Funmi Iyanda

Monday evenings, l can usually be found at the
Silverbird Cinema with my friends Jide and Remi. I
know we make an eccentric looking trio and perhaps we
are .I was billed to do celebrity who wants to be a
millionaire last weekend but l worked as MC till the
wee hours at the girlpower unleashed concert so l
couldn’t make the show the next day. Painful because l
really like that show and Frank Edoho is a good guy,
talented, sexy (back off kathrine, (-:just looking)
and funny. If l had gone, there is only one friend l
would have called for a life line. If Jide doesn’t
know the answer? Fogedit! He is this 6 foot 3
androgynous walking wikkepedia on everything you can
think off except religion and football. Those two
doesn’t “werk”( you really must watch west Africa
idols) for him. A lawyer by training, his thing is to
fight ignorance, oppression and injustice. Thus Jide
has matched at every major demonstration in this
country in the past two decades. He was also one of
those who constantly demonstrated against Apartheid
at the South African embassy in London as a student.

So it is fitting that we decided yesterday to see
Catch A Fire. Jide had been at the premier at the SA
embassy in London with some of the key ANC leaders who
had been jailed and l missed it during SITENGI in
Capetown.

Catch A Fire is the true story of Patrick Chamsso who
had lived a relatively happy life with his family in
the township slums of apartheid south Africa, avoiding
conflicts and politics he just wanted to eek a living
and raise his family. That was all shattered when he
was accused of being an ANC terrorist and he was
systematically tortured and his wife brutalized. The
trauma lead him into the ANC training camp in Maputo
and a lot of mayhem and deaths later he is a changed
man and a freedom fighter, blowing up a power station
(oh how we cheered at that scene), betrayed and then
jailed at Robben Island. His protagonist was played by
Tim Robbins whom I’ll always admire because of Goldie
Hawn. Tims carracter was this cold, evil boer police
office who tortured, maimed and murdered with such
chilling calmness and strange charm. An accurately
told tale and well shot film, it rivals Blood Diamond
(l like BD too) and in fact makes Blood Diamond look
cosmetic. I guess the catch a fire story leaves a
white man looking cold and evil and thus may not be
digesteable in Hollywood hence the poor showing at the
bigger awards. In blood Diamonds, the white man
repents and is a hero at last so that preserves the
status quo.

Screen play was written by Shawn Slovo whose parents were
one of those rare breeds of humans, the bravest sort
white South Africans who joined forced with ANC to fight
apartheid. Joe slovo was co founder of Umthonko we Sizwe, the armed faction of ANC and his wife was murdered during the struggle.

The film stuck a deep cord with me because l was in
Robben Island in February and all the tour guides
within the prison are ex prisoners and the stories of the struggle are
all on their faces as much as it is in the carefully
preserved cells, voice recording that play back
thought of ex prisoners, pictures and all the
paraphenelia of oppression. Apartheid was one of the
most evil systems invented by man against man. The
holocast killed more and was evil but at least it
happened over a shorter period of time, Apartheid went
on for so long killing the souls of generations whilst
preserving a beaten shell. The recovery is still only
ongoing. As a Nigerian, l have often wondered what
will be that stimuli that will turn complacency and
apathy into decisive action. What will it take for us
to look an oppressor (symbolically or in reality) in
the face and say as Patrick did that "there is nothing
more you can do to me, my life is finished but at
least when my children speak of me, they will say
their father stood up for what was right, for good,
what will your children say about you"?

I go to South Africa and l see that they still have
all sorts of issues but gradually things are changing
for the black south African and non of it would have
happened if there was not a generation brave enough to
stand up for a future they might not be a part of.

As the world struggles with terrorism and publicly denounces racism,
making the right noises about fair trade and helping
Africa. Africa will do better if Africans fight
internal oppression and their external cohorts to
entrench systems and processes of governance that
protect liberty and guarantees prosperity. Otherwise, we
will continue with the Blood Diamondsque fomular where
a white knight (plus female with high emotional
intelligence, very noughties) saves the concentious
African. A formular that is rife in Nigeria now as
every project, business and cornershop must have a
“foreign partner, face or import” and as state
governments give free certificates of occupancy and
stand as bank guarantors to foreigners whilst stifling
productivity within Nigeria. Slavery is real and
enduring, it just has a different toga.

This week l am reading and highly recommed Banker To The Poor by Nobel Laureat Muhammad Yunus.

So, I’m driving the shrimp to school in the lemon, its usually a 10
minute drive but it had rained all night and the traffic was worse
than usual. By those lights at the Nitel junction in GRA Ikeja, which
were installed in memory of Bioye Taiwo the 24 year old, only
daughter, lawyer child of the still grieving Mrs Taiwo Taiwo who was
killed at that point a few years ago, all hell was let loose. Somehow,
everyone had decided to ignore the lights and there was a gridlock at
the junction with all manner of vehicles coming from different
directions attempting to perhaps piggy ride one another.
A police vehicle cut in front of everyone in the wrong direction and
assaulted motorists off the road. I am unemotional and deadpan as l
firmly but calmly block any offending car and do that carefully
choreographed brake and accelerator balancing, bumper to bumper
driving that only years of driving in Lagos can teach you.

25 mins later we are through and the shrimp who had been strangely
quiet through it all suddenly pips up;
S: Mummy, why were those cars hitting your car and why did that man
thump our car like that.
FI: Because they are naughty.
S: But why didn't you hit them back?
FI: Because it is unnecessary bad behaviour.
S: What mean "inecessary"?
FI: Something that you don't need.
S: But they were bad to you too.
FI: Yes but you don't have to be bad because other people are bad.

She paused for a while with a frown parting the braids falling forward
on her 5 year old brow then asked,

S: But why didn't the police irrest them, l saw a policeman there, why
didn't he irrest them mummy?

I am stumped as l hurriedly willed my brain to produce a dream
preserving answer, eventually l murmured an unconvincing, 'well
sometimes the police are not able to do their jobs well'.
She looks at me in disgust and l realized that she already knows that
the police cannot enforce or uphold the law in the city of god.

I drop her off at school and as l drive back l thought of my mother
who taught me to slap harder, bite deeper, run faster and give as good
as l get. My mother was kind and compassionate but she was a warrior,
a product of her environment. I am also a product of my environment
but have often accusingly been called "oyinbo" (westernized) in my
ways as though disorder and dysfunction is our way (or is it? perhaps
the joke is on me.). I subscribe to universal laws of humanity, good
society and human conduct. Often misinterpreted to mean "mumu"
(retard, idiot, fool, pushover, you get the drift?) behaviour here.
Once a friend questioned the wisdom of raising our children to have
values and modes of behaviour that work in a structured lawful society
when in fact they will be living in a lawless jungle and would be
better served with corresponding instincts, values and behaviour.

