Meet Fatima

I see them everyday…stroll gracefully and make that call…my friends told me to try and do the same thing, but I feel shy! I am a lady…there more appropriate ways to inform your customers of your ware…besides, I dey school na!

I know there is the internet, but in this trade, that will get you nowhere. So I decided I will follow the crowd. I see Simi gallantly announce her presence without shame and customers flock her. I asked Simi how she does it, and she told me the secret: “Remember what you are doing this for”.
So, I propped myself early in the morning while having a bath. I recited my script all over and over again.

It was rush hour. Just like everywhere in Lagos, the cars moved swiftly, shifting from lanes to lanes during traffic. Something about walking on the road looking like me is the feeling of stage fright; and it did hit me. I couldn’t help having that feeling that everyone was looking at me. Tunde could be sitting in one of those cars. And what is most scary is- I might not get to see him when he sees me.

With the thought of Tunde, the words could not come out of my mouth. I thought about the social stigma. What about my friends laughing at me?

An hour passed: And the words did not come.
I tried again after two hours …I still couldn’t say those words.

After 4 hours, I had barely made any money. So I stopped moving to rest, watching as the city’s hustle and bustle and my ‘competitors’ beat me to it.

The traffic was heavy…this is Ojuelegba. Just then a bus conductor highlighted from a bus looking strikingly like my brother Abiodun, speaking with harsh voice and swearing profanely, with words I cannot even repeat….and I thought about my brother.
I thought about him not making it to school…because daddy decided he doesn’t want us anymore after he started seeing Aunty Carol.
I thought about mummy….all she has done to get me this far, final year in secondary school.

I imagined my brother being this bus conductor and the disappointment on my mother’s face and in an instance, the words came flowing out from me, as it did with Simi and everyone on the street with me in the same trade struggling for the next meal…….
“♫♫ BUY BUTTER BREAD ♬♫”…

My name is Fatima. I hawk bread. 

Mob justice in the soul of a nation

The solution to all crisis lies in its roots. It is from the root one can fully understand the interplay of value systems that compels a particular trait and inevitably, a course of action.

And this applies to all things, including the mob killings like the publicised one in Aluu, Rivers States. A petition for the mob Justice Prohibition Bill recently went viral. As much I expressed my support by appending my signature, I am pretty much convinced that the Bill will do little to tackle mob justice in Nigeria. Reason: mob justice is a symptom of a bigger crisis within the Nigerian socio-political space.

What supports the full adoption of a Bill into law is an enabling culture that views an action as a departure from the established way of doing things within a society...and mob killing is a practice we pretty much subscribe to at least on a subliminal level. Think of this: what influences what we subscribe to? Our perception, right? 
Then what influences what we perceive? WHAT WE SEE…

So, what do we see?
- spouses proudly tell tales of their extra-marital escapades and are hailed (it is culturally accepted to cheat; as long as you don’t get caught);
- a car jumps the traffic light, pays out a N100 bribe and goes unpunished; 
- an armed robber turns out to be a police officer and is discharged with honors.

Or on a national scale, no one was punished after:
- a disagreement between two friends led to a 3 year civil war that killed over a million people; 
- a president cancelled the freest and fairest election in Nigeria’s history (and yet the man walks free. The then president elect was allegedly assassinated);
- or in recent times, it turns out that the high cost of PMS in Nigeria is influenced by the greedy desires of a ‘cabal’.

This constant sense of injustice triggers a behavioural pattern that promotes the total annihilation of those that we disagree with. On a smaller scale, it is revealed in our vehement outburst and how we ‘descend’ on those that come against our stance. These traits are evident in our relationships, on our roads and pretty much anywhere more than one Nigerian is involved in a transaction. Perpetrators of car accidents are beaten to stupor, cheating wives are stripped naked or their nude pictures made available over the internet. Two weeks after the Aluu killings, the video of a young lady stripped naked and molested in a high brow shopping district of posh Lagos Nigeria went viral. Her crime: shoplifting. We have slowly accepted that this harsh and somewhat brutal acts should be used in reinforcing an accepted code of conduct, despite what common logic tells us.

