Some Memories Last A Lifetime

We were young- teenagers. You came in at the later part of that year. I had come in the year before; two sessions earlier. We did not start of as close friends, we talked alright but we were far from being called friends. I admired you because you were bright and brilliant. I wanted you to be my friend but I could not force it on you neither could I voice it out because you were not close to anyone. The girls said you were stingy, I did not see that in you. They said you did not like the fact that anyone could do better than you; that was after you cried for being second best in a test. I did not like that anyways. I had cried in a similar situation some years back. I knew I would never do that now. It did not have anything to do with growing up; I simply did not trust my brains anymore. You were great in mathematics; I was a loser there but I thought you could teach me.

“Jessica teach you? You must be dreaming”, was what I got from some mates.

I was dreaming but yearned for that reality. I felt a little more understanding will get me through. I saw you making very conscious efforts to please our mates but I did not think you got so far because you were true to yourself. I felt there was a little reservation in there. I had begun to put myself in your position and tried to see things from your angle. I found myself saying, “give her a chance.”

We would meet by chance and sit and talk about things, important and unimportant alike. I began to go to your class downstairs just to chat with you. You could use my notes and you let me use yours too. I remember an inscription you wrote on one of my notes.

It read “BEAUTY+BRAINS-JESUS CHRIST=HELL FIRE” and “BEAUTY+BRAINS+JESUS CHRIST= HEAVEN”

True saying and even though I would never have tolerated any writing on top of my books, I kept that one as a souvenir.

I remember the first time I gave to you. It was a key holder. It was at the time where I loved having more than one key holder but since you did not have I offered to give you one. At first you were surprised by that, and then overjoyed later. I guess in your joy you saw a true friend. For me it was one of the times I had had lots of “thank you” being said to me. 

You were not the only one who got things from me. No, ours was not a one sided relationship. You gave me anything you could give, from provisions to chips, which we would share in our prep time. With time you graduated to being my tutor.

“My tutor!” now it sounds funny.

I remember that day clearly. I had told you how lousy I was in mathematics and how I was scared of a resit in our forth-coming examinations. From that moment you made my success your responsibility. You taught me how to solve constantly. A dozen times I would tell you I was tired and a dozen times you would remind me of how little we had done. We would sneak out of the dormitory into the classroom or school hall and will not leave until I had gotten the necessary formulas into my teenage head. Our classmates were surprised that you had become my teacher. On my part, I realized that the equations were not so difficult.

On the eve of our examination you had said to me, “after all we have done, we will make it in Jesus name”.

We wrote and travelled home afterwards. When the results were released, I was successful, so were you.  However I never got to thank you as because you never came back. Your cousin told me that you had changed schools.

I regard our relationship as one whose seed was sown but did not get enough time to germinate. My gratitude remains though. You help to restore my confidence in myself. As the years go by, I have done better in mathematics. I never got around to love the subject but I realized that if I worked hard, I will succeed in it.

Passing years has not stopped me from wondering how you are doing. The internet age has even led me to Google your name a few times. It’s obvious I have not been successful with it. I wonder if I will see you again. And if I get to see you, will your memory have a place for the events that marked me? I do not expect anything but I am glad you marked me in this wonderful way.

Still keeping faith

Who Says Valentine Was Not Made For Man?

I was fresh out of secondary school and was looking forward to a different valentine celebration. After six years of picking names of housemates/classmates and presenting them with gifts previously bought on the fourteenth day of February, I needed something different. The fact that I was out of school was for me a license that I could celebrate with the opposite sex. It really did not matter that I was yet to receive my School Certificate result all that I was that legally of age?

The good lady who raised me burst my well thought-out bubble. 

 “No way! The town is going to be too rough. You cannot go out on Friday”

I don’t know how she came by that information but she held on to it so strongly that I found myself spending valentine that year at home. It was that time when I had to obtain formal permission to leave the house, so when the lady said to stay at home, there was no way around it. 