This has nothing to do with raising some ghastly female with
pretentious "lady" behaviour, which camouflages such manipulative and
vindictive spirit that its full force can deflate a FIFA approved
football. Just raising a human with independent thought, a happy
spirit and a deep awareness of her privileges and responsibilities to
the universe and her society, surely that's the way it should be? Is
it, my inner id asks as the crazy person who had chosen to drive
against the traffic whizzes back onto the right lane behind me and
miscalculates, ramming right into my rear. My neck jerks back and my
back groans, l know l have whiplash. He, of the badly cut suit,
clown's tie and toad like bloating gets out of his car, inspects my
car on my behalf and being judge and jury pronounced the damage
minimal, gets back in his car, waves and drives off once again going
against the traffic. At the top of the queue, there are traffic
wardens and policemen, they will not "irrest" him and he is going to
drive off convinced that the bigger your car the bigger your dick and
the world must suck it. l tell myself to breathe deeply and continue
driving on the right lane, an hour's gone by already. One day the good
will prevail just as that frigging frog will one day turn into a prince.

Ayo Animashaun.
Somehow, Nigeria has developed an award season around about the international entertainment industry award season. No surprise there. Between February and March some of the most publicized awards show are held in Nigeria. Look l come in peace so I’ll not go into the merits of the awards conferred and the frenzy for award giving. Suffice to say l have attended most of the major awards from beginning and as they get bigger, non is more exciting than HIPHOP magazine awards. The ethical and moral dilemma of magazines as watchdogs and judge is a discourse for another day but in my opinion HIPHOP awards is the best. This year due to poor health l missed Thisday and City people awards, l don’t do AMAA awards in Bayelsa, that’s like taking the Oscars to Oklahoma.

I usually find awards tedious and long winded with everyone trying to crawl far into their own arses or worse into an influential person’s arse. The lack of attention to detail, lack of theme and real content as well as the sheer disregard for time makes these shows more of a chore than honour.

Not so hip-hop awards. The debut edition last year was smoking. The energy, the creativity, the deliberate decision to be unapologetically brilliant. I hadn’t seen anything like that in Nigeria. I expect no less of course because l feel a kindred spirit with Ayo Animashaun who publishes the magazine. His is a long painful journey to well deserved success and HIPHOP magazine is one of the few magazines in Nigeria that l’ll willingly buy of my own volition. It has its own style and language, it is creatively and professionally packaged and it is bursting with content. This is true even though l am not a great hip-hop fan.

This year was bigger and richer in resources but it lacked the innocent brilliance of last year’s edition. The show was almost 3 hours late (late year late comers were locked out) and poorly coordinated without a real central theme or well articulated content.

That said, it is still in my opinion the best awards show in Nigeria. The security was good, the yellow (MTN was sponsoring) carpet was magical and the compeers were the lovely Tana and the crazy, sexy D bang who was absolutely mad and high on his own youthful adrenalin through out the night. His exuberance was tough to contain for Tana but she held her own.

I love that the bearded one Edi Lawani who is perhaps Nigeria’s most prolific technical event producer got a long overdue award and that Weird MC won the album of the year award, she has come a long way and to be herself in an environment like ours must take some real balls. She was understandably emotional.

All in all it was a good night.

Some of the awards pictures here

What can l say? 4 weeks ago, l had a major meltdown, my health failed
and my mind was following suit. I had allowed teeth grinding
frustration, the sheer amount of work to be done and the efforts of
swimming against the tide of retrogression rob me of everything. After
seeing a doctors and a barrage of tests, l rented an apartment in
London, got on a plane, shut the door, my computer, phone and my mind.

l spent the time walking around London, reading and watching mindless
television until l got my health, spirit and sense of humour back. I
somehow had come to hate Lagos and taken on the universe's
responsibility of saving the world. It took a 2-hour, one-sided
"conversation" with a highly intelligent, self-deluding, conservative,
closet narrow minded, judgemental bigot of a change activist to force
me out of my own anal canal. Where was all the joy, the good energy,
the happiness, once you appoint yourself the messiah, you bloody loose
the plot, look at Obasanjo. My job is not to change the world and lose
myself, wellbeing and joy in the process, my job is to better my
allotted space one day at a time, the universe will ensure the rest.

Then London did her usual trick, after a couple of weeks of cold
unpredictable weather, mind numbing anonymity, uncompromising order
and neurosis over pointless issues, events and activities l begin to
crave the heat, the madness, the sheer unpredictable energy of Lagos.
By end of week two my usual gastronomic excesses and the culture
overload had begun to grate, all that receiving and very little
opportunity to contribute eventually penetrated my inertia and l want
some drama, time to go home, time to continue the war. The true
stories of the many battles will one day be written but l assure you l
will win the war. To feel the energy, the first thing l did on my
return was do my hair, nails and face, wear a wicked dress and strut
unto the HIPHOP awards yellow carpet. Pictures and story from the awards
tomorrow

One of my friends called me in a panic last week and said, 'did you
hear? She is dead, Anna Nicole is dead". My hard drive whirled in
confusion for a full minute, then she said, "you know, the glamour
model, ex wife of the geriatric millionaire, law suit with his kids,
weight battling, alcohol addled brained, reality show star, son
tragically dying right after birth of multi paternity battles child
Anna Nicole Smith". Oh, l said, that Anna! The last time a thing like
that happened was with Diana Princess of Wales when a friend shrieked
down the phone in Abacha darkened Nigeria, She's dead, lady Di is
dead. I thought it was our own lovely lady Di Oputa and was about to
call Charly boy when she said l know the royal family killed her, then
my slow brain got it.

I will never cease to be amazed at the insatiable quest for and
interest in the affairs of others that fuels celebrity culture or the
inability of people to see that it is all about commerce and recognize
that the over exposed celebrity is often herself or himself a victim,
a pawn in a brutal game they are usually to begin with not privy to
the rules and future consequences.

Of course celebrity is a bastardization of fame. In the true sense,
fame and acclaim should come from the body of work or achievements of
an individual but since it became isolated as an entity to be traded
with impunity, the casualties have increased.

I always curtly state that fame is a by product of my job, one l do
not crave or particularly enjoy, fortunately it just has never
penetrated my subconscious so l am still often startled when people
stare at me and truly embarrassed when they gush, genuflect and hug
me. I am deeply respectful of the love and support and hurt by the
misunderstanding and sometime hatred but l did not choose it and in
Nigeria where it is so cringingly and cheaply purchasable, l avoid it
as much as l can without hurting my career. Although, come to think of
it you sanctimonious so and so Funmi, in Nigeria, if you are not a big
man, a rich man, a famous man or any combination of the three, isn't
your arse grass?

Ms Nicole's death, far as it is from my own realities and environment
is non the less a tragedy, no amount of money in the world can be
worth the media circus of the life she lived and that poor child of
hers, what is to become of her?

I am sitting here all alone laughing so hard my sides hurt; l am reading some of the articles l wrote in my twenties and suddenly it hits me. I have become one the bitter twisted old women l used to look at with complete disdain and making a mental tufiakwa (that’s a unique tongue sucking, finger clicking, eyeball rolling, body jerking expression of never) resolved never to become! Its official l am a jaded, frustrated old bitch, albeit of who still looks good in short baby doll dresses (l think). A classic 1661 that is age 16 from the back and 61 full face. It my own fault really, l was born old in my head and at 35 l feel like I’ve been alive for 75 in my head. So how did this happen without my knowledge?

