honest living!

Keep faith.

COLOURS, COLOURS, MORE COLOURS.

The first time I fell in love with law was in my primary school days. There was this Pears advert- Yes the same old baby Pears- where a little girl had taken her mother to a kiddies court for denying "baby and her the joy of Pears". The face of the kid-judge struck on my young head as he/she asked the accused mother whether she was guilty or not. The idea of a court grew with me from then onwards. I would insist that at least one of my Christmas outfit was a corporate fit. Together with my parents' support I tailored my studies towards satisfying my life dreams.

I love law. I remember when I prepared to go into university and I told my friends that I had no other course preference except for law. Some of them wondered what I would do if I was not offer law in the university while others felt that with the passage of years I would change my mind if I was not admitted.

Inspite of my love for law, I knew very little about it. But it did not bother me. I knew my higher institution would fix that for me. So off to school I went.

The first thing I enjoyed about law was the colour. It was mainly dark and sombre. Usually with a tincture of white but that that did take it away from being sombre. Swaying in these colours did not excite me as much as the comments friends from other departments made in admiration. The distinction these colours gave was also awesome. However all these became boring to look at with time. Call it familiarity or what you will but by the time I was leaving the university the colours were nothing but dark to me.

I still love law. I brag about this to anyone who would ask. I remember my Call. The hall had been decorated with black and white ribbons and balloons looking so 'lawyerly' but when the commentary was being run, the commentator described the hall as beautifully decorated in those colours. New meaning definitely. I had never ascribed that adjective to those colours.

Then practice began. Pride was in those colours. One day something different happened. I met a lawyer who was angry at a female colleague who dared to wear a red-coloured camisole underneath her collaret. Even if was not visible to the court, the lawyer in question, who was male by the way, queried the effrontery that made our female counterpart disregard our revered colours.

When I left that scene, I did not think much of until I had cause to be in another court, a superior court according to the law. Proceedings that day were long as usual and I had to kill time somehow.  I started looking for a familiar face to chat with and soon found one. I was chatting away when somehow my eyes fell beneath the chairs and I saw socks in different colours. I was amused and surprised all at once.

“They do it these days”. My friend answered to my - whatever happened to our revered colours question. I quickly clicked on my phone's camera and snapped away. As I did that I that I thought to myself, we definitely need more colours of balloons and ribbons.

Keep faith.

BIG BROTHER

The first time both words came together as a concept for me was in 2003. I was trying to round up my school year and proceed to serve my nation when the reality show hit the television stations. We talked about it in between discussing what was holding back a classmate's results as well as which department would miss service year. 

The show ended few weeks before I started my service year and all the talk continued. So much that the family house where I initially stayed conferred the title on another corper who had the habit of looking after our interests.

That was the first season. The struggle to meet up with set goals swallowed up whatever interest I had developed in the programme so much that it wasn’t until the fourth season that it featured in my conversation again. Then it got stronger with every new season. Somehow, in between hectic work schedules, watching a few persons from different parts of Africa live their life in a confined space was entertainment to me.

“What do you enjoy in that programme?”, Someone would ask once in awhile. Often times when I try to respond, the person would put up a disinterested look as the answer was usually too long. It does not bother me though. Big Brother Africa was the only programme I watched with such zest.

“So you are also an addict?” a friend once asked and I smiled. I grew up associating the word addict with drugs but over time I have come to understand that addiction could take upon anything. Thank to my newly acquired Walka I can actually enjoy my BBA outside the comfort of my home. It helps to go through the boredom that is associated with some seminars and meetings and also keeps me away from the usual beauty parlour’s hot gist. I also get frustrated when the silly Walka tells me that signal is poor. Much as I fight between these anxieties and anticipations, I had no choice but to truthfully give my friend this answer – Yes, I am an addict.

“That programme should be banned”. Now at this statement, I usually get hyper. Like, what would be the reason for anyone to feel this way? Some say it’s destroying youths of the nation. I think that notion is highly exaggerated. The destruction of our youths is caused by our faulty foundational structures which are exclusive of BBA. If I should judge BBA, I would call it a scorecard by which the development of our youths can be assessed. Thankfully the programme protects explicit contents and has further fixed a price for its availability. I also get surprised when people talk about how their kids appreciate the housemates. The programme is rated 18+, why would we expose kids to it as well as to many other age rated programme.

