I phone a hotel nearby that prides itself as 3 star to make a booking for a guest. The receptionist that answers asks me for the guest's name which I duly giver her. She then asks me for how many nights which I again confirm. She then quotes me a price which is different from he brochure in my hand. She tells me that this is for a different type of room. I explain that this tyoe will suffice. And she promptly hangs up.
Thinking we have been accidentally disconnected as is common here I ring back. She answers again.
Me: I think we were cut off.
She: No. I hung up.
Me : But why now?
She : You told me the name of the Client, you confirmed the number of days required and you already knew the price. So what else?
Me : A thank you would be....
She had hung up. Charming.
I call a very local estate agent in Ajah from whom we are looking to rent a room. We have a discussion at which I manage to get him to lower his rates. We arrange to meet the next day. Before he hangs up he says: Thanks very much for your call. I really look forward to seeing you in our offices tomorrow and I look forward to serving you and doing business with you. I really value your custom.
And there you have it. Naija. You just never quite know what to expect.
Sunday, 27 July 2008
A slow descent into hell...
Over to my sister in law's house to say hello. My family complain that they used to see me more when I was travelling back and forth from the UK than now that I am based in Naija. I explain that the trip from the UK to Lagos was a lot easier than the trip from Lekki to Suru-Lere. Those who have experienced the Lekki traffic know what I mean.
Anyway after catching up with a few pleasantries I ask whether she has managed to find another job being as she is fed up with her current one and then she tells me this story. Apparently not too long ago at a Zenith bank branch the manager was upset that sales targets were not being met and therefore decided that punishment had to be meted out. The punishment took the form of asking all the staff to get on their knees. Like you know back in primary school. More astonishingly they all complied!! We are talking about adults here. Some were parents. Some had actually acquired their degrees through legal means. On their knees. Apparently afterwards one of them resigned and has now acquired a lawyer. My sis in law is not sure what the claim will be.
At another bank branch apparently the manager needs a walking stick for her mobility. Word has it that when she gets frustrated she uses this as a whip to get the staff to sit up and take notice. Imagine being flogged at work. In a bank. What do you tell your friends and family when they ask you how your day was? This is not counting the numerous stories of these bank marketeers that are prepared to drop more than their principle(s) in order to reach ever demanding targets. Or sleep with the boss. And his wife.
Yesterday we were on the Lekki expressway on the way to the beach. Out of nowhere appeared a white pickup that forced us into the inside lane towards the kerb where people scattered helter and then skelter to avoid certain you know what. The pickup was closely followed by a dark blue 4 x 4 carrying the usual rag tag boys in blue. As I watched open mouth the lead car forced a car against the outside kerb and another few inches and the driver would have hit the divide at speed leading to a front tyre explosion. And God knows what else. I asked my driver to try and catch up with the perpetrators but they were going at such a speed it would have been impossible to do without risking our lives and other innocent ones. So they got away with it.
In the lead car driven by a Nigerian was a white man. In the back of the truck was some black fibre as used in the deployment of telecoms services. And it struck me that my fellow countrymen are readily prepared to kill their fellow man, woman and child in order to help a white man get his fibre to site on time. What price communication?
How can we have any sense of self worth when we are being sold out so cheaply by our very own?
Anyway after catching up with a few pleasantries I ask whether she has managed to find another job being as she is fed up with her current one and then she tells me this story. Apparently not too long ago at a Zenith bank branch the manager was upset that sales targets were not being met and therefore decided that punishment had to be meted out. The punishment took the form of asking all the staff to get on their knees. Like you know back in primary school. More astonishingly they all complied!! We are talking about adults here. Some were parents. Some had actually acquired their degrees through legal means. On their knees. Apparently afterwards one of them resigned and has now acquired a lawyer. My sis in law is not sure what the claim will be.