And it is everywhere; we see tortured criminals paraded on National TV; we also hear of interrogation proceedings in Area F. How common is ‘accidental discharges’? Have we forgotten the ‘unknown soldiers’ who attacked Fela house, or those that perpetrated the Odi massacre? And somewhere in our minds, we don’t consider these acts ‘abnormal’ even though they are one and the same thing. 

So what fuels this brand of justice? I think it is the ‘high’ we get from it; a ‘high’ that in a strange kind of way, affirms the adage that "every day is for the thief and one day for the owner". It is the rush for that ‘high’ that ignites the whole atmosphere and make a moment participating in this barbaric act, somewhat relishing. 

At the root of mob justice lies a feeling that there are breed of people above the law…a feeling of injustice. Addressing that feeling is what reforms…not just a Legal Bill.
#Injustice_anywhere_is_a_threat_to_justice_everywhere.

A sluggish Revolution

January 2012 started on a sour note with the sudden increase in pump price from N65 to N141 Nigeria. That act gave birth of the Occupy Nigeria movement, a name coined up in 2011 on the streets of New York as the "99%" moved against the "1%" by "occupying" the financial centre of the United States, Wall Street. The energy generated from the Occupy Nigeria movement morphed in the social media activism mentality that has taken over the minds of middle class Nigerians. The platform to share and articulate our inability as a nation to rise up to what is expected of us. Every week we are prompted with stories of misfortunes and tales of woes. Everyone is commenting, topics are trending on Twitter/facebook. Intellectuals are debating and condemning the acts, our celebrities and Nigerians in the diaspora are organising walks and marches against "all that is bad", tee-shirts are getting printed saying "NO", but the question remains to what ends?
Just after the subsidy protests failed, the movement changed focus to the mess made of the subsidy probe. In the same breath, the Lawan and Otedola bribery scandal became the burning issue of that moment.

The bombings by Boko Haram's in the Northern cities that resulted in the death of over a thousand people (and counting) "trended" at some point in time. GEJ's response (or lack of one) failed to inspire the right vote of confidence from the movement that an appropriate course of action will be taken by the executive to this unfamiliar behaviour.

Then there was the Pension Fund scandals, Oteh and S.E.C. showdown, Nigeria Vs South African over deportation of Nigerians with "fake" yellow fever card (that raised questions on how Nigerians are treated all over the world). Our compliance with fundamental human rights was brought under scrutiny as citizens of Makoko were forcefully evicted from their homes to make way for what is most likely (at least according to twittersphere)a new housing project.

The bickering shifted to other sectors. Poor state of the planes and absence of adequate emergency planning crashed a Dana Air flight from Abuja to Lagos. Lokoja got flooded (despite warning from weather agencies) raising concerns about our government's disaster response strategy. There was the ABSU rape, the Mubi and Aluu killings raising concerns safety of people in higher institutions and also the quality churned out of university.

None of these event are new in our national space. What is new is the social media and its ability to consume the interest of Nigeria's middle class. Our combined sensationalization through un-edited comment/assessment and analysis of each event has turned these overlooked aspect of our reality into shocking and very disturbing episodes. But the question remains, after all the media activism and awareness, after performing our civic duty by highlighting flaws in the way we organize ourselves, beyond the fire-fighting template adopted by our successive government (setup committees, panels and invite foreign experts), what concrete step has been taken to address ANY of the issues raised?
In the absence of any credible response by the government, is there a brewing plan rumbling within us to disrupt the status quo and change the state of things? I am talking about a revolution.

If this "collective anger" does not eventually ignite the audacity to demand and change all that is wrong with our society, then all social media might have achieved is to provide us with a platform for sharing our opinions, entertaining one another and escaping the reality of our miserable way of living. #Nothing_is_as_powerful_as_an_idea_that_its_time_has_come.

