Nigerians are famed to possess the rare ability of existing in a state of happiness even in the midst of the gravest form of suffering, but that is in the past. I challenge those who claimed that they conducted a survey and found us the happiest people on earth to come around and do whatever they did again. They would find that not only has suffering tripled, the happiness they claimed they had seen in quantum has equally disappeared. Indeed some people have argued that whatever they judged to be happiness was not real happiness but a self indulging effort to mock our depraved state of hopelessness and by extension score a personal victory over it and use that false of victory to sustain hope which is the primary most necessary ingredient for survival in this clime.

Today, that legendary happiness, whether real or self deception has all phased out. No body is smiling any more. Our collective sense of humour seems to have grown wings and flown away. Such is the verdict on the faces of Nigerians. The gloom hangs on our faces like a mask leaving our faces like the clouds heavy with rain. From the faces of drivers on the queue in the filling stations, ruing the fact that they have to suffer long hours under the sun to get a few liters of a commodity God has blessed their nation with to the tone of the articles you read online and in the news papers, there is no doubt left whatsoever about our current position as the worlds leading pack of very sad people and yes interestingly, we are no more pretending about it.

The people on television are not laughing. I watch the labour leader speak; all the veins on his head and neck have sprouted out looking like rail lines on a wall map. He is shouting no to deregulation. There is a crowd echoing his shout beside him waving placards in the air. Nobody is smiling. All the discussants in the discussion programmes are all complaining. AIT does what they term “Peoples parliament”, all the respondents have straight faces with the skin around their forehead squeezed. One of the respondents makes a catchy statement, its an appeal to the reporter “Abeg, make una helep us tell gofment sey we dey suffer”, the reporter too is not smiling.

I go to work, that place that provides me an opportunity to exercise my brains and add a little life to my wallet at month end, in a commuter bus. I listen to the discussion of the passengers. I eavesdrop on their phone conversations. All I hear are long hisses, depressing sighs and grumbles. The landlord has sent in the rent reminder. It’s the children’s visiting day by weekend. Some ones school fees has not been paid. Mama is sick in the village. The pay cheque is late.

I go to the bank and those on the queue exhibit their state of unhappiness in the haggard posturing and soul sinking demeanors coupled with incessant hisses and repeated glances at their wrist watches. The cashiers too are not happy, with the manner in which they slam the stamp down on the slips and snap at customers who are quick to snap back.

Last weekend I strayed to the venue of an aptitude test by the Federal Inland Revenue Service. Ok, I didn’t just stray there; I went there because I got the sms invitation. The multitude I saw there that day, a number I was told was seen on every day of that week during which the exam lasted was testimony that indeed over forty million Nigerians (as the House of Representatives recently alleged) are unemployed and the number of those people old enough to be my father who took the test with me indicates that a great number of those actually employed are not happy with the job they do.

I got into a conversation with a little boy a few days ago. He was in a worn school uniform and walking the streets of wuse zone 3 Abuja with a bowl of pure water on his head. I was wondering why at that time he was not in school. He gave me the what kind of question is that look, his hands eager to collect the N10 I had in my hands. I didn’t like the hate in his eyes, like I was accusing him of a crime he knew nothing about.  As soon as I paid him, he walked away, his misery making him almost dumb, almost dead.

I see all these and when I get on facebook, I feel the irony in our effort to create happiness with our LWKMD  (laff wan kill me die )and LNGKMD (laff no go kill me die) posts. Laughter has gone from being what we do to what we think of doing, a state we aspire to. I am confident it is not just my eyes that has noticed this, but I doubt if those who drive with sirens and gather every Wednesday to approve new contracts see it too because if they do, they would have known that their first duty is to bring back the happiness into our faces, a duty they cant however handle because in some ways, they too are sad.

Sylva Ifedigbo

The convoy that came to arrest me was of six cars, two siren blaring police saloon cars, two jeeps and two open trucks carrying a countless number of armed soldiers. It was about 2.00pm. I was at the office, hurrying to finish up the draft of an article for my blog site. Nonso’s birthday party was for 4.00pm and I had not yet bought his present. They stormed into the room, heavy boot soles against the concrete floor, guns, tear gas, walkie-talkie and all, like in the movies.

“By the order of the Commander in Chief, you are under arrest” The short one with two tribal marks running vertically on either sides of his nose, the commanding officer by my assessment pronounced. They hand cuffed me and led me out into the February sun.

