They still matter....

to the early departed...


To all men and women who truly cherish their lives 
Some single, some husbands, some wives

Some never made centre stage
They were cut off in the prime of their age

In last moments some faced the worse of all they feared
An empty gathering or one lacking of friends that cared

Even though your stories may never be told
know one thing; your life has left message that will duly unfold.

Awa Naa (je eniyan) [We Too (Are somebody)]…

Madam Risi buka (“mama” as she is fondly called) is in a corner on Adio Street, just around New garage, an area in Bariga. The Buka is located at a short distance from the local government council, right opposite Prince Akinlaja Newspaper stand. Her shop is known to open Mondays to Saturdays from 4:30am to 12:00am and Sundays from 2 pm to 10pm. 

She has a strict routine which all her 12 employees have to live by. The day starts with a 30 minutes devotion during which they all have to recite Psalm 23, sing praises, and give testimonies. After the devotion, the shop opens for business with Rashidat frying the fish, akara and dodo just outside the door of the buka to entice its customers.

Mama’s buka is one of the most popular buka around the Bariga axis. Located in an uncompleted building, many are surprised at how the buka stands the envy of all the restaurant owners around, even Bimpe’s “Brotherly food” that is opposite the Apostolic Church at Jagunmolu Street. Bimpe’s husband, who works for Skye Bank, invested a lot to make her restaurant amazing and giving it all the perks of a modern buka. It felt new, and always had that smell of lavender. The sitting area, furnished with white plastic chairs can also boast of  three standing fans and table mats. All her employees wore blue and white uniforms. Bimpe’s shop was usually full during the church’s convention. It is only during that period that her restaurant has considerable traffic. For the rest of the year, the restaurant was empty and usually stayed the attraction of only Bariga’s “high-end” earners: drivers who work in one of the Oil Companies on the Island/white men, church owners and the children of big landlords. The common earners would troop into the simpler structure and enjoy the company of mama. 

Mama’s buka has two sections both with un-cemented floor. The main section, which covers over three quarters of the floor space, is sparsely furnished with six wooden benches and tables for customers. On each table was a plastic white bowl and blue stripped kettles for washing hands. The other section partitioned by a small wall with a narrow entrance was the make shift kitchen. As plumbing had not started the kitchen traffic (to include receiving water from the hawker’s wheel-barrows or disposal of waste) was done through the extremely odd looking 62 x 72 inches window overlooking the back of the house. Right next to this section, you will find the exit and a seat for the makeshift cashier. Next to the main entrance you see a small seat and wooden box (which doubles as a both table and cash box) for the cashier.

Mama is one woman who has aged so well. You can tell the obvious signs of beauty in her face, but her eyes tell stories of one who has done a lot of pondering. 
She has had to ponder on burning the candle at both ends to send Risi to Primary and Secondary School up to Osun State polytechnic, where Risi is to study Marketing;
Her thoughts are sometimes lost wondering which action to take against Risi’s irresponsible uncle Remi, who always seem to come up with some of the most outrageous money making scheme to get money out of her;
Sometimes she cannot help but worry about conniving employees, witty artisans and crafty sellers who seem to strive more to outsmart her rather than do the job they were employed to do;
 But most of the time, her thoughts are in her native home, her place of birth, where she spent the first 25 years of her life.

Never the less, she is a still a beautiful woman. Her hair is thick and in signature cornrows, usually wrapped in Ankara scarf. Her buba sits well, but the bottom of her iro is never proportionate in length due to mama’s old fashioned method of storing money. Her money is always stored within the bulge formed by the layers of her iro around the waist. For her fiftieth birthday, Risi bought mama a waist pouch. “Mama, you so gats to upgrade” she says in her “American” (thanks to DSTV) accent. Mama’s response to her was “omo mi, aso yi lo ran e lo si ile-iwe, bosi wu mi maa fi se iyawo fun e" (“My child, this cloth that sent you to secondary school, and if it pleases me I will celebrate your wedding in it”).