Mob killings and the way we live

Images from the clip showing the jungle justice dished out on the ALUU 4 still haunts me. The evil men that men do!! But face it, the victims are not those that died, but those that live to witness such. The deceased have encountered the worse of all human experiences; death. But those that live, still have life to contend with and even worse, the unnecessary exposure of their minds to such disturbing methods of execution which might lead them to wonder "will I go like this?" (at least on a subconscious level). When a mind is unleashed to conjour up such thoughts, things change; people become jittery and weary of one another.

To protect from that which they fear, they change patterns of behaviour, become more smothering of their children, and after a long enough timeline, their lifestyle becomes a shadow of its original frame as every element of trust for the next man disappears leaving a dent within the fabric that holds the society together.

Maybe that is the only way I can understand how a nation of cashcrop farmers, with rich traditions and healthy appreciation of life, can morph into assassins, lynch mobs, rapists, and armed robbers.

Whether the boys are criminals or they are cultist is not what's most worrying. What's most worries me is that as a result of the complete lack of trust and continuous oppression within the society,there are very few Nigerians that could have been in that gathering of mob and stood against their act as the voice of reason.

Maybe Chinua Achebe had a point in his recent boy 'There was a Country'; maybe Nigeria does need to appease the Spirit of Biafra.

Matthew, Clement & Justin

About Matthew
‎"It was 12pm mid-day on Falomo bridge. I walked up to his car, a golden Toyota Camry. 
The reflection of the sunlight almost prevented me from seeing his face. But I saw it; he looked well-fed and humane; probably 35 years old cladded in white native. It looked like he was on the phone. That was my cue. I emptied my eva bottle of water and soap on his windscreen before he could turn on his wiper in defence; I earned N100 for that act. 
My name is Matthew. I run a traffic mobile cash-wash!!

About Clement
OK. I am checking out the man as he walks up to the swing door and entrance to the eatery where I am. He is with wife and their son. He is wearing white linen pants with a blue teeshirt. He is holding a blackberry phone (Chei- Bold5, bigz boi- I think to myself). 

His wife has this expensive weave-on and is looking chic in her long flowing Ankara dress with flowery patterns. Their son seems lost in his ipad viewed through thick almost binoculars-like eye glasses. 
“What are you having Tomiwa” says the man, as he opens the door.

“I am ok. I think it is noteworthy to state that I am really concerned about your cholesterol level, dad. Your choice of food these day is, for the lack of a better word, unbecoming” replied the 11 year old Tomiwa.
(“Butter” I thought “that is N1million a term plus bi-annual tour round Europe speaking”). 
“Good afternoon”.
“Don’t worry son. Daddy will have a six-pack, soon”.
“It is not about looking healthy; it is about feeling healthy. There is a discipline to everything. And knowing this is the secret to longevity” he continues.
“Tomiwa, this internet has started turning your head again. Bimbo, listen to your son”. She wasn’t interested in their conversation. She chatted away on her phone slowly moving from their company. 
“Can I be excused? David, just get me a bottle of water” replied Bimbo.
“ Can I have two meat pies, one fanta and a donut . Oh and for Bimbo, a bottle of water, please”. 
“120+120 that is N240. N240+N100+N100+N70 that is emmm N510” I thought to myself looking towards his hand as he pulled out a N1000 note.
“Sir for change,do you have N10 so I can give you N500”said the server. 
“Ah! And I just used it” he exclaimed. 
The server gave him the change in the denominations:
* 1 two hundred naira note, 
*2 one hundred naira notes, 
*1 fifty naira note, 
* and 2 twenty naira notes. 

I lit up, knowing I might still have a chance. As he walked to the where I was, I gladly opened the door. 
My response wasn’t with my initial tone; there wasn’t that blandness of the “Good afternoon” I had welcomed them with. 
Instead, my response had a glow to it and an expression of my desire-
“Oga, Happy Weekend, sir” I said with a salute and a smile.

My name is Clement. I am the security officer at the new MasterBiggs restaurant in Akute.