At another bank branch apparently the manager needs a walking stick for her mobility. Word has it that when she gets frustrated she uses this as a whip to get the staff to sit up and take notice. Imagine being flogged at work. In a bank. What do you tell your friends and family when they ask you how your day was? This is not counting the numerous stories of these bank marketeers that are prepared to drop more than their principle(s) in order to reach ever demanding targets. Or sleep with the boss. And his wife.
Yesterday we were on the Lekki expressway on the way to the beach. Out of nowhere appeared a white pickup that forced us into the inside lane towards the kerb where people scattered helter and then skelter to avoid certain you know what. The pickup was closely followed by a dark blue 4 x 4 carrying the usual rag tag boys in blue. As I watched open mouth the lead car forced a car against the outside kerb and another few inches and the driver would have hit the divide at speed leading to a front tyre explosion. And God knows what else. I asked my driver to try and catch up with the perpetrators but they were going at such a speed it would have been impossible to do without risking our lives and other innocent ones. So they got away with it.
In the lead car driven by a Nigerian was a white man. In the back of the truck was some black fibre as used in the deployment of telecoms services. And it struck me that my fellow countrymen are readily prepared to kill their fellow man, woman and child in order to help a white man get his fibre to site on time. What price communication?
How can we have any sense of self worth when we are being sold out so cheaply by our very own?
Saturday, 26 July 2008
Goodnight Entebbe -Part 2
I am writing this follow up under pressure from one of my favourite bloggers - Yar Mama whose blog Silent Screams is always a source of a smile. Sometimes a giggle. Sometimes just outright guffawing. There are times also when I am overwhelmed at the richness of her prose and the depth of her observations. Needless to say I feel under pressure to deliver the goods on this one. So here goes..
Step out the front door like a ghost
into the fog where no one notices
the contrast of white on white.
And in between the moon and you
the angels get a better view
of the crumbling difference between wrong and right.
Round Here by The Counting Crows.
He stepped out from behind the tree causing the three of us to stop dead in our tracks in shock and surprise. The visit so far had been littered with all sorts of weirdness and strangeness and we were already on edge. The piercing screams and howling in the night, that had been denied in the morning. The almost military vibe of the dormitories and surroundings. Having to use a bucket to do my number 1 business in our hut. Having to use a hole in the ground for my number 2 surrounded by all sorts of rodents and other non paying voyeurs. So please understand that the last thing we needed was him stepping out of the shadows like a ghost.
His first sentence will stay with me till the day I die. "I used to be a Muslim" he said and left it hanging there in the air for us to inhale, taste and digest. After what seemed like hours of silence from us which realistically was seconds he repeated it again still standing in the shadows of the tree for fear of being seen. I finally managed to get my words out. "Then what happened?" I asked. "They came to take me away from my family. Twice I ran back but each time they came to take me back. I miss my brother and sister. My parents are dead. It is only my grandparents left."
It turns out that the charity we were visiting which provides a home for children orphaned by the AIDS epidemic had picked him from his grandparents and then "converted" him into Christianity as a pre-condition of being looked after. Twice he had run back to the bosom of his family but each time they had come back to get him. He had initially refused to give up his faith but eventually they had disciplined it out of him (or at least he let them think so).....
Imagine his surprise therefore when having been told that all Muslims were evil and going to hell anyway to find himself seated across from two Muslims. Both of them married to Christians!! I mean come on. It was obvious he was in turmoil. And no wonder. His beliefs were being tested. Again. I had not noticed him earlier in the afternoon when we had had our meet and greet with some of the students. At first they had been welcoming and curious about this trio of visitors - one an Asian lady, one a lady of mixed racial identity and the third a large black man. The warmth had evaporated somewhat when they discovered that two of their visitors were Muslims. Some, including the teachers, visibly shrank away.
After many general questions about our identities one finally piped up with the question. How did we (the Muslims) feel about not going to heaven? Well what can you say to a group of children between 7 and 16 years old when asked this question. We took a deep breath and tried to explain that there was enough room in heaven for us all to much shaking of heads and mutterings of "no, its a lie". "Who told you this?" we asked as their teachers disappeared further into their seats. Accusing fingers were pointed and pretty sharpish the ceremony was ended and we each went back to our own realities somewhat unsure of how to deal with the exchange we had just had. And then he stepped out of the shadows.