After the rush from 5:30am to 7:00am, mama leaves the buka, under the care of either one of her most senior employee, Famous or Bose and then off she goes to the market. She makes every effort to get back before 12:00pm and return to her post as the cashier. In the buka, it is around this time the day ripens; then the commuters arrive from the east trying to avoid the chaos of Oshodi,  and the people who work in the Bariga axis, the drivers, bricklayers, and the bus drivers all have one place destination; “Awa Naa” [which translates to mean “We too”].

Who named the buka “Awa Naa”? 

As the story goes, the name to her buka “Awa Naa” was a result of a move by the spirit during its dedication. It was held according to her Christian religious rites. These rites dictate that a pastor blesses anything you have, names it (based on the name you decide to give) and dedicates it to God. After which there is a small celebration with feasting. But the story of the name “Awa Naa” actually started before the dedication; it started when mama (whose real name is Toke Ajisafe) came to Lagos State. 

Toke is lady from Aba Adi, a small town not too far from Osogbo in Osun State. She was the daughter of Late Chief Akin Ajisafe. He like his father was a cocoa farmer, who, due to longstanding deals with the chocolate making companies like Cadbury, had made a lot of money which he used to purchase his chieftaincy title, married three wives and had sixteen children. 

Everyone thought she was a princess due to her naturally sweet smile, the complicated plaits on her hair, and the red beads she always wore. During the annual Osun-Osogbo festival along the River Osun, she always does the “mystical dance of the sacred forest”. It was during one of the festival celebration that she met Risi’s father (who she never married) while he was still a driver for some multinational company. He brought some oyinbo men for the festival.

Daleko Orisa, (Risi”s father) is an Ibadan man who told her all about Lagos. He spoke about the wide roads, the big buildings and the fashion style. As he had lived in Osogbo before, he frequently brought tourists from Lagos interested in visiting the attractions around their region. This brought him to their town frequently. Toke lost herself to this mysterious and charismatic man who spoke with the air of one that has seen the world. 

She got pregnant with Risi when she was 25 years old. It was upon receiving the news from her mother that her father vowed to publicly disown her as his daughter, a statement that led her to flee and run to Lagos. That was the last time she ever saw her father alive; she was present at his funeral.

She moved in with Daleko to his “face-me-I-face-you” apartment in Ebute-Metta. A year after the birth of Risi, the joint income they earned was able to afford them a self-contained apartment in Bariga where she lives till date.

For a long time after moving to Lagos, Toke could not get a job or a decent means of livelihood as she had no significant formal education or vocational skill. So she sold akara and fried yam. Daleko was out of town most of the time, leaving just enough money for her to cater for herself and the growing needs of Risi. She used some of the money he gave her to purchase a bigger “agbada” frying pan, spoon, and a big jerry can of vegetable oil. Because of her good nature, the mallams that hawked on her street became her friend. She used this friendship to purchase yam on credit. As business grew, she started visiting the market to buy beans and cooking condiment. With the money they made, she and Daleko were able to maintain a pretty simple home for themselves.

But alas, disaster struck. Daleko, became a tanker driver for an Independent petroleum marketer. He lost his life in a tanker fire incident along the Benin-Ore express way. Risi was only 3 years old. With the N500,000 received as compensation for the loss of her husband along with support from her few friends, she started a small poultry on the single plot of land in Bariga that belonged to Daleko, which was a stone throw from where she lived. The poultry expanded, but her efforts towards expansion reduced when Risi resumed secondary school. She decided to close shop shortly after a major incident in Risi’s final year. An outbreak of “lorun-lorun” (head twisting) disease killed almost all the chickens. Mama, worn down by the stress of managing the poultry and supporting her daughter in secondary school counted her losses and sold off what was left of the poultry. She added to the proceeds, her fifteen years saving ‘ajo’ money, and chose to invest in what she loves doing best, cooking.

The buka started as a simple shed made out of what used to be the poultry. It had mama doing all the main cooking, assisted by two workers. Mama’s “jara” (extra) and liveliness made her the talk of Bariga bus stop. Not long afterwards, the shed became too small for the boom forcing her to create the structure she has today. She still dreams of the day when her buka will compete with the Mr Biggs Village Kitchen in Bariga and the class of Mama Cass.