I do not know if it was that event that made me indifferent to valentines but I have never had a remarkable valentine day. I mean a valentine day spent with “le boo” and overloaded with gifts. The closest to that was a robust gift days before the main date because le boo (as he then was) had to work far from where I lived. I remember how my effort in trying to get special from valentine day had led my roommate and I to bake a cake for ourselves. It was one of those valentine days that found us alone after all other roommates had traveled for valentine day celebration.

You can say that I outgrew trying to get special out of St. Valentine’s day or even that I gave up when Special was not forth coming. You can also fast forward to fifteen years or so after that uneventful Valentine’s Day celebration with my siblings. My place of work would ensure that we had cakes and drinks to celebrate that day and I would after work hours retire to my apartment either to watch a movie or sleep. My love for sleep is a topic I would discuss on another occasion. My approach to this noble day which is also coined, “lover’s day” should not be taken to mean that the temptation to make it special does not come because it does. It come in form of that 'friend' who wants a different version of that celebration my roommate and I did years back to the endless red dresses on display in shops in the month of February and being worn on that day by almost everyone on the streets. I see those temptations and shake them off. The known fact that the streets and all notable public places are always rowdy makes the shake off very easy.

I wish I can predict how my Valentine will turn out this year. I have an idea though. Being a Saturday, it is obvious that there will be no official cake and drinks. It is possible that most one day lovers would not be able to celebrate the as they used to. Fast food joints and other recreational hang-outs will be empty for most part of the day. This is all thanks to the Independent National Electoral Commission (INEC). Most adult Nigerians will be at the polling booth to decide who presides over the nation that day. If we are lucky, there will be no violence to characterize the day dedicated to love. And even if one decides not to vote, the best option will be to be confined to any neighbourhood activity-nothing public. Political sympathizers will be so caught up with election fever to even bother that valentine has been effaced. Oh need I mention that some people will be glad that INEC came up with this arrangement? 

I do not envy those who would want to make sure they celebrate “publicly’. Knowing the town I live in, all public places will be over crowded that day. I mean ALL, without any exception. Even places that do not have cold drinks will have its own crowd. I hope to have new stories to tell. I hope also that this day of love produces for my country a president that loves us.

Let’s Keep Faith as we vote.

Always A Roller Coaster Holiday

Holidays are my thing. I believe I truly own them; over and above every other person. I know that almost everyone in this country loves holidays but not as much as I do. It is like I live for it. It has not always been this way. As a child, I hated the fact that there was a day that I would not go to school, except of course, it was Christmas or New Year. I loved to play and holidays were like a pause to that attitude. The fact that I had to wait until 4pm for the television programs to start running helped me to further detest holidays. In Boarding house, my attitude towards holidays was conditional; if it was in-term because it meant more work, more reading time, more sleep and no added play time so I hated it. Mid terms and end of term holidays was a big hurray.

I am glad time passed. Or should I say my perception of holidays changed and appreciation developed.  My undergraduate years worked that wonder. It did not matter if holidays meant more sleep or more reading. I wanted more of them together with more play of course. Play meant more now. Even if I was visiting friends and talking about hairstyles, it was playtime to me.

With every holiday came increased appreciation. By the time I got my first job, I was nothing but thankful that word existed in the English vocabulary and whatever vocabulary that allowed it. 

End of year holidays were typical for me. It meant home to family. I mean home like home- place of origin. In my thirty something years it has always been same location. Okay houses might have been changed but that makes little difference. Leaving away from family has helped me appreciated the people I spend it with however I could not say the same for the location. So it did not matter whether I had money or nay, whether I was in between jobs or lived in a city that promised extra-ordinary fun.

One notable thing I hate was the road trips that led me home. The buses were too full, the luggages that holiday makers had to travel with were humongous and barely manageable, and on top of that, the roads were pathetic. Most times I think the roads were my biggest scare. Years ago, when the Benin by-pass came to be, I thought the road agonies were over. I was an undergraduate then, my contemporaries and I was overjoyed that the journey to Lagos would take not more than four hours. We were happy that Lagos would no more be so far. When I moved to Lagos, I realized how wrong we were, that thanks to the road, you can actually start out one day and get to home on the next.