About Monday
Today the streets are clear. With this, I can’t help but wonder, how will I pay my rent, which is due today? The Easter holidays made this Monday quite uneventful. We sat for hours and waited for a miracle; for something. I remember yesterday’s inspirational message: I remember the pastor speak about hope because “our God works in mysterious ways”. 
Just then, Rasidi's call came through my mobile ph

one.

“E don happen” was the 1st thing he said.
A tanker had collided with a luxurious bus along the narrow Akute Road. The luxurious bus was carrying passengers on their way to Benin from the just concluded Israelites in Nigeria Mission’s Church annual convention titled “Condemn all your enemies to God’s judgment” which, according to reliable sources, attracted over 20,000 people from across the globe. Nobody was hurt; but the accidents caused a serious gridlock around the area.
YOU COULDN’T EXPECT TO SPEND LESS THAN 2 HOURS FOR A 20 MINUTES JOURNEY!!!!

I approached an Okada to take me to the scene. Imagine the okada man tried to charge me N80 instead of N50; the guy was trying to make money over what just happened, because of what I do. I showed him, that I myself, sabi Lagos. As I hopped on the okada towards the scene, I couldn't help but feel a little less tensed about my rent:
-Rasidi had settled the area boys for the three of us (to include Tolu) to operate freely around the Water Corporation side of the road;
-And what made it even better for Rasidi and I was Tolu was opting out as he was chatting up a girl from his village called Bisi …. and things were looking really “positive” for him; “going down tonight” positive.

“MY GUY the hammer of today no go get part 2. All of the people never break dem fast”-was Rasidi last statement before I headed off to meet him.
Truly our God works in mysterious ways- I thought.

My name is Justin. I sell pure water along the Pen Cinema traffic in Agege, Lagos State.

When the middle class fails to speak...

If you didn’t know, now you know: The revolution has started in Nigeria.

The information explosion has gotten everyone aware of the government machinery and their excesses... and that's the problem. Every segment of society is informed.

The truth about societies is ALL government always have its excesses is always corrupted. But
the ability to continually exert authority amidst these illegalities is tied to the four institutions that supports the government.

On one end, we have the ruling class. The presence of this class provides hope to those that are at the lower end of the food chain, of a light exists at the end of the tunnel. They inspire with words and actions and are role models to all.

The legal institution exists to provide a framework upon which the idea of justice can be delivered in the society using the armed forces as the executioners. 

Then we have family, and clan leaders. These authority figures ensure their subjects act in line with certain traditional precepts and expectation.

On the final extreme end, the religious units have a part to play too; by educating all on moral laws and order, and guaranteeing success in life and the after-life.

The media, through its choice of words, captures the interplay of activities of these institutions and subconsciously communicates to the middle and lower classes the way to live in which individual benefit is maximized. It keeps this groups (that constitutes about 95% of the population) in check and consistently doses them with examples of how the principles were observed by the ruling class and worked.

The right time for a revolution comes when the media is unable to communicate a way to live that aligns with embedded principles of what is required for the society to work. Then, a general sense of disillusionment fills the air. The lower class (the less educated/most volatile group) looks to the middle class (a class equally as educated as the ruling class, but not as opportuned) for direction. From the middle class, an enigma (usually) emerges that defines what should be and tries to work out a revolution WITHIN the confines of the legal/family & religious organization, even if it means ousting the rulers that be.

But when the middle class is unable to provide that leadership, when every middle class that ascends forgets his/her roots and joins the status quo, when the middle class is unable to direct and answer the concerns of the lower class, cracks within the society becomes visible and villains take charge.

Do you see the similarities? We have lost all form of respect for our leaders and the middle class isn't engineering a formidable team capable of restoring order. Our lower class is becoming the weapon of choice for executing some of the most daring feats ever known in Nigeria and are controlled by these villains. All action they conduct, usually start off startling the immediate society.
“Nigerians can never kill themselves”;
“That bank robbery was a one-off”;
“The kidnappers are most likely from neighboring war torn countries”?
But look within; these stories are familiar…
In describing “them” you will hear us mutter:

"Don't you remember that boy? Is he a stranger? Isn’t he the neighbours son, whose father died in a car accident and mother could not feed the family? Wasn’t his family kicked out of their own family house when they were young? Didn’t they watch their mother transform from a beautiful and homely wife to a desperate plantain seller? Weren’t they victims of KAI Lagos beautification team who removed her stand (because a church was extending its car park)? They invested all their money in an okada. He continued riding till his bike was seized by the police force for night driving.