We moved closer into the darkness to afford him the privacy that he so craved as he had refused to step into the light for fear of being seen talking to us. He told us how he missed his brother and sister so much with such a sadness and melancholy that still brings tears to my eyes even as I write this after all this time (this is why I had been delaying). He said he was now resigned to his fate (or faith?) like a man destined for the gallows who had put up a good fight but had exhausted his defences. We offered words of encouragement. Told him he still had his whole life ahead of him he would not be in the camp forever. There was a big world out there filled with Muslims, Christians, Jews etc. We used ourselves as examples of what was possible. Marriages between faiths. All faiths working together to make a better world.
Finally when there was no more we could say we bid him goodbye and he slouched back into the shadows. He had a serene smile on his face as he left us. Almost as if to say he had overcome a major hurdle. As if we had given him some kind of hope. We had helped him with the struggle that his young mind had been trying to cope with. To understand. To interprete. No doubt he would have had a few restless nights as he tossed and turned trying to digest all that had happened that day.
We made our way back to our huts and to a fitful sleep again interrupted by the now familiar but no less unsettling wailing. The next morning we bade farewell to the camp and made our way back to the city in silence. As we got on the plane to head back to London I could not help but wonder about the crumbling difference between wrong and right.
Step out the front door like a ghost
into the fog where no one notices
the contrast of white on white.
And in between the moon and you
the angels get a better view
of the crumbling difference between wrong and right.
Round Here by The Counting Crows.
He stepped out from behind the tree causing the three of us to stop dead in our tracks in shock and surprise. The visit so far had been littered with all sorts of weirdness and strangeness and we were already on edge. The piercing screams and howling in the night, that had been denied in the morning. The almost military vibe of the dormitories and surroundings. Having to use a bucket to do my number 1 business in our hut. Having to use a hole in the ground for my number 2 surrounded by all sorts of rodents and other non paying voyeurs. So please understand that the last thing we needed was him stepping out of the shadows like a ghost.
His first sentence will stay with me till the day I die. "I used to be a Muslim" he said and left it hanging there in the air for us to inhale, taste and digest. After what seemed like hours of silence from us which realistically was seconds he repeated it again still standing in the shadows of the tree for fear of being seen. I finally managed to get my words out. "Then what happened?" I asked. "They came to take me away from my family. Twice I ran back but each time they came to take me back. I miss my brother and sister. My parents are dead. It is only my grandparents left."
It turns out that the charity we were visiting which provides a home for children orphaned by the AIDS epidemic had picked him from his grandparents and then "converted" him into Christianity as a pre-condition of being looked after. Twice he had run back to the bosom of his family but each time they had come back to get him. He had initially refused to give up his faith but eventually they had disciplined it out of him (or at least he let them think so).....
Imagine his surprise therefore when having been told that all Muslims were evil and going to hell anyway to find himself seated across from two Muslims. Both of them married to Christians!! I mean come on. It was obvious he was in turmoil. And no wonder. His beliefs were being tested. Again. I had not noticed him earlier in the afternoon when we had had our meet and greet with some of the students. At first they had been welcoming and curious about this trio of visitors - one an Asian lady, one a lady of mixed racial identity and the third a large black man. The warmth had evaporated somewhat when they discovered that two of their visitors were Muslims. Some, including the teachers, visibly shrank away.
After many general questions about our identities one finally piped up with the question. How did we (the Muslims) feel about not going to heaven? Well what can you say to a group of children between 7 and 16 years old when asked this question. We took a deep breath and tried to explain that there was enough room in heaven for us all to much shaking of heads and mutterings of "no, its a lie". "Who told you this?" we asked as their teachers disappeared further into their seats. Accusing fingers were pointed and pretty sharpish the ceremony was ended and we each went back to our own realities somewhat unsure of how to deal with the exchange we had just had. And then he stepped out of the shadows.