The small ceremony held on the ground of the buka hosted her church pastor, some of her friends and about a handful of customers. Mama had never been good with English. Risi had spent the day coaching mama on her speech and an agreed name for the buka “Manna of life”.

The dedication ceremony for the buka began with the pastor giving a short sermon to extol the virtues of mama. He later called on mama to give a short speech and the name of the Buka for him to bless. 
Mama upon hearing the speech was filled with flash-backs and thoughts raced through her mind “Se emi naa ni? Emi ni Oluwa ranti ? Oluwa e ma se o” (“Is this me? Is it me that God remembered? God thank you.”)
As these thoughts filled her mind, she was lost for words and became tearful and overwhelmed with emotion. What rolled out of a tearful Toke’s lips was the Yoruba song “♪Awa naa re Oluwa , Awa naa re Oluwa..a wa dupe ore atodun modun….♫”. 
She hummed the song on and on, crying all through, with her daughter holding her. The pastor, who had seen Toke through all her struggles, was visibly touched and so was the crowd.

The atmosphere became laden with mixed emotions. It was as if her words spoke of them, all strangers in a harsh Lagos, lacking the right social structure and struggling to make ends meet;
They were all present in that gathering; bus conductors, okada-riders, bricklayers, shoe-shiners and traffic hawkers;
These are people who the formal economy barely remembers, so they turn to the comforting arms of religion for solace;
These are people so pushed by families, hopes and expectation of a better tomorrow. The song couldn’t say it better….“WE TOO…. are somebody”

That was how mama’s buka got the name “Awa Naa”.

I named him Ini..

Wiggling your arms and legs

Grinning with ur  toothless smile

Touching with your tiny fingers

Boy,it feels divine

I hold you close

With hope to always be there

To guard your steps,

Against life's trials and despair

The bone from my bone

The flesh from my flesh

The fruit from my body

The carrier of my crest

Your actions are innocent

Laddened with love

All new and refreshing,

With energy from above

Your eyes are clear

Sparkling white and bright

Your stares are intense

With hope, joy and light

The possibilities are endless

The roles you would hold

Be still and patient with God

By doing what you're told

What I am here for

When I see what I feel is wrong,

I sometimes want to speak

Other times I want to act

But I would be the first to move if I did

And if I am, what does it mean?

The one who stands against what we have learnt to believe

What we have been told is right to love and hate

The elders have reminded the people holding contrary opinions, to shoves those thoughts aside as its hold no water in the scheme of things

So everyone act normal, based on their definition of what being normal is

They have been schooled in how things should operate and strive for perfection in climbing the corporate ladders

In this quest for success, they take actions that stands against what their very essence tell them is right,

Denying who they truly are,

Denying humanity of the beauty they can release from within their soul

The enforcers of how we currently live have forgotten that the current order was birth from rebellion

It was birth by people who questioned the system of things and decided on better methods of doing things

And it is from this travail that civilizations were born

Civilizations rose and were conquered by men and women who decided that normal was not enough

They experienced something within that became such a reality, that contrary circumstance could not convince them otherwise

Such experience made them decide that what they saw much be established

I think I will speak out and give voice to what I believe- Even careless words and questions could be a source of lesson for me and those that listen to my words for inspiration

I think, my actions will be motivated by my convictions rather than peer pressure-My actions may not change the world, but they may inform those who can, to do so

In all, I think I will just be myself-My reward may not be material, but by my actions, I will satisfy that deep longing within my spirit to follow the instruction of that timeless still and small voice

I think I will fulfill what I am here for, as this is the essence of my life

Defining Success

“A man who worked as a ticketing officer in a theme park died. When he got to heaven, he was asked to choose the type of heaven he wants to spend eternity in. Since he never really liked his life, his began to explore all the possible heavens he had secretly lusted after through his seemingly (in his own point of view) meaningless life. To help him decide, a presentation was shown of his life. At the end of the presentation, he came up conclusion:
The only heaven where he could make a meaning was to remain a ticketing officer at a theme park”
Source: Unknown




We all have a misconception about what success is. And this misconception spurs from all the information we have been loaded with over the years. The average individual is bombarded with over 8 billion unit of information daily. Like a puzzle, the brain attempts using the information it processes (approximately 250 million of that) as guide to understanding the world, and in developing survival strategies.