The Junta had been in power for exactly one year. That morning, a year ago when they ceased power, my bed side radio had been tuned to Radio Nigeria, its permanent location and I was in the kitchen fixing an early breakfast when Ifeoma called out from the room sounding both excited and agitated

“Darling, there’s been a coup!”

“A coup?” I asked rushing into the room two mugs of hot water in hand.

“Yes a coup. Listen”

It was 7.00am normal time for the AM news. To have martial music playing at that time meant just one thing: a coup. She was right. The music continued for a while before a voice with an unmistakable northern accent came on air.

“Good morning Nigerians. I Major Ibrahim Bature of the Nigerian Army, on behalf of my colleagues wish to inform you that we have taken over the leadership and control of the Federal Military Government of Nigeria …”

Another Major! I thought as I dropped the mugs gently on the side stool and replaced Ifeoma who had risen and was making for the bathroom, on the bed. My eyes followed her until she disappeared through the bathroom doors. It was now two days past the expected delivery date and the anxiety was high. My attention then went back to the radio.

Later that day, the baby came; a boy and I named him Nonso. It was his first birthday and I was being arrested by the Government that had seized power on the day he was born.

Being an internet blogger was my crime. The Junta had initially given the impression that they supported the freedom of the press and when after six months there was still no clear transition timetable as they had promised, I joined the growing band of citizen journalists, demanding on be half of the people, a return to civil rule, a duty The Junta clearly didn’t think I had a right to.

“So this is where you stay and write rubbish about gofment?” The commanding officer remarked as he led me out to one of the jeeps, amazed I could imagine at how shabby the office looked.

I made an incomprehensible sound with my throat and continued walking. He stopped just at the door to one of the jeeps, looked me over, and shook his head in unsolicited pity before opening the door for me.

“This is what you get for making trouble with gofment” he jeered exposing his brown set of teethes.

“No” I disagreed. “This is what happens when criminals find themselves in power”.

He stared back blankly either not having heard well or not having understood. I didn’t wait to confirm, I got into the car and the sirens came on.

Pix credit; BBC.

If one undertakes to do a survey of the few Nigerians who still read books, chances are that a great majority would be reading either a novel by a foreign writer the likes of Jeffry Archer, Stephen King, Dan Brown, Hadley Chase, Harlequin series and the likes Or would be in the middle of one of those books that come under the broad title of “Motivational Books”, those books that talk about making millions in a day, about becoming the next Obama, about how to smile to get everybody falling in love with you. Very few, would be reading literary books by Nigerian authors.

The above group is appreciable in that they actually still bother to read. A vast majority do not. A great number of Nigerians can not remember when last they read a book that is not the bible or the Koran. Save for the compulsory texts some of us were compelled to read as students in secondary school, some would never have read anything in their lives. It was a popular joke among my classmates back in the university about one of us who was asked by a lecturer what the last book he read was and he opened his mouth and declared boldly; Eze Goes to School.

It’s no more news that the reading culture in Nigeria is as low as it can get. We don’t need surveys to prove that much. The stomach retching diction of our youngsters, the less than desirable spoken English with tenses all muddled up and the inability of university graduates to draft simple letters is enough evidence of it.  What we have today is a Nollywood-English premiership generation of youths who read (if at all) just to pass examinations.

A further evidence of the near collapse in the reading culture is the near absence in our much to be desired book publishing industry of publishers that carry out publishing the way it is known to be done in other spheres, not printers going about in the robe of publishers. To succeed as writers, the few who are still bold enough to write are forced to ‘self publish’, an idea that no doubt has its merits but which brings the whole trade to ridicule and reduces writers into desperate book hawkers.

The few who are opportune, seek and find publishers abroad. Because their main readership is based abroad, they begin to write with that in mind, developing stories for the western audience, such stories that they would enjoy, stories that referred to Africa as a country, that painted Africans as cannibals and child soldiers, the kind of stories that made the readers surprised that Africans drive cars and wear suits.

This new western influenced African writings had a negative feedback on the reading culture at home. Because the books were not written with Nigerians in mind, Nigerians are not interested in reading them. The reason is simple, the tales are drab and almost banal, the very same things we are harangued with on CNN’s Inside Africa.  We are aware of the bad roads and the dark nights, we don’t want to read about them again. This is one of the reasons why some of my friends would prefer to read about white folks falling in love in some lonely ranch somewhere in Texas than read about a teenager carrying an AK 47 in some fictitious war-torn African nation.

