FEELING STUPID

You step onto the bland rough-concrete art exhibition ground. You are powered by the thought that you will soon be standing among kindred spirits, where mundane things like shoes or clothes will, to your great pleasure, not matter. It isn’t the fact that people are huddled together in familiar groups after making a show of looking at the paintings, talking about everything apart from the paintings, that annoys you.

It is the fact that everyone’s feet are spick-and-span, covered in shoes shined to the death as if they all brought an extra pair and changed right at the gate of the art exhibition. Your flat sneakers made of once-black cloth, have thinned away at the top so much that you can count your toes from just looking. You hope that no one will notice. But these are Nigerians. When they say hello, they look at you from head to toe.

You go through the paintings quickly, looking and feeling like the guy waiting to clean up after everyone. The only feeling remotely resembling what makes you now grind your teeth, regretting the deliberate decision to look like a vagrant, is how you feel when after speaking passionately or even aggressively in disagreement with someone, you suddenly see clear evidence that you are totally wrong. 

The last time this happened a friend of yours had subtly implied that you are obsessed with writing about issues of race ‘as if nothing else happens in the city.’ You had been discussing race and the opinion of another friend who said that racism is racism whether the discrimination is good or bad. 

You argued loudly and aggressively, feigning irritation at the suggestion that what happened to you in Austria when a white man left the elevator because you came in, could somehow be talked about in the same breath as what happens to your friend when she is often reminded that she is white. For you, Austrians were racist, Nigerians were curious. 

Until that day at the Galleria, when as you passed through the metal detector after your white friend, the guards smiled at you and one said ‘Oga you get eye o. You sabi select something’. For a second, you could feel the bile rise and reach your throat, and considered making a scene, or reporting the guard to his superiors upstairs. 

She didn’t hear them and you didn’t want her to hear how they likened her to a nice phone or bag that you were holding. But as you sat to watch a movie you wanted to hold her hand and apologize for every time you had implied in an argument that white people had no right to compare how they are treated here with how you get treated in Europe; you had no right to declare that open racism was more hurtful than objectification. 

You felt stupid and angry. Angry that in choosing to protect her from those words, you also didn’t let that guard know what you really felt about his inane comment. Stupid that in making an argument you considered logical, you didn’t think at all about what it felt like being on the other side. 

On the art exhibition grounds you are getting more and more uncomfortable. You check out the last painting and head for the gate, trying not to look down and draw attention to your comparatively terrible shoes. The goal now is clear: get your self-esteem back. And you know just how. Go to a place where people wear shoes worse than yours: a cheap beer garden where you will find young underpaid lawyers and journalists discussing Nigeria’s woes or football in loud tri-syllabic words. You will feel at home there.

NEW PARTIES AND FREE ELECTIONS

Politicians are like monkeys. The higher they climb, the more revolting are the parts they expose- GWILYM LLOYD GEORGE.

This week the Peoples Democratic Party set another record. Apart from being the largest political party in Africa and probably the most expensive party to run in Africa (understanding full well that money is the crack cocaine or Alomo of politics), it made history by being the first corporate entity to congratulate the APC on its registration by INEC this week. God bless the PDP. If it were not that none of my clothes would match the colors of the party, I might have considered running for president there. It is unfair to those watching to have colors rioting during an election campaign. So I hinge my candidacy on the hope that the National Assembly will be sensible and approve independent candidacy in the ongoing constitutional amendment.

It is also encouraging seeing the names showing up on the APC train: IBB, Ahmed ‘13’ Yerima, Tom Ikimi, Femi Fani Kayode. I like how APC is like religion- a forgiving place for ex-sinners. In this case ex-PDP, an Association of PDP Converts.  It will be an interesting race is all I can say. Much like a party where a divorced couple show up at a party with their new lovers. As an independent candidate this can only work to my advantage, so that while the ex-lovers battle for supremacy, the public can see that there is viable alternative: my humble self.