It all started with my darned homeopath who in treating my PMS induced depression suggests l think back to the happiest times of my life, no prize for guessing they were also the years l was most blindingly in love. Then I’m reading London Time’s Sunday health supplement and these riveting article on the chemistry and science of love. Apparently, there are particular hormones responsible for lust, romance and attachment, which can occur simultaneously (i.e. love) or more familiarly, in singles. Just then one of my wise older friend calls and mid discussion recites one of her pearls of wisdom “l don’t know how you people go for months without a man, half bread is better than pufpuf (fried flour pastry)’. For once l pressed her to explain what she means and she says, “Women are always looking for some non-existent ideal, some whole bread. It does not exist, if it does, it is very rare and one must not atrophy or develop cobwebs down under waiting for it. Just make sure you don’t eat some damned pufpuf, which would be some mean, bad, abusive motherfucker. Settle for the half bread, just be sure you know yourself enough to determine the kind of half bread you’ll eat, whether sourdough, rye, whole-wheat, multigrain or good old Agege Bread but don’t do no bread, that is just plain depressing”.

When accused of having no sexual ambiguity recently, a lady l know quipped, I’m not ambiguous l am just knowing, l know where you are going before you open your mouth. Which is a typical old bitch retort, true to life but no one finds true love, lust, romance or attachment by being knowing. Unfortunately true lust, romance and attachment is often attached to happiness, which has been linked to longevity and health. Therefore in a quest for health, longevity, l sought out my less knowing more lovable (lustable) self. l read these two articles written when l was 27 and 28 consecutively but in quick reversal to my old bitch self l find that this article written when l was 29 might be the truth about happiness. Hang on, which would mean l became an old bitch at 29? l can hear you sniggering in youthful derision but know this, it is true that we all do become our mothers, l give you another 10 years and you’ll see what l mean.

I was going to write about some other "the rich also cry Nigeria" (quote from the dry witted Onoshe Nwabuikwu) happenance when my imperious young friend Tayo tells me an even more awful story, then my iconoclastic friend Temi walks in all 6 foot 1 inches of righteous anger and litany of Nigeria's many woes. We had started to do the typical Nigerian thing and lament about Nigeria when Tayo turns to
Temi and says but what are you and l going to do about it?

Just then, Wale Ajadi who is a phenomenon to be encountered called from London and in explaining that l was too ill to make my schedule trip to London, l reel out a catalogue of woes. Wale firmly said, "look Funmi you and l have had this conversation before and we all know the
problems, ole ni gbogbo won, in fact with the exception of a few ole ni gbogbo wa, ole ni won ni bi yin na, won kan bo dada ni (they are all thieves, in fact with the except ion of a few, we are all thieves and they are thieves here too, only it is carefully concealed).

The truth is l don't want to hear any more grammar or listen to all these PhDs. We need to move from a power economy to a people economy and that means generating commerce, to do that we have to get beyond frustration and start organizing thought, space and people. You have a great project in the works to go around campuses and reengineer young minds, focus on doing that; let us all focus on doing something. If we have no solutions and are not catalyzed to action, let us shut up.

It is not going to be easy, it is not easy anywhere but we have no choice, if not for us but for the next generations". After a few more such "pleasantries" Wale hung up and l open my inbox and see an email from the lovely Pamela Braide on the concept of armchair activism which l thought might be a brilliant way to organize Nigerian within and without on concrete specific projects. It is true that we must shut up and get up. We must decide whether are we going to be the generation that changes the Nigerian equation in the next quarter of a century or are we going to become the generation our children abuse and curse at pepper soup bars from Norway to Cape Verde in 25 years.

To start with, l’d like to organize a wikkipedia like, internet based volunteer and support group to institute our change a life programme into self sustaining legacy. Perhaps if we can do it with this simple charity based initiative, we can expand the model to so much more. All willing to get beyond frustration and change lives please send an email to changealifeproject@gmail.com

Pic:Idowu, Pa Amodu and I
One morning last week on my way to work, l sent the following text message to some friends of mine
…Dropped off my shrimp (one of my daughter’s nicknames) at Grange in Ikeja queuing behind Mercedes G wagons and BMW X5s. Round the corner I see an Okada (commercial motorcyclist) charging down the road, 5 children squashed around the rider, ages between 3 and 6, clutching plastic lunch baskets and school bags, wide eyed as they hung on for life. I reach for my camera and just then, he screeches to a halt in front of their school gate. Opportunity missed. My phone rings and my production assistant says she’s not sure we’ll be able to record the show because power’s been bad nationwide and the station has had no electricity in days and was off air yesterday. The two generators have broken down. She’s considering dismantling and calling off the guests, we’ll lose money and man-hours and the show’ll fail. The traffic on Ikorodu road is mind numbing and someone just rear-ended us. I calmly put on my nano and Femi Kuti is singing Scatter Scatter into my ear as l read up on my research. Just another day in the city of God.

Same morning 4 hours later, we have overcome all the odds and the cameras roll. 1st show. His name is Abdulsalam Idowu, he crawled into the studio on all fours, dragged my red chair towards him with his muscular arms, biceps, triceps bulging and heaves his bulk unto his seat, his legs dangling aimlessly down the edge. He holds himself up stiffly and refuses to be drawn into the pre-recording banter. We can’t afford a warm up artist so in addition to everything else l do my own audience and guest warm up. Experience told me l need to draw him out gently but firmly without over the top cheer or undue pity.
To ease the tension, l began the show with an easier target; my 2nd guest Pa Amodu was a chirpy, happy, sprightly 68-year-old undergraduate at LASU. A true interviewers delight, he told the story of his 52-year search for higher education painting an incredibly kaleidoscopic picture of life, beliefs, culture, norms and the upheavals of Nigeria and how it affected him through those years. His discipline, total embrace of life, youthfulness and humour warmed every heart in the studio. A father of seven, including a university lecturer, his first grandchild is also a student in the same university. Known as “youngest graduate” on campus, his determination is to earn a PHD before he dies.

Pic:Abdulsalam Idowu

Perhaps it was watching me interview Pa Amodu that did the trick but Idowu was thawing, l know how had a first TV appearance can be particularly when you are crippled and are coming to exorcise long buried demons.
It must have been polio but by age three Idowu had lost use of his legs. Soon after his mother died, his father remarried. In the competition for scarce resources, the handicapped child of course loses, so no education was planned for him and as his father started travelling around the country in search of a livelihood, Idowu was left with his poor old grandmother. Thus began a life of alms begging on the streets in his Kwara hometown.

The young crippled boy believed fervently that his only salvation was education so at age 8 he went to the local primary school and created a scene, crying and rolling on the floor until he was allowed to start school. He paid his way through school with alms collected begging on the street. When it was time for secondary education, he needed N550 ($3) to pay his fees but he did not have it so one day he got on a train headed to Lagos, alit at the last stop in Iddo and knowing nobody ended up sleeping under the bridge and begging until he raised N1, 400 ($10). He got back on the train months later and returned to the school to pay the N550 fees. He paid his way through school by begging.

When he finished secondary school, he came to Lagos, found a night guard at a school who charged him N20 a night to sleep in the compound whilst he goes begging in the day. Slowly over a three-year period, he saved enough from begging to rent a room in Ajegunle (Lagos slum) and pay for JAMB (university entry exams) lessons. After a few trials negotiating the minefield that is university entry in Nigeria, he was finally admitted into the University of Lagos to study political science. He is currently a 100evel student.