Don't you remember the girl? She came with her friend to learn a trade in Lagos but was abandoned in the motor park. She slept with every man around, to make ends meet and was outrazied by our people. They call her Ashewo-Ghana. The police, knowing her trade, take rounds on her for free. She lets them have it to continue that singular thing she does to make ends meet.”

In our quest to look after our own, we abandon the less privileged (the volatile amongst us) to their devices and the hand of men with wild ideas. These "children" have metamorphosed into Boko Haram terrorist in the North, Militants in the Niger Delta, faceless kidnappers in the East, and scam artists /armed robbers the West.

A revolution has started in Nigeria but it isn't one engineered by men of wisdom... instead it is one nourished on the streets of desperation!!
#Woe_to_a_people_whose_middle_class_only_speak_on_facebook.

Guy-Man-no-dey-come-Last finishing College, Igando, Lagos State

Do you have a good upbringing? Are you well trained & well schooled? Do you live in Lagos (or intend to live in Lagos State)?

If your answer is “Yes” to all the above questions, my response is “Really”? Reason why I asked that question is because settling into Lagos would be a major challenge for you.

But help is here!! Guy-Man-no-dey-come-Last finishing College, Igando, Lagos State is where you want to be.

Since time immemorial, living in Lagos has never been for the faint hearted. Researchers have stumbled upon documents of Lagosian using false bottoms in barrels of palm oil for sale to the white-man, as far back as the 15^th Century. Can you imagine what these people would have evolved to? The modern Lagosian is a madman!!

And that is where we come in. We assist you adjust to the Lagos scene. Be you a professional, a medical practitioner, an okada driver, a bus driver, a government official, a law enforcement agent and even a religious leader.

We have experts from all over the world trained in the act of irresponsible behaviours from some of the most unliveable cities in the world. From Harare, Dhaka, and even Baghdad, seasoned specialists are available to provide you with case studies and 1^st hand examples of tactics you can adopt to ensure your adjustment to living in Lagos is seamless.  

Our facilities are well equipped with state of the art gadgets capable of providing simulation of life in Lagos. After four to sixteen weeks of extensive training, you will learn how to:

1. Deal with police officer;
2. Earn a living doing nothing;
3. Show off an attitude that can piss your customers off;
4. Jump queues;
5. How to fart in public (without making a sound);
6. The best way to shakara (special courses on telling them “do know who I am”);
7. Brag (even when there is nothing to brag about);
8. Silence you conscience and do what benefits you (and only you).

We also conduct specialized training for professionals to include:

1. Effectively collect bribe (for law enforcement agents: we teach all the secrets things they don’t teach you in training school. Like how to collect eguje and make the “accused” think you are doing your job);
2.  Inflate prices (and use strange accents to backup the reasons for the exorbitant prices);
3. Bad time keeping (for artisans, we go further in perfecting the art cheating your clients well with fake parts and substandard goods);
4. Public transportation- the art of being an okada man, conductor and a danfo driver- [Due to the sensitivity of this sector, we also have voice coaching centres for the conductors and reckless driving techniques (for okada men and bus drivers)];
5. Health is wealth, indeed (Providing health with no compassion).

And a many more other trainings bound to make you perfectly Anyhow, thereby fit for Lagos.

Here is a comment from one of our satisfied customers:

“Hello all, My name is Peter Busayo-McPhillips. I am 39 years old. My secondary education was at Atlantic Hall, Lagos State, A-levels in Eton College, after which I attended the prestigious St Andrews University, United Kingdom and completed a Bachelor of Arts degree in the Classic. I come from a family of distinguished lawyers & professors.