This week Zimbabwe went to the polls. My secret desire to one day meet Mugabe who took power around when I was born may just come to pass. His Zanu PF party took the day in polls that the AU under the leadership of General Obasanjo declared to be free and honest. Obasanjo deserves a Nobel Prize for free elections. He introduced us to the man who conducted the freest election in Nigeria since Abiola’s win in 1993- Goodluck Jonathan. Here is why the Zimbabwean elections are very significant: for the first time in a long time, Zanu PF recognized the need to respect the will of the rest of Africa to rig elections without violence or bloodshed. So they took their time to create over a hundred thousand voters on the register whose age was above 100 and other such inventive techniques. This is progress. It is better than brute force. Now they can fall back to that time tested African democratic principle: Power Sharing.

I still want to know the secret of Mugabe’s full hair. I have said before that as president I would partner with him to find a cure for baldness. Mugabe at almost 120 shows no signs of losing hair. He can barely walk but the strands of hair on his head just won’t go anywhere. I don’t know what he drinks or eats or smokes. But by god, I will find out.

In the ten commandments of Moses, commandment number  eight reads: ‘Thou shall not bear false witness against thy neighbor.’ So those faulting Obasanjo’s free and honest conclusion must be out of their minds. I know General Obasanjo. He is a good Christian. I don’t envy his job in Zimbabwe. I see Obasanjo staring long and hard at Mugabe, thinking, how does this dude do it every time and still have a full head of hair? I couldn’t even get one extension!

Major Hamza Almustapha has been doing the rounds. Since his release, he has visited TB Joshua, the Governor of Kano, the leader of the Izala muslim group, and His Militant Highness, Alhaji Asari Dokubo. (I must praise Dokubo for being magnanimous and receiving a man from an ethnic group he has referred to as ‘invaders from Futa Djallon’. God bless Asari.) Enemies of Mr. Hamza’s hustle have expressed suspicion about his public visits. This is upsetting. If you were locked up for 15 years, would you not want to go round and visit all the people you have missed so badly? What is wrong with that? My only problem is that Mr. Hamza does not find me important enough to be visited. But come 2015, this will change. He will have to join a queue like every other person.

So Mr. Fashola angered a few citizens of Igbo extraction when he deported dozens of Igbos to the Upper Iweka bridge. First I want to say that Fashola should have done a DNA test to confirm that those destitutes were first of Igbo extraction and next of Anambra origin. It is hard to imagine destitutes in Lagos from the most industrious tribe on the continent. They must be foreigners, maybe Kikuyus pretending to be Igbos (I have heard that Igbos and Kikuyus have a lot in common). That said I am happy that Fashola is deporting people who constitute a security risk. I am sure he will deport all the drivers and agberos in Lagos. Because more people are killed on the roads and in motor parks in Lagos than die of cancer and typhoid fever put together.

In all of these reports this week, my argument for why you should vote for me in 2015 remains summarized in a quote by Robin Williams: Politicians are like diapers. They should be changed frequently, and for the same reason.

Dear Nigerians, let me be your new diaper, come 2015.

Ps. My resolve not to add to my carbon foot print by buying a generator is tested daily. Nigeria threatens to destroy my idealism. I am a hopeless environmentalist but then again, I need electricity. Heaven save me from Nigeria.

VULGAR RECOLLECTIONS

You knew what not to do. You packed your bags with things you could not afford to forget: your hair clipper, because they told you it cost and ear and an eye to have a haircut in Europe; your hard bathing sponge because hotels assume no one needs a sponge; your medicated soap because your skin is a spoilt child that will protest if it isn’t crazy about the soap there. You knew not to forget to pack the warning against that slippage into the vulgar recollection of how different things are different in Europe. Because it does not take much, this slippage, especially when it is your first time and you cannot believe how well things can work. 

Of all things this is the hardest when you return: not to notice loudly that cars never stop at traffic lights. You grind your teeth to prevent that slippage, to not say, in Austria even on a Sunday morning when the whole place is like a barren desert, cars stop and wait for the lights to turn green, as do pedestrians. You remember crossing when there was no car coming and turning behind to see the dirty look the old Austrian woman gave you: a look that you could swear blamed you for all her problems in the first world, the pain in her bones and the fact that probably her son never visits. When you return to Abuja, you remember as you walk, to stop for the cars even when the lights say you can walk. And in your head you go: In Europe, they stop. 