In answer to one of my questions he said

“begging is the last resort when you have no more choices, it is the most demeaning thing you can be forced to do and to do it all your life is just painful but l knew l had to do it to get what l need to be somebody in future”

.He intends to become a human rights lawyer like Gani Fawehinmi, l thought about it only for a second before l pledged a yearly sum to help him achieve this. I caught the eye of my associate producer and l know why she is rolling her balls, we are barely scraping along as a show and have god knows how many other cases in addition to our scholarship children. We cannot afford it, but l have never done anything because l could afford it only because it needed to be done.

Pic: Prof. Magnus Kpakol, Nat. Coordinator NAPEP

Quick change of clothes and it is time to do the second show. He walks in, hair carefully groomed in some wavy, high maintenance manner; suit cut in the pristine fit of a high-end international designer and l welcome him onto the set. His American accent is so pronounced l was shocked when he told me he was an Ogoni (pronounced ogonai by him) man. Prof (as his media team insists l call him) is the national coordinator for National Poverty Eradication Program (NAPEP)
A genial enough man who might have got an easier deal had he not come right after the first two stories l had done. After listening to Pa Amodu and Idowu and going through what l had that morning to do my work as well as seeing those kids on the Okada, no one was going to come and sell me propaganda. Now l know that the good Prof. of economics has little choice, ours is not a system where you tell the truth and keep your job especially when you have such tastes in body maintenance. I also know that NAPEP cannot solve the poverty problem on its own but to come and boldly say that power has improved, the economy has grown and over 50% of Nigerians live above the poverty line is asking for trouble. Suffice to say it was not an easy time on the show for him, even the usually over censored NTA producers were angry. In speech he actually said something like when we had hurricane Katrina…” we? He claims that poverty reveals itself and when prodded says that means that because democracy allows us freedom of expression we can see more people complain about poverty as against the military era excuse me? More nuggets of wisdom like if you get only three hours of electricity we have to teach our people to manage it instead of complaining so says the man with standby generators.


I have no problem with Kpakol as a person but he represents the disconnect between the rulers and the ruled in Nigeria because if l were to assimilate that he knowingly said those things when aware of the actual situation on ground, l go craze. As my darling friend Temi said, when Marie Antoinette pre revolution France said let them eat cake to the complaint that the people were hungry, she truly did not know that cake was not an option for her people.

Its 6am now, my nanny and housekeeper conspired and left last week to earn Oyinbo (expatriate) salaries (l paid them well above the national wage scale and feed, clothe and housed them but l cant compete with American dollars). l have spent the weekend recovering from malaria and a tooth infection, my overworked doctor friend best friend insists l need a couple more days of rest but l know otherwise. I must get up to bathe and get my daughter ready for school, drop her off, go to the studio to record the show, come back to finish my business plan, see the bank manager, the dentist and an executive coming in from Johannesburg from whom l seek sponsorship so l can keep telling these stories. Fortunately l have my younger sister, my brilliant mentee, my small dedicated production team to help so l am smiling as l get up from my computer to face another dawn in the city of God.

Uncut excepts from the interviews here

At 6a.m l staggered out of my room, tears pouring down my cheeks, my eyes reddened by lack of sleep and hot tears. My daughter bounds into my room and leaps on my bed, giving me her usual sideways hug, she says e kaa ro mama and beginning to prattle on about our planned day out. Then she must have sensed my despondence because she looked at my hastily wiped face and asked in alarm, mummy why are you crying?

I automatically did what parents have been doing for centuries, l lied to protect her innocence, l said oh, something got in my eye and it is hurting me. She looked at me in disbelief and said but why are you sad? I said, well l spent all night reading this book and the story is around the Nigerian Civil war, which was very sad. She looked as though she’ll let that go for a second then pipes up, what means civil war mummy? I was stumped, how does one explain insanity to a five year old?

Years before she was born, her dad, my friend Segun told me a haunting story. He grew up in the ethnically diverse and vibrant pre civil war Jos. His friends were Igbo and Hausa children with whom he ran barefoot in the street playing games. People whose parents and homes were like his. One day as he set out on his way to school, the world changed, his schoolboy senses felt the pogrom before he saw it. As he walked his usual route to school, the streets were empty save the many copses lying around. Decapitated bodies of his little friends, their parents, their siblings, their relatives. He walked on in a daze and as he turned into a street, he lost his youth. Right there a mob was stoning a very fair skinned Igbo boy. He thought he recognized the boy, a neighbour and was confused as to why he was being stoned by his old friends and neighbours. He saw as the stones sank holes into the boy’s fair beautiful skin, as the blood oozed even as the boy begged for his life. Segun told me that what he would never forget was the look of disbelief that never left the fair boy’s face even as he went limp and silent. Nobody touched Segun or his family, he was Yoruba.
To underscore the extent of the ethnic cleansing that preceded the civil war, he told me that his school St. Murumba lost so many children either to the massacre or the mass East bound exodus and the eventual war that there were only about thirteen children left in his year.

Before Segun’s story the political upheaval of the 60s and the war had always seemed benign to me. I was born after the war and aside the stories of my fair skinned Igbo looking Yoruba dad being hassled here and there in Lagos, the Biafran experience was just a blip in the on going Nigerian story.

That has changed; it changed after l read Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s new novel HALF OF A YELLOW SUN. l confess to a deep admiration and genuine fondness for the work and person of Chimamanda. Once in a rare while on my job l come across a sterling mind against which l can sharpen my under utilized interviewing skills. I fell in love with her after my first interview. Her amazing clarity of mind, mischievous twinkle in the eye and curl to the mouth, that knowingness about her. That such a young, female person from Nsukka writes with such mastery, such wisdom, such creativity and brutal beauty brings a song to my heart.

HALF OF AYELLOW SUN is a work of fiction but we are live in the fiction. That is why l couldn’t put it down till the break of dawn, that is why l look at the Igbo a little differently and why l have started buying up as many books on the civil war as l can to read. I cried because so much of the underlying issues are unchanged and because all around us in Nigeria and all over Africa, the world is still silent when they die.

I arrived Lagos last night struck once again by the total chaos, dirt and darkness but enthralled by the sheer energy and spurred on by the anticipation of a return to the people who love me the most. I have a love hate relationship with Lagos as do most true Lagosians. I love her energy, her warmth, her diversity, her resilience and her pseudo cosmopolitanisms. I however detest her dirt, chaos, pollution, crime and sometime bloody-minded sheer callousness. Most of all I am often stupefied by her mind bending indifference to the level of human degradation in shameless display all around her.

Picture this. Two Thursdays ago l am doing my morning dash from school run to studio praying that the black market fuel in my car doesn’t cause any havoc. Ikorodu road is a madhouse as fuel queues stretch in all directions and vehicular movement slows to deep shoehorn curve crawl. Young boys peddling fuel in dirty beige jerry cans weave a heaving tapestry around the cars and commuters wait for non-existent busses to ferry them to work.