It has thus become important at this stage to remind our youngsters that it is hip to read. Just as our music has taken over the air space in our parties and in the radio so also should our books be a prized occupant of our intellect. We should read not just because of the entertainment but also to improve ourselves, our spoken English and our communication skills. A hip and happening guy or babe should read at least one book every week. We should begin to proudly walk around with books by Nigerian authors in hand, it should become what defines our status- our Nigerianess. We should begin to discuss books among friends and argue about writers and their various styles when we sit around over bottles of beer or on our wall on facebook.

Just as it is hip to read, it is also hip to be read. Talents abound in Nigeria no doubt, but it is time we began to write seriously and write for our people, telling those other stories that have not been told, those stories we tell in the beer parlour’s and vendor stands, inside the danfo and at the bus stops. We would need publishers for our works, another huge challenge no doubt, but nothing insurmountable especially with such ideas as a writers Agency, Blues & Hills consultancy recently floated by a team of young literary enthusiasts to represent Nigerian writers and link them up to publishers.

I acknowledge the fact that so much more has to be done to make our literary industry what is should be, and I am stating that it is high time we began to do those things. As an opener, I call on all of you to join this campaign to get back the readership. Let’s get the message out there; it is hip to read and Nigerian books have got the groove.

Sylva Nze Ifedigbo

The Honourable Speaker of the House of Representatives, Demeji Bankole recently introduced and argued strongly in the favour of a Bill to introduce an “Office of Government Accountability” on the floor of the House. In his argument Hon. Bankole reminded us of the huge sums of money which was budgeted yearly but which are either embezzled or returned as unspent funds at the end of the year. The new office his Bill seeks to create therefore was an effort at ensuring that there was probity in Government business and that budgetary allocations for Capital projects are monitored and the designated projects delivered yearly.

It is laudable no doubt for Mr. Speaker to be so worried about non delivery of projects, none performance of Budgets and the mismanagement of funds, but he in my opinion has simply advanced a wrong pill for a worrying ailment and it is important he listens to the voice of reason and rethink the steps he is already taking.

The problem with Nigeria has never been policies or the institutions to carry out policies. No, rather our problem has consistently been a long convoluted string of administrative bottlenecks and a murderous bureaucracy that snuffs life out of bright ideas, breeds corruption and ensures the perpetuation of organizational inefficiency.

Creating yet another office, no matter how well intentioned, is only adding to this bureaucracy and invariably adding to the problem. As soon as the gavel sounds and such an office becomes law, the next issue will be who becomes the Director General or whatever name the head of the body will be given. We would haggle over geo-political zones and Federal character and money will change hands. Soon the body itself begins to contribute its own share to the already nauseating national fart.

In any case, doesn’t it amount to an unnecessary duplication of effort to create a different Government Office of Accountability when we already have so many other bodies that are saddled with such responsibilities?  We have for example the Budget (due process) Office , the Ministry of Finance, the various committees on Public Accounts and Public Procurements in both the senate and the House all carrying out functions in the area of Budget monitoring. This is in addition to the constitutional duty of each and every member of the National Assembly of carrying out over sight functions on the various organs of the Executive, a responsibility they seem more interested in due to the allowances accruing from it than in sincerely ensuring that things are done the way they should be done.

I wish to state that what we need to save this country are not new laws, but an implementation of the already existing ones or at best their modifications to suit current trends. The continuous passage of laws establishing new Agencies, Commissions and Directorates just for the fun of it is not taking us any where. We are simply shooting ourselves in the foot as we are helping to expand the making appendages of the already indefatigable monster, Corruption.

We need a change of attitude as individuals and then a collective effort to see our institutions function the way they are meant to. If the Due process office, the ministry of finance, the various Project monitoring units of the various MDA’s, the various Legislative committee’s on Public Accounts and indeed the entire legislature functions the way they should, we would have absolutely no need for this new Office of Government Accountability which Mr. Speaker seems so obsessed about.

Let’s get the existing system working. Let’s rid it of the corruption and administrative bureaucracy that has kept it lame. Let’s all imbibe a change of attitude, and there would be genuine change in our polity. Then we wouldn’t need to create and keep creating new institutions. We must learn that it is in making our Institutions solid and functional that we succeed, not in creating new ones.