So this time I started out again with a prayer that nothing unusual elongates the unnecessarily long journey. I started out early as was usual with wayfarers on this route. They say it was the best known way to avoid the jams on the road. I was not so lucky though as the vehicle I boarded ran into one. The equally not so good in roads through the villages saved the journey but not without bumps, some hours at the mechanic fixing the damages caused by the bumps and the sight of this means of transporting

water. I did not even know they still used it. The last time I saw it being used must have been twenty years or more. It gave me something to reflect about but as soon as the welcoming screams of family filled my ear, I forgot about the pail- bearer and let myself hug and be hugged by folks who did not mind that my body was all covered in harmattan dust.

As a new year starts, I cannot help wondering how my next holiday would turn out. Even though I live for the laughter on the faces of my family, I long for something different. Hopefully I would get a destination



Keep faith!

A Bridge For Everyone

There are some stories that never leave your memory. It does not matter how you came to know the story; whether it unfolded before you, whether you were told or whether it is something you read in the papers, it just does not go away. I had a lot of them. One of them was about Agnes. I remember how I learnt of her story. I read about it and for a long time after, I just kept staring at the paper.

Young Agnes must have been about five years old when she took her last walk with her earthly protector- her father. It was a walk to her school and he made one very fatal mistake. He chooses not to use the pedestrian bridge. I guess it happened in a flash because survival instinct made dear father run for life leaving his daughter behind. By the time he became aware of what he had done, she was lifeless on the road. The tears that followed after he picked her up did not change the fact that by one single negligent act, Agnes’ dreams and aspirations were cut off.

Why am I recounting this story? Why will it not even be swept away with the sands of time?

Perhaps it is because the mistake has still not been corrected. Even after decades of my learning of the story, I still see countless persons take a quick dash to the opposite side of the road rather than use the bridge above. I do not claim to be a saint in this regard as I shamefully admit to have done this on more than one, two three, five occasions.  I know of a pedestrian bridge that is hardly ever used. That is where I take my guilty verdict mostly. It is a little consolatory that motorists are aware of the fact that the bridge is hardly used by pedestrians so they slow down when approaching the bus stop. That I must say is no excuse as it is clearly a misunderstanding of purpose. A lot of users including my humble self misunderstand the purpose for which the bridge was mounted. Maybe not misunderstood, but we take for granted the humane and generous attitude of drivers who slow down at that particular spot to allow pedestrians go past the road in safety.

While I make give myself all kinds of excuses concerning not using a bridge as illustrated in the last paragraph, what happens when someone deliberately refuses to use a bridge that is across a busy road? Will it be out of place to term this as suicide or an attempt to commit suicide?

I put up this discussion with my friends one evening and Onome called my attitude an exaggeration.

‘Come on,’ she said “Nigerians like life. Calling it outright suicide means you are divorced from the reality of our love for life”

“Okay o”, I shrugged.

It was far from okay with me. I am originally from a town which cannot till date boast of a single pedestrian bridge. This is in spite of the fact that a major road runs across the town. Accidents on this road are usually major and mostly arise from pedestrians trying to cross to the other side of the road. God’s grace has been magnanimous because it has taught residents to be extra careful when making these crossings. I can imagine how excited if the bridge across, rather than the big screen street television that had been the contribution of the government of the day. It would be a total disappointment if that bridge were to be abandoned after a few years for no other reason other than laziness or the ‘it is not my portion’ phrase.

Yes, laziness is one of the reasons I have seen that prevents people from using these bridges across. Why go through a path that will take twice the amount of time if you jumped in front of a moving car and make a quick dash? Most people will of course deny this reason and lace it with the phrase aforementioned. It cannot be their portion to be involved in any accident of any kind even though they have been out rightly careless.