After twenty years living in the United Kingdom and  France, I had to move back to Nigeria to join my sibling control the family's business (we mange a chain of hotel in 
Lagos, Port Harcourt & Abuja). 
It was tough integrating into the chaotic Nigerian system. People took advantage of my good behaviour and ethics. Not until I came to the Guy- man- no- dey- come- Last Finishing College Lagos.

Now I know how to shout “your father” in traffic.
I once bashed a danfo driver, gave him a slap and even screamed “do you know who I am” (when I was the one at fault). 
I now know how to stylishly switch on my hazard lights  & join the convoy of siren vehicles (to beat the traffic) . 
And even though I am married, I still provide Aristo services to two girls currently in the University.

Whilst living the United Kingdom, my dream was to change Nigeria. I hoped for the day Nigeria would rise to its rightful position as the Giant of Africa. That is no longer the case. All the money I make, is going towards the house I am building in Bishop’s Avenue- London. I support all the politicians (even when I am sure they don’t have a clue what they are doing) as long as they give me deals. I owe my employees six month wages. But who cares; it is all about the money for me!

Thank you Guy-man-no-dey- come-Last Finishing College Lagos; for saving my life”.

So there you have it.

Next time you meet a friends based abroad intending on relocating,  anytime you visit those butter children who attend those private (sort of boarding school) Universities who just got a job on the Island and wants your advice, when you encounter someone who wants to move to Lagos from other states within Nigeria, but hasn’t got a clue of how messed up this city is, spread the word:

“With Guy-man-no-dey-come-Last Finishing College, YOU CAN’T COME LAST IN LAGOS”.

Guy-man-no-dey-come-Last Finish College -Eko oni baje o!

Encounter with an Okada Rider

LOOKING FOR AN OKADA

“Okada...!! Kofo?”
“ Oga na N200”.

“From here to Kofo ke? Bro!! Na N100 I go pay”

“Oga , no way. Na N150 last. Dem dey catch okada for Ozumba. Na Adeola Odeku I go pass”

“I beg take N100”

Okada drives off, slowly…

“Oya wait.  I beg drive soffery”

“No wahala” was the response followed by the strong smell of palm-wine in his breath.

ON THE OKADA
Me to myself: “I had no choice; I couldn’t continue waiting at this time of the night for another bus. That naked mad man holding his winky sitting over there didn’t look extra friendly. He might decide he wants to touch my clothes”

Okada man to himself “oh boy, after I drop this man, I go buy palmwine from Nwanchukwu …..”

 Me to myself: “which sort of okada is this? There is almost no where for me to put my leg on. God I hope to I get there in one piece”

Okada man to himself “Dat Nwachukwu sef. Him papa. Why that guy no want give person jara. Na from that girl I go buy from next. Precious. The problem be say Precious own no de catch person sef. But e be like say she like prick. Okon give am sef…”

  Me to myself: “There is no substitute for this madness. See how he rides, doesn’t this guy understand brakes. Gosh man! I hope this guy doesn’t get to hit anything. This is preposterous. God I hate my boss. Always putting me under unnecessary pressure. This country is too hectic. Next time, late or no late, I will use my car”

Okada man to himself “Oh boy that girl must sabi do. See her yansh. That one shacks go finish man. I fit give am belle sef” He smiled to himself.

“Bros, se you hold change”

“Oga how much?”

“Na N1000”

“Oga I no get change oh!”

Okada man to himself “E good say I don hide all my change. All these aje butter boys. Im no go wan drag change with me. That N1,000. I fit get room for Gordon side, Precious, your orobo go precious today…”

Me to myself: “No way I am giving this drunkard more than the N150 we agreed for. Does he know how  hard I worked to get this money? This country is filled with quacks, who all they know how to do is ask and ask and ask”

“WE NEED CHANGE OH”

“Okada, park for there, under that tree”

“Oga, my money”

“Na only N1,000, I get, I no get change oh”

“Oga, you go forget the change oh! I dey run, you wan spoil my business. Abi, you wan give me the money make I go find change?”