Sylva Nze Ifedigbo

Sylva Nze Ifedigbo

I go to work in a public commuter bus. It goes with that twice daily discomfort of dragging on in the traffic for hours, sitting until it hurt to sit, perspiring down to your inner wears, inhaling the air others had just exhaled, hissing, wishing, and enduring.

But for me it not just about that. My twice in a day bus ride gives me that privilege to see, through the window of the bus, the faces of Nigeria, the daily struggle for survival, the pains, the hard work, the faith, the courage, the goodwill, the gimmicks, the rush, the Nigeria in us.

From the window of the bus I see young men my age full of energy, in defiance to the sun overhead, shouting, screaming, and chasing after buses to sell such goods as apple and gala. I see the minors, children not long from wetting the bed, bare footed, strings of catarrh hanging down their nostrils, their eyes pleading as they look at you, their voice piercing through your conscience, asking you to take away the misery, by parting with N10 for a sachet of pure water.

From the window of the bus I see beggars, children leading aged bent over parents by the stick, joggling coins in a worn aluminum plate, the sound steering you, making you look not at the beggar, but the helplessness in his eyes. You stare on, pushing away that silent urge to reach for that worn N10 in your breast pocket. He joggles the coin again, his eye darting around the bus. He moves on to the next window, hoping and wishing.

From the window of the bus I see cars; the type comedians insist should be called automobiles. Sleek, elegant, amazing. They don’t spend much time beside the bus in the hold up; they are fast and seem to melt through. But they stay long enough for you to notice that the glasses are wound up, that the air condition is on, that the dashboard looks like a large stereo system, that the person at the steering is a human being, a fellow Nigerian, you remember that some fingers are more equal than others.

You have always been too carried away to notice the poetry in the shout of the bus conductors, the rhyme, the repetitions, the verses. I hear it from the window of the bus. I play the lines repeatedly in my head Wuse-Berger-Gwarimpa- Galadima. I am amused by the constant warning “Hold your change o!” I am offended by his foul language. I am impressed at his mathematical prowess and his sharp memory. He is considered illiterate because he doesn’t speak the English language yet he knows how much to give back as change and doesn’t forget who has not paid him.

From the window of the bus I see many car stickers, from the My God is able on the green buses, to the I am a winner on the sleek cars. I see religion on display, prayer beads handing down the inner rear view mirror, picture of clerics adorning the edges of windscreens. I see the foot ball fanatism, the symbols that announce our allegiance to various European clubs. I see no Enyimba or Kano Pillars. I see blue, red and dark red.

I see the traffic officers looking tired. I notice that their yellow shirts and their black shoes are perhaps more tired than themselves. I see the unsmiling faces of vehicle inspection officers (VIO); I notice the bus driver’s anxiety as he nears them. I see drivers hurriedly put on their set belt and I know immediately that the Road Safety men are in front. I see them unhook again as soon as they drive past the officers in brown.

The cars with siren do not tag along with us on the traffic. They speed past on the other lane. I see a Police pickup, driving against traffic. I wonder what the law says about that. I see cars parked in the middle of the road, the owners arguing, pointing fingers at each others face, insisting the other was a lousy driver, that he bought his license, that he must pay for the dent on the car. I see pot-holes and craters on the road. My head bumps against the roof of the bus as we sink into one. I hear fellow commuters hiss while some curse the Government. I wonder why our curses don’t affect them.

The wind blowing against my face from the window of the bus is hot and dusty. Sometimes it rains and the wind is moist and cold. The bus feels like a confinement, like you have been taken hostage. You long for your bus stop, it feels so long off.  You stick your hand out of the window and you feel the breeze against your hand. It reminds me that I am alive. That I can still hope.

Suddenly you realize that it is not the bus but the country that had taken you hostage. You realize that you really don’t want to alight from the bus because at home there wouldn’t be light and that at the office you are still owed for two months.

You look again from yourself, from your ironed shirt tucked into equally ironed trousers, to the boys in worn shirts chasing after buses and screaming “Cold Vigu” to the beggar joggling coins, to the little girl with the soiled nose, to the man in the sleek car, to the tired traffic man and you come to that realization that there is hardly any difference between you, that you are all hostages.