I do not have the capacity to judge, being a culprit myself but I have resolved to work on my used to be stupid haste. I have started to work on it but I dare not commend myself for fear that my resolve might break. I also believe that having made my thoughts and struggles public, I have created a watch dog for me. I hope this watch dog watches more than just me.

Keep faith.

STREET TALES

The streets tell a different story. Different from the one we (or I should talk of myself?); different from the one I have heard from the lips of the government.  They say that street- begging has been banned. To rephrase, if the meaning would be different, is to say that to beg is an offence.

The story on the streets emphasizes that street begging was and is still a very viable trade. It is not like I mean to sound mean but if the truth must be told; I have never seen as much beggars in this town as in any other town that I have visited previously. So I thought with the ban of street begging, the society we live in would, at least, not smell of so much of poverty.  I will save the talk on poverty for another time and focus on how my dream was dashed. Not dashed without hope but dashed anyways.

I used to be uncomfortable with the beggars on the streets; I did not know what to do to make the situation any better so I used to avoid them. I used to ask myself what my five or ten naira could do to alleviate poverty in the families that I see their representatives on the streets. I wondered how many loaves of bread the sum would buy or how many cups of garri that could be bought. How many books could be bought or even how many drugs could be afforded on the meagre collections raised from the streets? I was even more pained when I noticed that the beggar was a young mother with twin babies.  It took me a while to understand that it was believed that the spirits associated with twins was responsible for calling both mother and babies to beg in the streets. After that I began to wonder why the spirits did not work on twin babies born of rich parents.

With time I stopped being uncomfortable with seeing so much beggars on the streets. I got used to them. Getting used to them surely did not make it easier for me to give to them. I simply learnt to ignore them. I believed (still believe) that most of them are miniature fraudsters. What else would you call putting on a catheter with urine that is probably not yours or pretending to be blind or even taking up a collection for oneself while labelling it as belong to the under privileged. Moreso I had had a nasty experience with some 419ers over fifteen years ago in the process of trying to help strangers out. That experience left me scarred a bit. More than a bit because it made it a lot easier for me to walk away when I ought to stop and help.

However if you are a deeply religious person (as I try to be), there will be days when you will be forced to ask yourself some questions. Trying to live out one’s Christian life makes ignoring the less privileged impossible. At least the measure of charity is what we are told that eternal judgment will be based. In a situation where it is not easy to get the less privileged as a result of modernization, recourse still has to be made to the streets.

So the beggars still litter our streets and if you want to you can, like me, ignore sometimes, or all the time if you like but there will always be that someone who will not. It does not look like they will reduce anytime soon.

Keep faith.

THE SEX OF MY PROFESSION

Does the suitability of a profession depend on the sex of the person involved?

I can imagine a quick reader going through the question above and silently or even loudly answering with a NO. That does not mean however that they may not be people who will give a straight YES answer.

Personally, I had my answer way before I typed the question but as I examined my answer I could not help imagining how times have changed.  Before my growing up years, every boy wanted to be a doctor, an engineer or an architect. A girl with those aspirations would have simply been delving into a world that was not hers. By the time my childhood came to be, more girls were applauded for filling ‘medical doctor’ in the space next to any future ambition column.

It was not that any girl was ever refused admission into any higher institution into the engineering or architecture class or vice versa for a boy who wanted to be a nurse but it was simply an odd choice.

This reminds me of the first time I saw a male nurse. I stared hard, as if I had seen a man walking on his head.

‘Are you sure he is not a Doctor?’ I had asked my mama in vernacular.

She smiled and replied that there have always been male nurse even though they were very few.

By my undergraduate years there was more mixture of both sexes albeit little that mixture was. I remember one of the Students’ Union elections where voting was done on departmental basis. Each student had to queue according to his/her department. I had to assist a friend to locate her departmental queue so we had gone from queue to queue asking what department it was. My question met with lots of stares from several male pair of eyes in one of the queues before a confident ‘Engineering’ was answered. My companion looked at me and asked why I had bothered to ask seeing that they were all guys on the queue.