We moved closer into the darkness to afford him the privacy that he so craved as he had refused to step into the light for fear of being seen talking to us. He told us how he missed his brother and sister so much with such a sadness and melancholy that still brings tears to my eyes even as I write this after all this time (this is why I had been delaying). He said he was now resigned to his fate (or faith?) like a man destined for the gallows who had put up a good fight but had exhausted his defences. We offered words of encouragement. Told him he still had his whole life ahead of him he would not be in the camp forever. There was a big world out there filled with Muslims, Christians, Jews etc. We used ourselves as examples of what was possible. Marriages between faiths. All faiths working together to make a better world.
Finally when there was no more we could say we bid him goodbye and he slouched back into the shadows. He had a serene smile on his face as he left us. Almost as if to say he had overcome a major hurdle. As if we had given him some kind of hope. We had helped him with the struggle that his young mind had been trying to cope with. To understand. To interprete. No doubt he would have had a few restless nights as he tossed and turned trying to digest all that had happened that day.
We made our way back to our huts and to a fitful sleep again interrupted by the now familiar but no less unsettling wailing. The next morning we bade farewell to the camp and made our way back to the city in silence. As we got on the plane to head back to London I could not help but wonder about the crumbling difference between wrong and right.
Wednesday, 2 July 2008
This surreal life....
We sit in a bar listening to a group murder several rock tunes. The group on stage consists of five half dressed girls and three guys. The lead boy singer and a couple of the girls sport dreads. The lead singer throws his around in true rock star fashion as he murders song after song and massacres several rap tunes just for good measure. At one point a girl performs a song by Evernescence that makes my colleague double check his glasses in case they have cracked such is the screeching she produces. Behind me a man sits sipping a pint of beer whilst chatting to his mate who is sucking on a fag. When the band takes a break (whoopee) we are then bombarded with gospel music over the speakers. One particular singer has a lot of love for Jesus and is not afraid to let the world know. Three vacant girls with vacant eyes and matching smiles sit at the bar nursing diet cokes and swaying to the music.
No this is not a night out in London or Lagos. My colleague and I on a day trip to Bahrain which for you that are not clued in on these matters is a Muslim country. I notice that the man behind me who is dressed in the full jalabia has his beads wrapped around his wrist and keeps glancing at his watch. I wonder if he is keeping an eye out for the call to prayer. Or the wife.
I learn later that come the weekend the place is really jumping as the Saudis pile in from across the border. In Saudi there are no bars, no drinking, no girls with vacant eyes and vacant smiles. No half naked singers or singers pouring out their love for Jesus. But this is available 45 minutes across the bridge. In Bahrain. The trick is to get there and back half sober. If one were to cause or be in an accident and be accosted by the law well things get pretty hairy. So the guys pace themselves and leave before the tipping point. Or spend the night. For some strange reason I feel at peace and as if a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. The world is not a perfect place and we are not perfect people. Live your life to the best you can and be prepared to give your side of the story when the questioning begins.
At the airport in Bahrain we are surrounded by a sea of black widows. No they are not all widows as some of them have their husbands, and children, in tow. But to my mind they are dressed as such. In a shop in the duty free area there is a woman dressed from top to toe in black. She is selling these outfits. It is a strange sight to see a retail clothes outlet where everything is black. The only differentiator being the decorative beading on the sleeves or around the ankles. Otherwise black. I imagine the amount of time that Iyawo could save if only she adopted this way of dressing. No more hours waiting by the front door while she decides what to wear. Black again tonight darling? Lovely. No, no. The one with the red beading is fine. It matches my eyes.