Sylva Nze Ifedigbo

The price of fuel is about to go up and with it the price of garri and crayfish. If you usually ate two pieces of meat at dinner, get ready to manage one that is, if it does not disappear entirely. The landlords are beginning to call their colleagues for nocturnal meetings. We would soon be hearing from them. The bus drivers are about to issue new directives to their conductors. That neighbour of yours, the okada man might soon stop returning your greeting. Just get ready, we are about to go on a bumpy ride.

The price of fuel is about to go up again and with it the cost of barbing my hair. I am just getting used to the new rates I pay at the cybercafé and now the price list is about to be torn off the wall and replaced with new ones. Ha…I must now consider the option of joining the FRA as buying news papers will soon become an indulgence of the mega rich. Will the price of pure water change too? Let’s keep our fingers crossed. Fela might be finally proved wrong; water might have an enemy in fuel price after all.

The price of fuel is about to go up again and with it the number of jobless youths. I was wondering if it wouldn’t be right for our leaders to also declare an emergency on unemployment. Don’t they realize it is the easiest way of stopping hostage taking? Well, that one too is about to increase and of course the hostage takers would be reviewing the amount of ransom they demand. Get ready to hear of more SSG’s disappearing in Nguru and reappearing in Ago Iwoye.

The price of fuel is about to go up again and with it the number of times you go for offertory in Church. Watch as your pastor gives it an evangelical interpretation. No truer evidence of faith could there be than to give more during trying times. Didn’t the Man see the vision of the impending storm? Didn’t he give the prophesy? The cost of healing is also about to increase. Am I the only one seeing this happen?, crusades would soon have gate fees. Just wait and see.

The price of fuel is about to go up again and yes, the neigbourhood will soon become quieter. The noisy i-big-pass will soon die of thirst. Now the children can see less of home video and cartoon network. They can now gather outside the yard under the moonlight and share those stories our mothers told us. The makers of hurricane lamps should brace up for business. The demand would soon overwhelm supply.

Why shouldn’t we pay more for fuel? they ask, when we buy bottled water at a higher cost and beer at an even higher cost. Is a plate of ice cream not far more costly? Don’t we take our kids and girl friends for ice cream sprees? Why then do we grumble about paying an extra naira for fuel? Have we forgotten that there is a global economic melt down?

Our leaders have sworn to raise the price of fuel again. It’s an early Christmas gift to us. They say the more we pay for fuel, the happier we shall be. They have a beautiful theory to prove their claim. They tell us long long stories and speak big big grammar that they themselves do not understand. They are piqued that we don’t seem to appreciate what great favour they are doing us.

The price of fuel is about to go up again. It’s been a long time coming. It is finally here. All our cries of “God Forbid” accompanied with the circling of our hand over our head and the snap of our fingers has failed to appease the gods. The gods have refused to forbid. The gods have become deaf to our cry. They have turned their face away from us and have left us to our own fate. They say we deserve the leaders we’ve got and must therefore endure the smell of their fart.

Sylva Nze Ifedigbo

Photo credit: fotosearch.com

A few years ago, it would have been very strange to be discussing this issue. Perhaps it sounds strange to you even now. What with the age long challenge of girl child education still remaining un-surmounted and a million and one NGO’s registered solely to address gender disparity in school enrollment in the country.

Nobody however seems to be taking note of a disturbing new trend. There is an alarming decline in Boy child enrollment in schools especially in eastern parts of the country to such extents that I believe it should now be the concern rather than the earlier issue of Girl Child education.

No body seems to be asking any questions why there is an increase in the number of boys dropping out of school especially in eastern Nigeria. This is a trend which is so obvious but to which there is unfortunately no figures to prove. It is something we know is happening but which we are either pretending not to have noticed or we don’t seem to have accorded it enough importance to begin to address it.

In the past, parents sent only their male children to school, believing albeit erroneously, that the education of their daughters was a waste. Then, the gender disparity favoured the male child as many more boys had the opportunity of accessing western education.

Today however, following an erosion of societal values and the increased pursuit for quick wealth which brings about greater acceptance and reverence in the society, education and the need to acquire it seems to have lost its attraction. Indeed, wealth itself now buys certificates and positions of leadership. The average young man therefore is increasingly not seeing the need to spend so many years in pursuit of what he can achieve through other means. Spending the same measure of time chasing money seems a more fulfilling endeavour.