“So what benefits are there?” Aside from the money for grabs for the winner, I get an entertaining opportunity to learn more about most parts of Africa, parts that I would not have thought about. I know now that Ethiopia has thirteen calendar months, that I must not forget my national anthem amongst others. It has given someone back faith. I love to listen to Africa’s numerous accents and appreciate the continent more.

All that has been said are my feelings. I am not unhappy with my addiction. It feels good to have one and while this season closes, I consciously look forward to the next. And don’t ask if I ever wish to be there someday cos I don’t but from the thousands that are auditioned each year, I know we will never lack contestants.

Keep faith.

DRAMA ON THE RAIL

Like most Nigerian adult, the first time I knew about the train as a means of transportation was in my elementary school days. Like the majority of Nigerian adults it took a longer time to see a train. I remember how excited I was in my undergraduate days when I learnt a railway was going to be built in the town where I resided at that time. My thoughts were, ‘at least, I will get to see a train’. It did not matter that the route was a ‘goods only’ routes.

ENTER LAGOS

I did not grow up in Lagos. The first time I visited Lagos is what I would not want to talk about right now. However the first time I saw a train was remarkable. I mean saw a real train, not one of those in pictures. That day I looked, sorry, I stared. I fact, I kept staring until the enormous sight disappeared.

Then I began to want to be inside one. This time it was just for adventure. I began to strategize how I would go to the train station whenever I was in Lagos and board one. Try as hard I could, my programme just did not allow me. Until the appetite disappeared. 

I don’t like the fact that I lost my appetite (not for food though) but the circumstances that  led to the loss could not have had any other effect. 

I was in a bus when I saw people hanging from all sides of the train. They were even passengers on top of the train.

“WHAT!” 

I did not let go of the first convenient opportunity to ask the reason for the hang-ons on the train. The reasons were varied: inadequate transport means, fast (no hold up on the rail), and of course, it is cheap. I really did not get to find out how cheap it was but I was getting excited and asked more questions.

“Be careful, they are very vicious” one of those I inquired from said.

I did not understand what he meant until I was walked down the road on evening and saw people running away from stones being hurled at them. When the commotion had stopped, I asked a bystander what it was all about.

 

“Is this your first time here? The train passengers use it (stones) to stop onlookers from taunting them in any way.

What a way, I thought to myself as I worked away from the commotion site.

One thing was definite for me. If this is what a train ride is, I will not be getting in it soon.

GOODBYES

Goodbye’s the saddest word I know…

Those are words from an old song.

It took me a while to meet her but I eventually did one evening, almost five years ago. She was quite elderly. I understood immediately why it took that long to meet her.

“She does not want anybody that will give her wahala” the agent said to me.

“I will be good”, I quickly replied, desperately too.

“Who will be interested in giving her troubles”, I thought to myself.

I moved in about three weeks later and laid my first complain the next day. That was when I realized that she would only communicate with me in Yoruba. I knew very little of the language so I wondered how I would get by with her. We were able to solve a bit of that first complain and the many more that followed. Solutions were not always in my favour, in fact, most times we had to compromise on issues but she had ears that were always willing to listen and she would opt for the most peaceful option.

It was only natural that I fall for her sweetness in less than three months. Years later I swore to a new tenant that she would have no regrets moving into our compound. The young lady tried to explain the difficulties associated with living with a landlord but I was resolute: she does not have wahala. How could I state otherwise when all the time she looked at me I could see care and love?

Many times I would greet her and after her customary response she would say, “Mo fe ri e”.

I would rush upstairs only to have her ask after the welfare of my sister and me.

“I have not seen you both in long while” she would add in yoruba.

 They were times when she would knock on my door to ask that same question.

I sit on my desk and allowed memories flow. I saw myself collect her key, lock the door, collect my share of sallah meat, kneel before her, pictures whose imprints were hard to let go.

And then everything came to a stop. Very abruptly I must say. Someone reminded me that she was old already. My reply was that I knew, it’s just that I was not tired of having her around. So on Sunday afternoon she left. I guess she didn’t say goodbye because there really is no easy goodbye. That does not change anything; she had to go and we will have to go on without her.

REST IN PEACE, ALHAJA!