Around the concourse at Dubai airport there are a large number of Indians and Pakistanis on both sides of the divide. There are just as many arriving as are departing. These are the worker ants for the numerous building sites in Dubai. Everywhere you turn there is a crane putting up another skyscraper. My colleague informs me that Dubai is now the proud home to 35% of the world's building cranes. It is hard to miss them. Skyscraper after skyscraper. Crane after crane. New block after new block. All trying to outdo themselves. Dubai should be the 8th wonder of the world. It has the world's tallest building. The only 7 star hotel. The only mall in the world with a ski slope. It is building an underwater hotel. It has built a replica of the world out of man made islands in the ocean. People have bought these islands. It is now building "The Universe" out in the ocean.
Around the hotel there are huge skyscraper apartments. Underneath are retail outlets. The usual suspects. Fast food, clothes etc. In these blocks at night you are lucky if you can count more than a dozen apartments with lights on. Out of maybe two hundred flats. You see there are no inhabitants. Most of them lie empty. They were bought as investments. The rent is unbelievable. Five thousand dollars per month for a three bed flat. The place is a ghost town. Yet still they build. Apparently the oil will run out in 10 years. And they are afraid that they will be forgotten. They do not want to be forgotten. So they do things to make sure they are not forgotten. Like recreating another Las Vegas in another desert.
I walk down to the beach behind the hotel to clear my head. It is practically deserted. Most locals have skipped the country. Outside temperature is hovering around 49 degrees. Who can blame them? The only people on the beach are a few Indians crouching in the sand and staring into the far distance. I wonder if they dream of home and the families left behind. They are not allowed to bring their families with them here until they earn above a certain amount monthly. Which the greater majority of them never do. Also a few elderly tourists. They look German. I notice towels on the deckchairs (sorry I could not resist).
After staring out to sea myself for some time I turn around and get the very strange feeling that I am on a film set. Like those sets they create in Hollywood for films like King Kong where everything is out of proportion. I feel like one of those plastic action heroes. Staring me in the face are rows of huge empty skyscrapers. All trying to outdo each other. They are immaculate. They are silent. They are surreal.
Friday, 6 June 2008
Outside its America.........
In the howlin' wind
Comes a stingin' rain
See it drivin' nails
Into the souls on the tree of pain.
Bullet the Blue Sky - U2
The trip had started bizarrely. Having taken the BA flight from Lagos at midnight and arrived in London in the early hours of the morning only to jump on to the BA flight to DC you could excuse me for being confused and discombobulated. See what happened was that the plane started taxiing and seemed to continue taxiing for a very long time. I was keep tracking of the engine sounds as I always do and waiting for the nose to lift before I could let out my customary deep breath. But no. Not this time.The taxiing seemed to go on and on. And on. Surely we must have run out of runway by now I thought to myself expecting us to go careering into some poor sods semi in Feltham any minute. And still I waited. It was only after a good ten minutes that I twigged that we were already in the air having taken off so smoothly I had thought we were still on ground. This was a new one for me but as I say maybe it was because I was tired.
We landed with a bang in DC and proceeded into the main hall where the ever efficient, super diligent, ever so observant and welcoming Dept of Homeland Security welcomed us into God's own country. Look my philosophy of life is very simple. Any person that has a 45 Magnum strapped to their waist can talk to me anyway they like. For as long as they like. Anytime. Left index finger in, right index finger out do the hokey cokey and spin it all around. No problem.
An hour later I was sitting in a taxi on the way to the hotel. Two things struck me on the journey. Luckily one of them was not the central reservation. Let me explain. My driver spent a lot of the time sending and receiving texts, yes while driving, and so it was that one point we were headed with full force towards the motorway divider until my violent coughing and clearing of throat brought it to his attention. Experience has taught me that swearing at people in America is not to be recommended as any Tom, Dick or Dirty Harry can whip out said 45 and before you know it the Alfas have to be gathered if you get my drift. The second thing was the violent manner in which he used his horn. I had thought that American cars only had horns installed for decoration and to ensure that an unsightly hole was not left in the steering wheel but this chap certainly knew how to use it. He was a homie so maybe that explains it.