In our myopic view of the world, we have come to associate success with things that everyone can associate with; things we love to happen. Wealth and career progression are some of such. And this standard is hidden in the information we process, the methods we apply in drawing conclusions, how we converse, how we develop expectations and pass judgments.


But what truly is success? When can we say a man has become greater than himself? Within each one of us lies than desire imbedded within our consciousness. Once a child becomes conscious of its environment, there is a sparks within (sometimes doused in competition) to aspire above understanding of self within the known world. Because of our mental mapping, we use information available to define what that means; and there lies the root of our problem. A problem because, if success is restricted to only those who are, wealthy, experts in influencing people, excellent sales men, and leaders, then less than 5% of the population would truly live successful lives. The remaining 95% would be locked in a mechanical struggle toward attaining what the society conceives as ‘successful’ (a struggle capable of removing the essence of living from life) especially when intentions/ priorities are wrongly placed; when they don’t align the individual’s true conviction of self.


The degree to which a civilization succeeds is determined by how purposeful it is; how aligned its vision is with the character of the people forged by their fundamental nature. Reason being that purpose remains the greatest motivator and organizer of labour; everyone doing what he is convinced he was born to do. If life is a script, success is playing your part, whatever that part might be. It is in understanding that our individual configurations are different, so our aspiration should be dictated by self and not by standards; by what we internally are convinced summarized our life purpose.


Till we pass on, our central purpose would remain to discover what our purpose truly is, as all we know is what has happened. What will happen is still a mystery that can only be harnessed when we prepare; when we prepare by
• listening to ourselves to understanding what we are made of
• Making our search for all knowledge be about discovering who we are (not mapping out what we should desire).

Interpretation of a Dream

I am one of the few people who enjoy traffic in Lagos. I enjoy the moment when I get on the 3rd mainland, crossing over to the “fast” lane (which usually turns out to be the slowest). It might be a survival instinct, but I have learnt to savour every moment of that ride.

But what is there to enjoy?

Well for one, my Nigerian siblings are calmer. Everyone is very aware of the metal restrictions all around, forcing a more orderly behaviour than they would normally have. And in this environment of tranquility, I am given that rare opportunity to put things in perspective: to see things for what they are and build up a desire of how things should be.

To my right is a Toyota Corrolla, and seated at the back seat (or the “the owner’s corner”) is a light skinned man (most likely of the Yoruba extract). He was driven by a young lad in a white shirt and a red tie that kept a straight face and tried too much not “to upset oga”. The “owner” kept a straight face as he glossed through the dailies, with his head up and an attitude of accomplishment. His appearance embodied the Nigerian delusion of success.

·         Possibly just flew down from a meeting in Cyprus and is on his way for a meeting with some senators (on some contract that no one would feel the impact, but he would get awarded for)

·         Possibly lives in Victoria Island.  His wife owns a store for kid’s ware in Pees Galleria and is currently setting up a  crèche in Old Ikoyi for her children.

·         He is an icon of respect and EVERYONE WANTS TO BE LIKE HIM!!!

As I observe the likes of “owner corner” baron, it occurred to me that this man could have desired something else. It seems such a trivial thought, but how we overlook such powerful consideration in the quest for survival.

Maybe, he always wanted to be a gym instructor. Maybe he was considered a strange child, one with an obsession on weight gain and loss. He might have excelled in Physical education and joined all the clubs passionately promoting health education and fitness in his small community. But when he got older, weighed down by the pressures of life, he sought the route most travelled. To gain the approval of his family, and fend for himself, he sought after the roles that appealed to all his contemporaries.

So even though his heart desired something else, even though he knows he his better equipped to handle something apparently trivial, what I observe is a man that fit a definition of achievement.

And this is what caused this traffic!! This is the result of a generation blindly aspiring after a definition of success; chasing to do what they are not equipped to do. All this is fueled by a lie:                         

“Success is only achieved against all odd, it is only achieved when you follow the paths of our successful fathers”

But what if he had chased his dream? What if he remained in Akure as a gym instructor? What if he married Kemi his childhood sweetheart, not Biola, the mysterious girl? What would his life have been like? Would his focus have being to “buy with money what has been created”, or “creating what money can buy”? Putting things into perspective, who would he have become?