I am reading my show run down and research papers at the back of my air-conditioned car, barely allowing the throbbing humanity around me penetrate my consciousness. The first show is on the Boxing Day vandalized pipeline explosion that killed over one hundred people including children. As we crawled into Fadeyi area l noticed smoke rising from the distance, as we crawled further l realized that it was a smouldering corpse, most likely a pickpocket who had been dealt the usual Lagos fast jungle justice. I did not flinch but look almost clinically at the human waste, ash falling into off his back, l noticed his erect phallus. About a hundred meters down the road, there was another young man, apparently burnt earlier for his fire was completely dead as he wore his macabre vehicle tire necklace. As l looked l noticed children walking casually by on their way to school, edging around the corpses. So did the hawkers on the highway, the black market fuel peddlers, the stranded commuters, the people in the cars and busses. Slowly, l hear my mind finally screeching in horror at the utter madness of it all.

How in the name of all that is decent and human can we all just carry on our normal routine in the face of such complete insanity?
I wanted to get down and start shaking everyone out of a collective coma but l am aware that it is that very comatose acceptance or denial that keeps us going. My driver mutters the usual refrain, “na God go save us for this country o”. This is the city where l witnessed my first extra judicial street burning from capture to last writhe at age seven. I have witnessed many since, in fact, last year an 11 year old boy was accused of kidnapping a child, beaten and dragged bleeding over a 2 km distance to be incinerated in full daylight. It was recorded by an eyewitness and broadcast on local TV.

At the studio, l send a cameraman to take pictures of the corpses (changed my mind about posting it them) and the show starts. The government official denies the death toll from the pipeline explosion; he calls the oil scavengers greedy and labels me emotional for asking for deeper non-symptomatic evaluation of the entire issue. He is cagey and defensive, the expert is non committal, the journalist is frustratedly trying to report what he witnessed and l am walking a fine line trying to get a semblance of the truth out fully aware of the shadow of the censors at my back. If l asked the sort of questions l want to, the show will be axed.

Seven hours later l drive by Fadeyi on my way home, the corpses are still there, the smouldering has stopped, but humanity continued to heave distractedly around them, accustomed as she is to seeing very little good in a city with so much God.

@ all, l have tears in my eyes to see your responses, l hadnt replied because of server problems and having to do so much by myself. Thanks laspapi for being a joshua. l will digest it all and get back to you all when l return to lagos. l believe we can start a movement for change using our collective talents and resources. thank you.

A week away
Between a problematic server and a backbreaking work schedule that includes constant travelling, keeping this blog going is no mean task but they don’t call me shangree (uncool 90s term for never say die) for nothing. I have in fact had an incredible two weeks spanning three cities, Lagos, Cape Town and Johannesburg. In typical fashion l find it easier to write about my experiences after the fact by which time reason has tempered the extremes of emotion usually provoked lending coherence and structure. From the chaos and corpses on the street on the day l left Lagos to the Vital Voices Summit with 250 women across Africa and beyond and the head spinning experiences packed into that week in Cape Town to my languid days in Johannesburg l do have a lot to recount. It will mean writing everyday forcing me back into rhythm, shall l start therefore with the most stupid…


On The Goody Controversy
I have been watching more than my usual share of international news in my hotel rooms and therefore cannot get away from the Jade Goody/Big Brother/Racism brouhaha. Quick summary for those who usually have more important issues to deal with. Jade Goody is a loud mouthed, barely literate, near train wreck young mother who became a national British celebrity and earned millions of pounds in endorsements, show appearances, magazine columns and so on through the ubiquitous voyeuristic reality TV show Big Brother. Shilpa Shetty is a beautiful Bollywood star with over forty films under her belt and and the adulation Indian fans. Celebrity Big Brother is an extension of the show concept using B rated celebrities as well paid guinea pigs. A ratings winning formula that satisfies the thirst of a celebrity obsessed and voyeuristic world.

The allegation of racism emerged due to the bullying of Shilpa by Jade and two other housemates who hurled racial slurs at her and refused to pronounce her name. A large portion of the audience sent in complaint, the media waded in with 24/7 coverage, people protested in India, sponsor pulled out, the finance minister Gordon Brown was hounded about the issue on a visit to India and so the circus is in full swing.
Aside from incredulity on my part at how pointless the issues that engage the western media often is in the face of real issues elsewhere and my alarm at how the manufactured bar conflict of work seeking celebrity has been thus elevated, I am mostly amused by it all.

Of course Jade Goody’s comments were racist and her conduct reprehensible but isn’t she herself a victim of a bigger smarter machinery? Big Brother, like most reality shows is very much manufactured reality with an overriding goal, to push the envelop to ratings paradise and earn a pot of fortune in return. Behind the machinery are some really smart people who pitch potentially combustible personalities together and then add a few ignitable and sit back to watch the earning boosting conflagration. Whether they have gone too far now is debatable.

What do you expect when you put Goody who is the sometimes likable, ignorant, body issues battling, serial bad relationships surviving, famous for being famous single mother made good with the beautiful, exotic, aloof, elegant, slender, male magnet and frankly superior working actress Bollywood star? Forget the cultural and personality differences, as women they will clash and to me this is the true heart of the conflict. Jade feeling threatened by Shelpa attack her the only way she could, by that which made her different. She couldn’t very well have attacked her beauty or star status but she can mock her accent and refuse to deal with her humanness by refusing to pronounce her name. A more enlightened person would have found other ways to take out or hide her inferiority complex but that would not give great TV ratings.

Jade has been evicted, channel 4 is being hounded to pull the show, the debate rages but l can predict the following post the media frenzy.
One, Jade Goody’s “career” will survive, her enthusiastic albeit shambolic passion for life is not manufactured, the British public like the sad sod who publicly battles with her demons scenario a la Kate Moss, Pete Doherty, George Best. Finally she is an international newsmaker now so all she needs is a good manager to help her leverage on that starting with a tail down visit to incredible India and a goofy smile embrace of all things Indian whilst there. As for Shilpa Shetty, this is a career enhancing controversy. A bullied Barbie is a clarion call to all the living Kens and the long dead knights to come running to the rescue. The offers for jobs will roll in, even Hollywood might call, as soon as she losses the Indian accent!

As the reality TV fever grips Nigeria, feeding on the joblessness and hopelessness of her youth and nurtured by a system that is emotionally primed by the belief in miraculous, instantly gratifying interventions, l am concerned. Unlike the west, we do not have a deep enough celebrity culture and the supporting industry to suck in the instantly famous. Even in counties where they do, these have been known to have a short shelf life. In Nigeria, their naivety, youth and “talents” will be exploited but in exchange for what and for how long?

here we are 5 years later

Wednesday 3rd of January, l pick up the newspapers and beyond the usual grime of politics, mindless crime and irrelevant events, l am riveted by two stories. One was the truly admirable story of the fulfilment of Oprah's six-year promise to build a leadership academy in Africa for poor girls. Explaining the intrinsic goodness of this
latest initiative from the queen of, what the heck, everything! Would be stating the obvious. The ripple effect of that singular action will be felt for generations long after Oprah is gone to her maker. The other story was of some of Nigeria's richest CEOs who had built a new boat club. I have no comments yet. Fast forward a few hours, my programme comes on air and it is the nationwide repeat of our annual change a life show, for me also the culmination of a five commitment to the education of 50 children from absolutely poor single parent homes.

Six years ago when l started the initiative, my desire was to do one
simple seemingly insignificant thing on the 1st day of the year that
will make a huge difference in the life of the person at the receiving
end.