DC is one of the greenest places I have ever been to and looking down from the bridge into the Potomac brings a lump to the throat. After three days of conferencing and being stuck in a hotel I finally got the chance to take in the sights - the White House, the Pentagon, The War Memorial? Nope. Straight to the Pentagon Mall to indulge in that good old Naija custom. Shopping for necessities which you can also get at home if you are prepared to pay double. After all its not like those monuments are going anywhere but have you seen how much they sell muesli at Shoprite? And where does one get reading materials for those long nights trapped behind our burglar proof gates?. I beg priorities, priorities.
The weather was at times extreme with bright sunny days disappearing into sullen, dark thunderstorms. At one point there was talk of a tornado hitting the town (and I'm not talking about Hilary, of whom more later). I strolled along sidewalks so clean I wondered why I had bothered to book a hotel. The vibe was good. The air was clean. I walked for miles lost in my own reverie. Iyawo has been going on about quality of life for some time now and I see what she means. The simple act of being able to walk without fear of being run over, on the sidewalk, or molested by any number of miscreants, is that not one of the fundamental human rights? If not then it should be.
The rest of the time I spent cowering in my room engrossed in their Cable TV (67 channels and nothing on - Bruce Springsteen). It was dominated by the Obama\Clinton docu drama. Oh what riveting television. On the one hand you have the masculine, tough talking, dominant, aggresive, manipulative candidate. And on the other hand Obama. Oh Hillary go home. The game is over. Accept defeat graciously. Write a book. Sort out your finances. You are in big debt baby. After realising, but not accepting defeat Hillary asked her 18 million supporters to contact her via email at her website to tell her what to do. Huh? And oh by the way leave a little sumthing, sumthing donation to help feed Bill and Chelsea. Oh how I laughed. Is she implying that she needs 18 million people to tell her the obvious? Ok please allow me to get the ball rolling.
Hillary you fought a tough and dirty battle. You threw everything you had into the fight. You lost. Go home. Get a grip. Obama owes you nowt. The choice of his VP is his. Not yours. Not conceding is bad behaviour but typical and expected. If he has any sense he will steer well clear. Bill however needs you. Apparently he has been getting Monica'd by various "campaign supporters" across the nation according to Vanity Fair. He obviously needs you close by his side. Very close.
Anyway back to the outside world as I head to the airport I am struck by the silence, the serenity, the sense of order, decorum, decency. The cabbie tells me that things changed after the ousting of Mayor "I swear I did not snort that white powder. It was the devil." Berry. The place is more secure, the neighbourhoods cleaner, house prices through the roof, great restaurants, sense of community. All this is due to a change to "The Management"? Surely this is the way it should be. Could be. Will be? in Naija. Soon? Ever?
Through the alleys of a quiet city street.
Up the staircase to the first floor
We turn the key and slowly unlock the door
As a man breathes into his saxophone
And through the walls you hear the city groan.
Outside, is America
Outside, is America
America.
Bullet the Blue Sky. U2
And so it goes...........
Thursday, 29 May 2008
My mother swore.
So apologies for the silence but the wheels have been spinning and rubber has been burning and life has been moving at the speed of light. What? Another week gone by? You don't say. So much has been happening, is happening, was happening.
However this post is all about my mother. It all started with the death of one of her best friends as detailed in my previous post. The fact that this lovely lady was younger did not help matters. Bad enough when you are at death's doorstep at 72 but when 68 year olds are leaving you behind well it preys on the mind. And it has been preying on hers. So much so that she has been quite poorly. However this is not a shout out for sympathy.
Last week after knowing her for some 40 odd years I heard my mother swear and cuss for the first time ever. The reason for this was understandable. It was that old foe NEPA. Having been deprived of electricity for weeks and with both generators having decided to give up the ghost together she found herself having to sit out on the balcony all day just to breathe. Maybe it was unfortunate that I chose this very time to call her to check on her wellbeing. It was then that she swore. The dam broke. The years of quiet middle class respectability went out the window.