Now you forgive the teacher you always made fun of, whose slippage into vulgar public recollections was massive and complete, who used to begin every phrase with ‘when I was in Cincinnati’. You forgive him now that you lie, tired from a night stolen by those who need to declare to the world their month of piety by playing tapes of Arabic recitation at the loudest possible volume, and irritated by the Igbo guy who pushes a cart full of pirated CDs with a loud speaker of his own, to announce his presence with raucous Igbo highlife music. Your vulgar recollections happen within you: you remember a downstairs neighbor knocking the door at a friend’s house in Austria, not because the sound from the music you were playing was too loud, but because he could feel the beat of the bass and he didn’t want to feel it. You forgive your eternally-in-Cincinnati teacher because in your head you go, they would not be able to do this nonsense in Austria.

 

You had a feeling you would be successful against this slippage, when you first arrived at the airport. No word of complaint slipped from your lips as you pushed and struggled to get your bag, against a sea of uniformed almost-touts who you refused to pay to carry your bag. You did not say in righteous indignation: Heathrow is many times bigger than this airport but everything works bla bla bla. You look at the torn flap of your bag, grateful that it is only a torn flap. 

You return to holding no grudges and having no expectations, crossing only when you self preservative instinct says yes! you can make a dash for it, developing a determination to sleep higher than the determination of your religious neighbors to announce their piety, developing a level of concentration higher than the level of the volume of Igbo highlife played in the street and buying a bigger water container to store water, because the government thinks (and for your own sanity you stop disagreeing) you really do not need water to survive. 

You are successful. You have been back one week and have not begun any sentence with when I was in Europe.

AN EMPEROR IN WAITING

I was in Venice when I heard that Kate and William had a baby boy. From one leader-in-waiting to another, I congratulate William. I am not crazy about children but I admire people who can make the sacrifice to have them. I am particularly impressed by how the whole global media decided to park outside Kate’s hospital and wait for the baby to be born. It doesn’t matter that people are dying in Syria and Egypt and Gwoza, and there is starvation all around the world. What we need is positive news, like the news of one baby for days and days on end to remind us that in addition to all the suffering, important English babies are being born. And especially CNN in America. I am glad that America is such a good sport. They forgot all about the war of independence fought so they would not need to swear allegiance to a King or Queen in Britain. They too spent days waiting for this new potential British emperor. 

Only the Nigerian Television Authority (NTA) didn’t join the queue for Mr William’s baby. This needs to change. All the former slaves of Britain were there including America. But no, not NTA. I will make sure that I remove the head of NTA as soon as I make it into Aso Rock in 2015. We cannot afford this kind of embarrassment. I want to apologize to William and Kate for this. I will do something about it when I become president and promise that should they choose, in spite of the hectic affairs of state (running the British Empire isn’t easy),  to find time for one more baby after 2015, I will personally lead the delegation to St Mary’s hospital. Also as soon as I can find their email, I will send them a few messages including pdfs of free e-books about child care, how to get back the pre-pregnancy body (for Kate) and what to do if your baby just won’t sleep at night. I want to know though, will Kate breastfeed the little emperor or is it against the royal rules? I just want to say though, that in Africa once a woman has had a baby, it is not considered offensive for her to breastfeed in public. It is staring at a nursing mother’s breast that is considered rude. So, if Kate feels a need, fired by her maternal instincts, to take out her now royal breasts to feed the new potential emperor, I will support this. I know that many foreign commentators, especially British ones will be up in arms, but my government will back Kate. There is nothing wrong with a white woman breastfeeding in public, just as there is nothing wrong with showing naked African women in the name of documentaries and telling stories. 