I started by announcing at the end of 2000 that anyone whose life can
be transformed with just N10, 000 should write in. At that time, the
show was aired only in Lagos. We got over 5,000 letters, which took
one week to sort out. As usual, l didn't have a dime to fulfil this
promise so l went to a number of companies and they turned me down.
The year before, l had served as the youngest person on Bola Tinubu's
transition committee and earned a reputation of a young Thatcher (the
man calls me Aje, (witch) up till now) so l knew he would listen to
me. He agreed to support the idea and on the 1st day of 2001 l gave
away N10, 000 to 69 people with the governor in attendance and an
unprecedented statewide audience as witness on Live TV!

One of the reasons the corporate types refused to help was that N10,
000 cannot make a significant difference to anyone's live and that the
people would just run away with the money. Well maybe N10, 000 was
nothing to them but "suya" (open fire grilled, peppered beef kebab)
money for an "aristo" (sugar daddy) date with an underaged girl but l
knew of people who left dying kids in hospital because they could not
pay N5, 000 hospital bills. Yes some of the people did walk away but
we had an 75% success rate with people starting little businesses,
paying school fees, hospital bills or just having enough to feed the
kids for a while! One of the awardees then was Sekinat Ayeyemi, a
wiry, shy, retiring, devout Muslim student who is today one of my most
able assistants, a confident, assured young undergraduate who oversees
the change a life scheme. She it was who went with me on the last trip
to Cape Town. Six years ago, Seki needed money for school fees and
someone to give her a fighting chance, today her professional future
is assured and her human person is elevated, now she is mentoring some
of our other kids.

During the course of 2001 l noticed the alarming numbers of
unschooled, unskilled young widows, abandoned wives and single mothers
who came to us for help. Each had an average of four children.
For the year 2001 l therefore decided that l was going to find gifted
children from the most absolutely poor single parent homes and ensure
that they got basic secondary education. The response was
overwhelming, we spent one week sorting the letters, two days
conducting physical interviews and another week verifying the claims.

I will not bore you with the truly pathetic story of each family. I
will however never forget the interview with Atinuke’s mum, a young
unemployed university graduate who was jilted by her lover and
ostracized by her family. Her innate dignity as she held on to her
wide eyed daughter whilst weeping the most awful silent tears. Once
again, no corporate organization agreed to help so l went back to
Tinubu that year and for the next five years.

It has been a tough but fulfilling journey for not only do we pay the
school fees, buy the books, uniform and so on. We set up some of the
parents in trade or jobs and pay for medicals or get intervention in
case of serious illness requiring expensive operations and care. We
counsel, support, and oversee the lives of these families. There are
great results like Mary and the four kids in a shop (story for another
day), the mmeribe twins and little waliu but there has been
immeasurable pain as in the deaths of Yiseyon and Damilola last year.

This is the last year of my 5-year promise, Tinubu is leaving power.
In the six years of change a live not once have we got support from
any organization despite our best efforts and the clear proof of our
work. It would not have mattered if we were getting deserved returns
for our creativity and work, so we can commit a sizeable percentage to
these interventions. However, seven years, over 30 unsolicited awards,
including Nigeria's version of the Emmys and we still cannot get
advert or sponsorship support which would have empowered us to do
more.

Imagine if after the Oprah show blew the rating in her first years
nobody took note, nobody placed adverts and bought into her vision,
creativity and effort so that she could diversify and build an empire
that keeps giving, where would she get $40m for a school for poor
girls in Africa?

Why is it so?
One, Nigeria’s political, business and social elite is not connected to Nigeria’s reality, they don’t watch Nigerian TV so they don’t know what is going on except what they read in deodorized, stylized and often compromised newspapers. Two, Nigeria has no rating system and this encourages corruption as there is no empirical proof of how many people are watching. Most of the shows with sponsorship on TV can be traced back to some advert executive, brand manager or company executive who is a silent partner. I know for sure of a reality show where 45% of the cost of sponsorship goes into the accounts of two of the sponsoring company’s top executives. Three, Nigeria buys hype, not substance.

Back to the 3rd of January and I picked up the papers once again and looked at the smug faces of the boat club executives, why do people castigate politicians who get to power and take care only of their personal, class and group agenda, isn’t that the shameful norm? Yes there is nothing wrong with a boat club but why is it a front burner story? Why is it a big deal especially in Lagos with over 8 million people but no alternate to road transport in a city surrounded by water? Oh l forget, isn’t it also the city without a light rail, train or metro but an elite helicopter service? Why are they are not pulling resources together with the federal or state (that’s another political minefield) government to tackle public transport as a commercial venture, you know, solve human problems, make money, live better yourself. But why do this when you can get by on patronage and live on an over crowed degraded island where you can parade your boats, babes and baubles?

On our part, we will continue with change a life, and our many unorthodox, (we are not into the NGO and Foundation racket, we will work with already existing organizations that have substance and are true) life improving interventions as well as our multimedia shows, slowly learning lessons, building resources and capacity as we go along. Why? Because it needs to be done, because it is so frustratingly easy to do and because the results are unquantifiable.



Click here for the Pictures Gallery and video clips

Actually, the real slogan on one of his scrumptious tee shirts is WHO THE FUCK IS EMMY? But alas l find that as l grow older l become boringly conformist in certain ways. I just didn’t have the balls (yep girls have them too, only higher up and nearer the brain, hence more rational) to make it the title or wear it. The one l wear says FASHION RULES ARE FOR FOOLS. But hey what am l banging on about? Over the holiday season, l was introduced to Emmy Collins, a London based Nigerian designer who presses the right buttons with me. His male line is painfully stylish and cheekily funky. The tailoring is sharp and pristine; sort of Oswald Boateng meets Dolce and Gabbana. The colours, detailing, fabrics and textures are really divine. His shirts are so beautiful you will steal them off you boyfriends back, just pull a pair of leggings on and add a huge eighties leather and hardware belt and finish with a pair of loubotinis.

His female line is wicked, not for the fainthearted or body hating. The printed 100% silk kimonos, mini kaftans, micro mini dresses are to die for. If you haven’t got the legs or the balls just add super skinny pants. I especially love the high waisted nautical theme pants, it grabs and flaunts the butt and drops to the ground in leg elongating glory. I love his use of colour and his instantly sexify your life vibe. Great news is that he has opened a shop on 43 Awolowo road. He doesn’t even know l am doing this but l am committed to talking about anyone doing good in Nigeria in any area of life. Emmy rocks!