To be frank it was quite scary. It was only one line but still it was like a blow to the solar plexus. It was like I was speaking to a stranger. As is my wont I have spent a long time deliberating about this outburst and to be honest with you I am scared. Not for her. She will be alright Insha Allah. But for me. For my children. It seems so long ago we would be sitting in front of NTA and then all would go dark. "Ahh NEPA" we would all scream as we scrambled around for candles and torches and made our way outside to play various games or tell scary tales. We would also catch crickets and roast them as a snack. This is all a good thrity years ago!! Thirty years and yet here we are with my mother sitting on the balcony sweating because NEPA has struck again? After thirty years? Nothing has changed?
So I pictured myself thirty years from now. In the twilight of my years. Is this the fate that awaits me? Will my children phone me only to hear me cussing out the bastards that run NEPA \ the Government whilst I sit sweltering and bloated from the heat on the verandah of my home sucking in fumes from slow moving traffic? I feel ashamed. I feel I should have done more. I feel I should do more.I must do more to make sure it does not happen.
But what can I do?
However this post is all about my mother. It all started with the death of one of her best friends as detailed in my previous post. The fact that this lovely lady was younger did not help matters. Bad enough when you are at death's doorstep at 72 but when 68 year olds are leaving you behind well it preys on the mind. And it has been preying on hers. So much so that she has been quite poorly. However this is not a shout out for sympathy.
Last week after knowing her for some 40 odd years I heard my mother swear and cuss for the first time ever. The reason for this was understandable. It was that old foe NEPA. Having been deprived of electricity for weeks and with both generators having decided to give up the ghost together she found herself having to sit out on the balcony all day just to breathe. Maybe it was unfortunate that I chose this very time to call her to check on her wellbeing. It was then that she swore. The dam broke. The years of quiet middle class respectability went out the window.
To be frank it was quite scary. It was only one line but still it was like a blow to the solar plexus. It was like I was speaking to a stranger. As is my wont I have spent a long time deliberating about this outburst and to be honest with you I am scared. Not for her. She will be alright Insha Allah. But for me. For my children. It seems so long ago we would be sitting in front of NTA and then all would go dark. "Ahh NEPA" we would all scream as we scrambled around for candles and torches and made our way outside to play various games or tell scary tales. We would also catch crickets and roast them as a snack. This is all a good thrity years ago!! Thirty years and yet here we are with my mother sitting on the balcony sweating because NEPA has struck again? After thirty years? Nothing has changed?
So I pictured myself thirty years from now. In the twilight of my years. Is this the fate that awaits me? Will my children phone me only to hear me cussing out the bastards that run NEPA \ the Government whilst I sit sweltering and bloated from the heat on the verandah of my home sucking in fumes from slow moving traffic? I feel ashamed. I feel I should have done more. I feel I should do more.I must do more to make sure it does not happen.
But what can I do?
Monday, 5 May 2008
Goodbye Aunty
My aunty, Mrs Jade Akande, passed away suddenly last week in her sleep. Her death hit me very hard but not as hard as my mother who is trying to be strong but we can tell that her emotions are boiling beneath the surface. What made my aunty special to me was not all that she accomplished but the humility and grace that she retained till the very end.
I now regret my procrastination in telling her something that I had wanted to tell her for some years. How proud I was of her. How she motivated me without knowing it. How I was in awe of her. How I became dumbstruck every time I was around her even though she was the most comfortable person to be around.
When I read about her organising the march for mothers following the Sosolido crash I was so proud but not surprised. She was one of those people that do rather than talk about doing. When planning my return to Nigeria one of the things I promised myself to do was to tell her to her face how proud I was when I heard about the March. But alas it was not meant to be.
I also wanted to ask her to be my mentor. To show me the way in making things better for others as she had done. Now I will have to find my own way. My own causes to fight. In her name. To honour her and to let her know it was not in vain. To let her know she left some torchbearers behind. I am sure I am not the only one.
Rest In Peace Aunty. May God be with you always.
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