So, Dele Momodu in congratulating Kate and William wrote the following on Twitter: “My heartfelt congratulations to the British Royal family on the birth of a new Prince today at St. Mary's Paddington where we had our sons.” I like Dele. I like how he is not ashamed to say things like ‘me too I had my sons in England where Willy and Kate had theirs’. All that remains is for him to give them advice on what to do when the boy has a fever or has teething problems.  I am happy especially because he recently attempted to run for president. And no, it is not a shame for one seeking the highest public office to brag about having his sons in a British public hospital. There is really nothing wrong if he finds it hard to decide if he wants to be the publisher of a lifestyle paparazzi magazine or a serious public figure. We all have things that confuse us- for example I get confused about whether to wear long or ankle length socks in the morning. I will make sure to put some ads in his Ovation magazine to support his hustle.

In support the ongoing debate about the propriety of marrying girls just attaining puberty, I want to add that we need to extend this to include boys. Boys too should become adults as soon as they start growing pubic hair or right after their first wet dream, whichever comes sooner. This is only fair, seeing as our country permits the same for girls. Maybe while doing that we can consider removing the age limit for running for office. A person who is old enough to marry and raise kids should be able to do simple things like make laws. But think of the cute couples we will have if we also allow 13 year old boys to marry. It will be Gandhi all over again. How sweet. 

Ps.  Governor Yari Abubakar of Zamfara decided recently to purchase arms for men of the state’s vigilante groups to improve security in the villages. In arming this new militia does he think of the consequences? Can he not learn from the case of Peter Odili in Rivers and Ali Modu Sheriff in Borno? Does it not occur to Abubakar that once you give arms, you create a new monster?

Sameness and Difference

Every slum feels the same, especially when you were born in one. I say this to my friend as I complain about having nothing to write about after visiting Dutsen Alhaji twice to write a story about this settlement on the outskirts of Abuja. The sameness of backwater communities and settlements threatens to torpedo any brilliant angles I might come up with. Unpaved, meandering roads that expand and contract without rhyme or reason, houses in unplanned clusters, people seeming to mill about aimlessly, fecal matter and dead animals in different stages of decomposition, dull eyes and many outdoor spots where cheap liquor is sold, children and stray animals scurrying across roads to escape motorbikes or cars and, on Sundays, cheap clothes ironed to death.
 

I do not have this presentiment that I am going to find nothing new when I am introduced to my guide, a writer who lives in the area. Sameness seems to be a quality that only an outsider can afford to see. But then she tells me after five minutes of meeting her that she too is new, having moved here only a few months before. We walk around, randomly choosing places to go to in this large area lying roughly adjacent Kubwa and before Bwari. At the end of the day I leave with no new insights apart from the ironic and ubiquitous existence of ‘House for sale’ signs side by side demolition notices from the FCT.

I go back a third time to look for something beyond the demolition signs, some distinguishing character in this familiar tale of poverty and privation. I find hills and big rocks attractive and going far into Dutsen Alhaji near the foot of the hills which is densely populated by houses is more for my personal edification than the quest for a story. The settlement is named after the hills around which it lies, Dutse being the Hausa word for stone, rock, or hill. 

There, close to the foot of the hills the sameness begins to disappear. 

One of the most solid looking buildings painted in puke green is the public convenience. This catches my attention because it has always struck me as odd that in the capital city, there are no functional public conveniences, forcing people to make unplanned detours into restaurants, banks and hotels. Right in front of this building for about 200 meters ahead is an almost perfect square of wood and zinc shacks. In the centre of the square is a huge heap of what looks like rubbish. 

It is a Sunday but the guys inside the square are as busy as flies in a Nigerian abattoir. I go round and round the square looking for a point of entry. I find it and as I come in full view of the centre of this square and the people working inside it, I realize it is impossible to be invisible and sneak around. One of the boys drops the old bag of empty flattened soda cans that he is sewing up and sizes me up. His eyes ask me: ‘What the hell do you want?’ I smile and walk toward him. 

‘Yaya dai?’ I greet nervously. I am not sure whether to stretch out my hand to make his suspicion go away.

‘My name is Danlami,’ I say in Hausa and add quickly, ‘and I am a journalist.’

His eyes light up. I am suddenly sweaty. I am not sure I should have said I was a journalist.

‘Ok?’ he says.

Behind him people lift up bags and weigh them on a big rusty improvised scale.