playwriter, director and lawyer laspapi and l post xmas glutonny



So second day of the 007 year huh? Happy New Year people! Apologies for the long absence. Body no be wood. On my part l have spent the holiday doing what all sensible, rational humans do at this time, getting introspective, depressed, then compensating by partying, drinking and eating too much, then waking up on the morning of New Year reaching for a bag of detox tea. Make no mistakes l am a person given to tentative extremes (my self preserving brain never shuts down long enough for me to get really plastered in any sense) so l take my New Year detox and renewal very seriously. This is especially more important as 2006 towards the end became truly bloody-minded. From the plane crash to the commando style politics and robberies, to the pipeline explosion, Godwin Agroko's death, Saddam's execution and the return of the fuel queues, that year dragged everyone down with her. Now l am perfectly aware that l am being ridiculous and it is all just another date but isn’t there a tiny bit of even the most rational mind that must buy into a little superstition.
Take that new Denzel film Déjà vu, beneath the entire science mumble jumble; it is after all a film about juju, religion and the drive for that one chance at snogging a beautiful girl. The world is taking inspiration from Nigeria.
Now as l totally abandon my rational mind which reminds me that each day is just a rotation of the earth and that the happenances of each day are a consequence of our actions or inactions of the day before and all the other days before. That mind pointing at the worsening fuel queues as an indication of where the new bride 007 is headed. However, heading that rational mind at this time will be denying one of the factors, which makes us human. The sense of hope. That is what a new year, a new child, a new job, a new relationship; a new pair of shoes is about. The sense that this time it will be better, we will be smarter, sexier, richer, wiser, and luckier. As with a new relationship, we will start by detoxing, hiding or trying to exorcise our flaws, then we will slowly get tired with aiming for perfection and begin to settle as other factors of life assail us until either like with 2006 we don’t ever want to see the frigging bastard again or as in the rare cases (haven’t got a year in recent Nigerian history to compare) we develop a shock absorbing, mutually honouring relationship that endures from year to year. That of course is true of individuals as is it of nations, more that anything else it s about developing a system that works, continually participating in and engaging the system knowing that there is no end, no nirvana, no utopia, just warm companionship occasionally broken by periods of great triumphs and turbulence.
In the year 007, Nigeria needs BONDs, Beacons Of a New Dawn; a new year is about hoping that we will find them. In the meantime l shall begin with the most invasive detox of them all, a colonic irrigation, maybe if l clean up well enough, l will get wiser, sexier, richer and happier, isn’t that what a new year is about?

A matter of Luck?
So Goodluck Jonathan is Yardua's running mate, one doesn’t even have time to digest a piece of information before something else occurs. Goodluck uh? What do l know about Goodluck other than his initial stance to stand by his embattled, embezzling, (where is Alamasiegha) governor during alamsgate and the fact that his name seem to be prophetic (we are culturally wired to believe that). The only other interesting thing l know about him is that l cannot count the number of times l have been told to take a project to Bayelsa under Goodluck. Anything from a nuclear plant to an ijapa and yanribo play. The alleged position is that Goodluck will “free” you some money for it. So a loyal and easily persuaded vice president and an unassuming, unambitious president. I see the puppets, what is the play about?

Question, why in a country that produced the Philip Emeagwali’s of this world are we going to be lumbered with a Goodluck/Yardua government? How do l know they’ll succeed? Well of course, the horse may fly and the king may die but barring any such eventuality what is to stop them? Talking about Emeagwali, a brain drained friend sent me this lecture article by him, excruciatingly true but how will it happen? Read more here

Watching the tragedy that was the PDP presidential primaries on AIT yesterday, l felt a debilitating sense of despair that l haven’t completely recovered from. I am brimming with thoughts and feelings that are so powerful it is difficult to communicate them so pardon me if l am a bit incoherent. The very shabby and incompetent nature of the proceedings, what were those dingy ballot boxes on owambe party tables about? The power/floodlight failure (they were using car headlamps at a point) in a show put up by the “biggest party in Africa” most of whose chieftains wore Rolex watches and designer sunglasses even as the sun set? The incongruity of such shabby and meagre proceedings which may be pardonable in a poor struggling post war country, played out in a setting where the odious smell of non commerce driven wealth is tangible even through a TV screen is only one of the many paradoxes.

After the dust settled, Yardua had won leading his closest contender by over 3,000 votes. A classic case of you “kill me finish you still want to murder me”. I mean where did Yardua come from? Who is he other than a brother to the late general and scion of northern oligarchy? This of course were the reasons general babangida gave for stepping down pledging pious loyalty to his friend and brother general Yardua and the family. If l am fool enough to believe that I’ll believe Santa is bringing me a Pulitzer.. Was Abiola not his bosom buddy, did that stop him annulling the 1993 elections? Babangida’s resignation was of course a powerful early signal of where things were headed and lo and behold, there followed the mass withdrawal of other candidates and endorsement by the governors forum.

I do not care about all the others but et tu Donald Duke? I can understand those who will not blink at losing the fortunes they had been spending on their campaign after all l do not see the enterprise they run other than their states to get the money they had been spending. They have also not shown much inclination to a high moral position so we cannot ask them what happened to the power of their convictions but Haba! Donald Duke what happened really?

There are conspiracy theories all around from the plausible to the near deranged but if there is any truth to the rumour that Duke stepped down to be vice president, l can bet my last dime that it won’t happen, per chance that it does what is the guarantee that he wont be Atikud?

Now l have no personal issues with Yardua who looks suitably docile but with the obvious horse trading that has lead to his emergence. It all looks like an old formula, one that eventually led to the collapse of the second republic. What is it about yardua that reminds me so much of Mallam Shehu Shagari? Almost twenty years later Nigeria is being presented with another seemingly gentle unambitious unobtrusive teacher. With the emergence of Yardua; the powerful PDM faction of PDP is secured, the recent threats of disintegration is checkmated paving the way for a landslide (na only for here a candidate dey get 99% of votes cast) PDP victory at the polls. Meanwhile since Yardua is such an unknown entity, the nay Sayers would have nothing concrete to hold against him such that before we blink he’ll be president. There is talk of an Andy Uba vice presidency and a shiver runs down my spine. Where in all of these is talk of the sort of visionary and informed leadership required to move Nigeria to the next level?

What are Yardua’s ideals, proven abilities and program for Nigeria? They say Obasanjo anointed him because EFCC says gave him a clean bill, no record of corruption in office. I can be persuaded to buy that, applaud him and give him a plague to hang in his toilet but then I proceed to ask, so what exactly did he do for Katsina state? Since we like quoting copiously from the bible, did Jesus not berate the servant who unimaginatively buried his talent?

One of my friends argues that since the post has been zoned to the North, who else should have been chosen to which l answered that she missed the point. First, candidates should have gone forward in a transparent process to pick the best from the region, not stepping behind, down or aside. Secondly why did the South East and South South sell out so easily? Didn’t Duke at least realized that he carried the hopes of a whole new generation and for whatever it was worth he should have fought to the last or was he also afraid of EFCC? Thirdly when will the presidency be zoned to the competent and the efficient?

As l watched the dismal show by mostly tired and dissipated but constipated looking men, l saw Mr. Isaiah my fashion designer friend Remi’s head tailor walk in dejectedly, his police constable brother was one of the 23 people killed during the week in a one day bank robbery spree at Alaba international market and Ikorodu.

I reach out to him in helpless sympathy as l wonder how much longer we will continue to allow these robberies.

I spent the morning going through my old articles written for TEMPO magazine. What quickly became clear is how far l have evolved as a person and how far we have come as a nation. Our problems are myriad and sometimes seemingly intractable but please let no one suggest ever a return to the military era. Thankfully, Babangida withdrew from the presidential race yesterday. His motive? I don’t care. I am willing to let sleeping dogs lie; any dogs that threaten me shall become pepper soul for my Akwa Ibom brothers. Talking about Akwa Ibom brothers l used to be driven (I don’t believe in the concept of servants) by a nutcase called Moses and l wrote this article at the cusp of transition to democracy in 1999 involving Moses. I hope you enjoy it……..