“No way. You sabi person for here?  Na my area be this. Make I ask person for change”

“Bro" I say to the security man  "I beg you get change? I suppose pay this okada man N150 and na N1000 I get”

Security man to himself: “Idiot. Na when im need person, he go remember. Since I join this office e never give me nothing. He go dem waka dey go like say na im papa work. God go punish am. Make I give am N650. E fit kuruma forget balance, give me”

“Na only N650 I get, sir. You go take?”

 “Na! Ma worry mo so gbo?. Thank you”

Me to myself: “Obviously an undercutting ploy. Boy I can smell you from a mile. I see the way you look at me from a distance, giving me your “I_go_ school_ too” look and try to speak good English, and at the same time messing up your  tenses. Oga. Sorry, you_ just_ can’t_chop_me, sir. Not today”.

“Samuel" I say to the hawker who sells DVD just outside my office " I beg, you get change for N1,000?”

“Chai, I no get oh. I just give person all my small small change”.

DVD man to himself “this boy wey no too dey buy DVD. Na only 3 DVD he don buy out of which he return one say e no clear. All these people sef. Chai. Dem no wan lose N1”.

“Oga, please give me money make I dey go now” groans the okada man.

THE END OF OUR RELATIONSHIP

“Mallam, sanu. I beg, you get change?”.

“Yes, I get”.

Mallam to himself: “When this man go buy this im instant coffee? Na im dey buy pass before? Before na nice guy. E no dey complain about the N5 I dey put on top.”

Mallam gives me the change.

“Thank you”

“E don tey when you come greet your boy. I get am for coffee, plenty plenty”

“Na the diet wey I dey on. My doctor talk say make I no dey drink too much coffee”

Me to myself: “Rip off sucker. This thing goes for N25 in other places. I can get it for N20 if I buy in bulk.  See your hungry head, selling it for N30”

“That one good ooo! Make you greet madam for me”

Mallam to himself: “which kind diet, with this kind big belle.Bros,  I see when you dey buy digestive everyday from Goodies”

“Oga I wan dey go, I beg my money oh!”

I hand over the N150 to the okada rider. Put it in his pocket and rode away, bringing an end to our brief encounter/relationship.

What was good about #Occupy_Nigeria

It appears to all that the #OccupyNigeria was a failure. But I dont think so. 
What sticks to memory was how Nigerians at the last minute were boxed into a corner by people incapable of representing them; people who constantly swayed the rule of law to directions that best suited them.

But I don’t think we failed. I think Jan 2012 gave us the opportunity to see that underneath it all, we are one Nigeria. For years, we had been divided along our ethnic and cultural line. And by our division we were held hostage by our leaders who continually fuelled it, to benefit from the chaos; which they have.

In all honesty, I am not yet hopeful in the power of our electorate to deliver the candidate we desire in 2015; NO. We still have a long way to go.

But what I am confident about is the birth of a new Nigerian who will not sell his birthright for a morsel of meat. A breed of men and women who (for the first time in our history) are breaking the shackles and bondages put in place by culture and religion; a new breed of Nigerians who boldly question the status quo in a quest to understand their reality.

We might not see a free Nigeria in our lifetime. But as we dare, we steer up the consciousness of our oppressors to feel that we matter and create the opportunity for change, even if it is by the hands of our children.

One day, it might be next week, it might be in ten years’ time, a time like this time will come when Nigeria will be ready for freedom.
#it_is_men_that_dare_to_question_that_change_the_world.

Call to all writers...

The African renaissance will be the product of writers. It will be our thoughts that will shape the revolution we seek. 

The labourious process of documenting every aspects of our daily lives will provide us the opportunity to put our reality in perspective and empower our readers to make decisions that would change the destiny of our continents.

The future we write for might not emerge in our lifetime; it might take centuries for the communal mindset to evolve to a position when it can begin to harness the thought birth today. But one thing is certain; it is out there. The arsernal is available for our offsprings to harness and change their reality.

A call to all writers: write. People might mock you, saying you are writing trash. But take heart with this knowledge; The power to change this land is in your hands.
#waiting_for_when_our_words_become_d_ammunition.

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”.