I believe a society that functions is a product of many dreams. Every functioning society is beyond doing what is right, beyond learning from the best teachers. Rather it is rooted in the something more fundamental. Communities that soar are those who can desire and in this mist, articulate their essence in the grand scheme of things. Their essence results from everyone chasing personal desires, and by this, crystallizes a reality that can nurture the skills required to sustain the next generation.  

And these desires are results of personal experiences; they are personal responses to challenges the environment presents, changing with every new generation. In a sense, a society that will survive is one that can accurate capture the dreams within their environment provide the environment to harness it; in other words, societies that can accurately interpret its' dreams.

Not until, this dawns in our consciousness, not until we are able to glean this reality, we would be stuck in traffic, on this crowded road to success, (dying inside, revolving against the establishment, angry with the next man)  at the expense of who we truly are; at the expense of the real Nigerian Spirit.

Patterns of the Stereotype

I once saw them at a distant
I cringed as they performed their rituals
They made sounds that had a rhythm I couldn’t understand
And a melody that held no resonances with music I was familiar with
But all that was at the beginning of their rhythm
Cos at the tail end, I led the chorus of the song

I once saw them as a primitive people with strange idiosyncrasies
All caught up in doing things that had no bearing to what really matter
Till I sensed it
That moment when it all crystallized
My purpose, my essence and how I had been positioned to make known what is within me

All journeys like this one starts out with us having obvious differences,
It always starts out with us trying to mix like oil in cold water,
But with time and the pressures of living, our differences become less apparent

It was here I found my calling
It was here that that I began to engage my senses and began to blossom from within
And as I continued in purpose, outsiders found it harder to know where I start, and where they begin,
Cos in our harmony, we spoke with one voice

I had become familiar with their ways and what they stood for
I had began to appreciate the intelligence in their gatherings and the logic behind their chaos
I began to know that it is in their mist I can matter
I now see how I can become their anchor
How strangers would soon begin to refer me as the incumbent; the one that defines the pattern in their stereotype

Never ending Rhythm

Think of a life & think of a melody

everyone is a Beat

A Beat is the sound that we bring

It is the sound of our work

as we till the earth for substance

It is the sound of our essence

the sound we make during interactions

Each Beat is who we are

An appearance of similarity

embodied in perfection

Yet unique in expression

All part of a song

A song that has been weaved up since creation

with every action resulting in a different flavour to the eventual sound

Though every Note made destines out to accomplish a personal purpose,

There is no awareness that it's ways are being orchestrated by the divine to sound in harmony with the times of the song

With every death, the tune changes

The melody loses a Beat

Even when replaced,

The New never sounds like the Old

With these departures,

the new Beats that are born ushers in a new era,

a new melody,

a new sound, in the melody of life.

(Dedicated to Micheal Joseph Jackson, August 29, 1958 – June 25, 2009)

Whisperer

The loudest words are heard in the silence,
At that point when nothing else can be heard,
It might be a whisper,
But it is capable of charging the atmosphere
And making men act with an objective in mind

To a passerby, all statements appear to be a mixture of vowels & consonants used to create words in sentences
But we know better
The ears of the observer interprets statement that resonates with their core belief system
By testing the use of words and the underlying logic
His eye looks at charm, the charisma and confidence
The brain fuses within us what these senses noticed,
A belief system is formed,
The observer imagines,
The observer is convinced
The observer acts

The average person overlooks what lies in the heart of the speaker
People forget that behind those words lie internal conversations
Lies individuals dealing with mundane person issues, common to everyone alive

Men dealing with depression,
Asking that age old question: “What is the point of my life?”
He tries to improve the state of their health, his weight & work life balance,
In secret he punishes himself for the failures of his children
And boast about his wife’s beauty,
With a fair yardstick, he gives judgment on himself for actions that go unnoticed

Amidst these trivialities are great ideal designed,
Men are refined to synchronies words with demeanor
This is how value within is born
And it is from this value that, earth changing words emerge

But in a world lost to its own values and warped belief,
It is only a whisper loudest in the ear of those that can hear