So back to the question whether there was a sex appropriate to a profession and vice versa.

There was a time when all the newspaper vendors on the streets of Nigeria were male. In fact I had then concluded with a secondary school classmate that one profession that was going to remain solely in the reins of male compatriots was the vendor. Ever since I began to see female vendors on our streets, I have learnt never to ascribe any profession to any sex. It does not matter how manly or womanly that profession appears to be. I mean what profession could be more feminine as that of a caterer/cook particularly in a country where every woman just has to know how to cook and there is no know or anticipated excuse for otherwise? Now we have seen male professional cooks. It has also ceased to be a surprise when one of them wins any cooking competition. Some organisations are also more comfortable with hiring a male cook rather than their female counterpart.

When the year started, I told myself that faux dreadlocks were going to be my signature hairstyle and began to shop for the appropriate beauty salon where I would get this done. A colleague referred me to one situated somewhere in the ever busy streets of Ogba. Inspite of my misgivings on the quality of work I would get, I was greatly relieved when I found out that the salon was run by male hairdressers. Rewind to twenty years ago, these young men would not have easily opted for this profession.

I remember when news was reported on a female auto mechanic. Her years of apprenticeship were also considered in the report. I could not help appreciating her drive as the report was given.

Again, is there a sex on any profession? In the wake of Biola Alabi and several females making their mark in what used to be a man’s world, I dare say that if modern day professionalism definitely does not contemplate sex as a deciding factor. So if you ever had to decide on a career of profession, do not ever let sex limit you. Neither should you expect an edge because of your sex.

Keep Faith.

AH! FEMININE TEARS?

It was mid morning Saturday. I told myself I was cruising as I drove through the highway. The truth was that I was tired to my bones. It was a good thing the road was not full, at least party makers were not all out to crowd the road. I had played tapes and CDs on my way to town that morning so I decided to listen to whatever my favorite station was airing at that moment. It was a talk program, I would have preferred music but since I was too tired to even change stations I listened.

The topic was rape. Frankly speaking at that moment I did not feel like listening to any gender sensitive issue but for some reason I stayed tuned. 

The speaker spoke deeply in pidgin even brought a rape victim whose identity was hidden to talk on her horrific experience.

Let me explain; I am not a feminist by any shot. The single sex secondary school I attended was probably the only sexist body I can associate myself to. When a colleague suggested that I join FIDA, I shook my head strongly. In trying to convince me to join, she explained that it was an umbrella for female lawyers and I had replied that was the same reason that would make me stay away.

Back to the matter, when this radio victim started her narration, I broke. I don’t think I would want to repeat her narration. I twitch whenever I think of it.

Another angle that interests me was the response of some listeners. One particular listener advised against provocative dressing as a preventive measure. I wondered if there we’re still people with this thought- line. I mean anyone who had a daughter, wife, sister, or niece ought to be more realistic when giving advices on this issue. As far as I know, provocative dressing has little to do with sexual violence. I am not saying that it has nothing to do with rape and other related sexual violence but trust me, when I say it has got little to do with it. Or how would one explain the reason for the females that are abused as children? In fact one of the victims who spoke that day said she first abused when she was three by an UNCLE.  Only recently Dylan Farrow claimed she was molested as a child by her adoptive father. It is sad that the protector can become the predator.

I was glad when the presenter noted that the provocative dressing angle was blaming the victim and that it would in no way encourage victim to report offences. It makes sense because no one would want to report a rape incident if all you would hear is, “How were you dressed?” “Did you sway in front of them?” and so on.

There is no use for us at any point to justify rape. Aside from shielding offenders from the law and possibly future healing (because I think rapists are sick), we create a society that could hurt every one of us, a society in which no one is safe. Do I need to emphasize that everyone has a female who is dear to him or her? And that no one knows for sure who the next victim could be? As feminine as the tears arising from sexual violence may seem, it is time we understand that the society is broken from these hurts.

...keep faith.