“I write for a newspaper,” I tell him rolling over the words quickly in my best I-was-born-speaking-this-language Hausa, “and I am doing a story about your trade.”

His eyes soften, but then the others in the background become interested. I become a subject of curiosity as much as, if not more than, these people I am curious about. I am uncomfortable but keep my smile, careful not to extrapolate hostility from mere inquisitiveness. 

I see old slippers, tins and cans, plastic, damaged household electronics and kitchenware all packed in separate old rice sacks. I ask my questions quickly, feigning prior interest in the subject. I keep my camera concealed in my pocket. As much as I am itching to take a photo, I find that increasingly, people become aggressive when they see cameras. 

He tells me that most of these things are gathered by ‘yan bola, scavengers who go from rubbish bin to rubbish bin.

“There are two groups of people here. The ‘yan bola who go picking rubbish bins and the guys who purchase good used items. Those ones don’t meddle with rubbish bins.”

“I am a ‘dan bola,” he adds, resuming sewing the bag of flattened soda cans. 

Slowly a crowd grows and I know I must leave quickly. Before then I learn that the items are weighed, sold and transported to Kano and Kaduna where they are recycled.

“Are you paying us for this?” a muscular bony faced boy with a plastic comb in his hair asks.

“I am a journalist, I do not pay to talk with people. And I am not making money from talking to you either, I am just doing a job.”

“Well then you are doing the wrong thing. We have hierarchy here. You do not just jump into a place and start talking to the people down below. You start by asking who is in charge. That is how things are done.”

“Well then, I am sorry. Where is your oga then?”

He points to the lanky man by the scales. He is wearing a faded orange t-shirt and sporting rough pre-dreadlocked hair. I walk quickly away from the small crowd and meet the head of this dump. He tells me he is busy and asks me to speak with one of his deputies. 

The deputy he points to is sitting leisurely on an old rusty refrigerator. At first he doesn’t want to talk with me but then I smoother him with smiles, silly chit-chat and a prolonged handshake that says, you need to be friendly or feel very very guilty about being rude to a harmless friendly stranger. 

He softens. He tells me they live in the wood and zinc shacks and repeats most of the things the first guy told me. 

Conditions are harsh and apart from the public bathroom and toilet nearby, there are absolutely no amenities here in this slum within a slum. However, amidst this pile of rubbish is meticulous organization and an almost religious observance of the hierarchy. The buyers of scrap negotiate with the head of the dump or his assigned deputy after weighing. There are those whose job is separating the items and arranging them into heaps and those in charge of bagging them. 

“If you were to have audience with government, what would you say your needs are, as a community?” I ask.

He is exasperated, glowers at me and kisses his teeth.

“Please don’t ask me those kinds of questions,” he says. “I thought you wanted to ask questions about our trade.”

I am struggling to understand the sudden hostility.

“Who cares about government? What have they ever done for anyone? We just try the best we can. I don’t need the government.”

I thank him profusely for his time and for letting me, albeit only a little, into the self-sufficient world of scavengers. I walk away without looking back. A few meters ahead, a boy coming from the opposite direction stops to beg for money. He is chewing sugarcane that still has its purple skin. I give him one hundred naira. It is not pity. I am not quite sure what it is, but I had stopped giving alms to healthy beggars. Somehow this didn’t feel like the same.

I do not continue my journey to the foot of the hills to finish the process of self-edification cut short by a potential story. I turn around and make my way home, knowing that this will be no routine tear-jerking story of communities abandoned by the government and living in the shadows of Abuja city. There is no unhappiness in this story of people who live dangerously under high tension power lines. Only enterprise, schools with names like ‘Pinky and the Brain’ and ‘boutiques’ encouraging you to walk in and pick items of your choice with signs that say YOUR GRANDFATHERS HAVE PAID FOR YOU.

On my way out, I stop to buy the fresh avocados I had bought the first time I came here. I ask the jovial gap-toothed woman if she worries about the demolition marks on her house.

“No,” she says. “Dem just talk say, anytime we see them, make we just take am like that.”