Holy Moses et al
I am surrounded by very interesting people, the real people, people whom one may not necessarily pay much attention to, believing their opinions to be puerile and immaterial. I never ignore anybody, I listen to all, especially these “real” people. Taxi drivers, market women, mechanics, the groundnut seller by the corner, the bus conductor and so on. I find that a lot of times these people express startling, accurate opinions about people, events and issues, they can also be crucial to daily survival.

One of such persons is Olu-Epo, the mechanic-turned black market petrol dealer. His name is Olu but since he found his new vocation, we have modified his name somewhat to Olu-Epo, which is Yoruba for “Lord of fuel”.

Olu was just an ordinary even insignificant mechanic, (in fact, he was an apprentice mechanic) until the beginning of the crisis. Now, Olu is an important member of our office family. He can procure precious fuel out of rock in the height of these perennial, phantom fuel scarcities. In fact, he is a honorary staff with the job description of crisis management/utility officer.

Olu-Epo is normally subservient, almost like a child afflicted with the Downs syndrome, that is, until fuel suddenly disappears from the filling stations, then he becomes surprisingly authoritative. Milking us for every kobo he can, giving false guarantees (fuel has knocked the engines of two vehicles) and holding us to ransom at will. At these times, I just hate Olu-Epo but dare not to tell him off for fear of being stranded. The other day he said something that took me aback. The simplicity of the truth in it was a masterpiece of wisdom. According to Olu, the problems with AD is that, the AD people speak plenty of grammar whilst the PDP people say very little, but work hard in the background, perfecting their strategies for victory, by any means necessary. In short, the supporters of PDP put their money (and wiles) where their mouth is, whilst the AD and its supporters pontificates, very few willing to do whatever was necessary financially and otherwise to succeed. My initial reaction was annoyance, but on second thought, I considered the difficulties someone like Bola Tinubu was said to have initially had with raising funds for his campaign, even with those wealthy ‘friends’ and supporters standing by to see if he would win before hopping on the bandwagon.

My other ‘real’ friend is Bro. Sunday, the taxi driver. He is my standby chauffeur for those times when the car is down (which is often) or when there is no fuel or when I am on espionage missions. Bro Sunday talks non-stop, plays loud fuji music and curses every other person on the road. He never pays police and other such tax collectors a dime, being well-known on his usual routes, the rest he dodges with a unique mixture of bravado and plain fibbing. I love Bro Sunday. He, it was who, informed me that Obasanjo is the best choice of president for Nigeria now. According to him, Obasanjo is so stingy (he claims to have worked for him at his Otta farm) nobody will steal a dime. He said Obasanjo used to deal decisively with anyone who so much as stole an egg in the farm like a capital offender. You no dey see that him khaki’s knickers, the tin no dey tear for at least three years. Na him good jare, everybody go sit up. I wish you could hear him say these things in his funny corrupted Ibadan accent whilst singing along to Pasuma Wonder, Kwam1 or Ayinde Barrister’s music. The last and most interesting of these ‘real’ characters I know is Moses, our mad driver. Everybody calls him Holy Moses because he is so unholy. This guy is certifiable, a taciturn, quick-tempered, suicidal driver. Moses knows all the nooks and crannies of Lagos, respects no one, fears no one, is unmarried, may never marry (who will marry a mad man) and is one of the hardest working people there can be (when he feels like it). He loves Obesere’s music, (he can’t and does not understand Yoruba), he is Fela’s eternal slave, (has most of his old albums) in fact, he truly believes Fela is still alive in another country. He was thoroughly devastated by the transition (for he will not accept death) of the Abami Eda. He does an incredible imitation of the owambe-loving-big buttocked-woman’s dance. Its is impossible to describe Holy Moses accurately, one has to know him to believe him. Funny enough, Holy Moses has deep compassion for children and old people, is very disciplined about money, does not steal and is proud in his own way. Above all, Moses studies every newspaper and has native intelligence. His views are usually extreme, funny and sometimes, surprisingly wise.

I had a recent conversation with him about the elections. Holy Moses is from Akwa-Ibom, so I had accused him and his people of supporting the conservatives yet again. As he began to answer me, I just had to bring out my jotter to take down notes, knowing I had to write about it. Moses talks monologue, so I will try to recreate all he said. Funmi, una no dey know anything. God don tell me say anybody we go be Nigeria president must go to prison. He must be like Mandela, no be say make he go ordinary prison o. he must go for death penalty wey paper go write up and down everybody go shout say wetin dis man do o. The person go dey fear, then angel of God go appear, tell am say no worry, you go be president.

You go see, mark my word for calendar, Diya go be president after Obasanjo, Dat’s why IBB no fit be president. He dey call himself president when he be head of state but God no gree am. Abacha, dat’s why God kill am because he for be president when him no go jail.

If Falae won be president make he go commit offence o, big one wey paper go shout, wey dem go say na die. Then angel go appear to him say make he no worry. Na so Abiola, if to say he no die before he commot prison he for be godd president but na so life be, he go take am like that. See Awolowo, as he do also reach…..at this point, I interrupted him to say Awo did go to jail. He answered, that one was jail? Wey he dey go drink tea, no be for Calabar wey dem even am chieftaincy title, me wey I be pikin of the place dem no give me. I beg that one no be better. What about Gani I asked (knowing how he admires Gani). Gani fit be president, he don go jail so many times, he don reach like penalty so him fit be. Woman no fit be president, dem fit go prison?I reminded him about Chris Anyanwu. She go death penalty?He asked. I said yes, so grudgingly he says okay she fit.


He continues: As I talk about Awo so, you know say him carry 27 lawyers to court but Shagari carry only one no be him suppose win? But so far say him no go jail.I informed him that Shagari never went to jail and he say: That’s why army fit commot am. See Obasanjo dem no go fit because all na him boys and him don go jail.He continues.

Ekwueme wey don do vice-president before, him wan do president when he no go jail. Instead make he import plenty spare parts make we for get plenty motor, he dey won do president, who send am? He go reach there dey go speak Nwane. My people dey say God dey give bad animal horns make he for no too wicked na so be the case of that one wey dem put for carton for London before, wetin be him name? Umaru Dikko. God no go fit let dat one even if he go prison because he for don sell Nigeria.

Nwobodo, de one wey he cry wen dem put am for prison never do am, he won be president, no be that kin jail I dey talk, he cry, him mama self cry say make dem relase am before she die, the mama never he never die o. him no fit be president. I asked, can I be president if I go to jail. He laughs derisively: You, as I see you so wey no get body, you fit take koboko so? Mustapha and co na crocodile tears dem dey cry, Bible say penalty is death, dem too kill people, see Abiola wife, woman blood, God no go forgive them. But you see Diya, na patient dog go get that bone, him don know suffer now, him don know hungry so he fit be president.

And so on and on Holy Moses went in his element whilst I laughed and contemplated his ramblings, is there a shred of truth? Whatever else I did get an insight into the workings of the mind of ‘real’ people and some of the things that inform their decisions. Next time you will see a slim wiry man in Abacha glasses, driving a Molue-like caravan painted blue and white, trying to run everybody off the road that could be Holy Moses going about his unholy business.