The situation is not helped by the very poor performance of the Nigerian Government as regards education. At the moment, Federal Government college teachers have downed tool. Their colleagues in primary schools in about nineteen states have equally refused to resume for the new academic session due to the failure of government to implement the agreed Teachers Salary Scale. The deadlock in the Tertiary wing is now a National embarrassment; I need not bore you about it here.

Unfortunately and ironically, after many years of expending our resources including grants from international agencies like the United Nations, we can not boast of having made significant success in redressing the issue of Girl child education.  It would not therefore be far from the truth to state that whatever data on a reduction in the gender disparity which the government has to flaunt is not actually based on more girls enrolling into school, but really about more boys dropping out.

These boys drop out not to go into apprenticeship in any trade or craft, but straight into the scramble for what ever they can grab which leaves them either perpetually at the bottom rung of Maslow’s chart or with a desire to do something criminal to rise in it.

Ever wonder who all the army of Okada riders are? Or the bus conductors and Motor Park touts? What of the boys who harangue you to buy their wares in the traffic? Okay, let’s bring it closer home. Who are the guys robbing the buses and the banks? What is the gender of those taking people hostage?

It is not rocket science to note that we are sitting on some kind of time bomb here. A nation that toys with the education of her children as we seem to be so obsessed with doing at the moment is sure headed for doom. It becomes even more worrying when it is her male population that is increasingly dropping out of school.

Sylva Nze Ifedigbo

Photo credit: photoblogmagazine

(blogsurfer)

There is a drawing board located somewhere in the country to which our administrators always claim they are returning to each time they mess up.  They sound like this drawing board was responsible in the first instance for their failure and that ironically their return to this drawing board was going to make their next outing a success.  What we always get however is another failure and another promise that the drawing board will be re-visited.

For example, each time any of our National sport teams flops, our sport administrators stare into Television camera’s and tell us glibly that they would return to the drawing board and come up with something better.  But it never gets better.

It is to that drawing board that Coach Amodu Shuaibu and his now expanded technical crew have promised us they are returning to after their lackluster, stomach retching performance in the world cup qualifying match against the cartage Eagles of Tunisia.

It was to that drawing board they returned four years ago when we failed to make the World Cup in Germany. After fouling their preparations and superintending the sham in Kano which saw little known Angola pick the world cup ticket ahead of us based on the head-to-head rule, the men at the helms of affairs at the then NFA told us they will go back to the drawing board to ensure it doesn’t happen again.

After going to Mozambique in the earlier stage of the South Africa 2010 qualifying rounds and coming home with a point, they told us it was all a matter of going back to the drawing board and all will be made right. On that occasion, the Super Eagles had played like a pack of pregnant women escaping with a draw only by the grace of a rather incompetent referee who denied the Mozambicans two clear goals.

I don’t know where this almighty drawing board is located or of what size it is, I am only certain that that board should be full by now.  Given the number of times it’s been visited and re-visited, there shouldn’t be any space left on that board by now and surely, the board has nothing positive left to offer.

I thus make bold to say, not just to our football administrators who have become to say the least, classical models of corruption and incompetence, but also to all our leaders, that the drawing board is now full. It is time to get to work.

Stop making excuses for your failures. Stop postponing your responsibilities. Stop leaving for tomorrow what you can accomplish today. Stop compromising standards. Stop cutting corners. Stop justifying your irresponsibility. Stop branding your incompetence. Stop giving us that old gist. Its now stale news and quite irritating to hear. Keep your damn drawing board to yourselves. Give us results.

What other justification is there for the existence of a sports commission and various sports federations complete with fat bellied members if the Country can not win laurels in international competitions? What are they doing with all the money if I may ask? Recently, we went to the world athletics championship in Berlin and did irreparable damage to the re-brand campaign. We did not just waste tax payers money in what was clearly a jamboree, we also had our athletes testing positive to banded substances.

If we don’t make it to South Africa 2010, the first time the competition is being staged on African soil, I suggest that we should not just throw bottles of water at them; we should match to the football house where they sit around and sketch on the mysterious drawing board and sack them. They deserve nothing more, than to be openly ridiculed.

So enough of the blames on the drawing board and please, could you stop giving us that bla bla bla of going back to it.?

Sylva Nze Ifedigbo

Picture credit: http://thebsreport.files.wordpress.com

blogsurfer.us

Pictures they say speak a million words. The picture above sure does meet this requirement and even more. I doubt if I need to say any more.

Now it is easy to say “ah…this is just an artist’s imagination” but that would be acknowledging just half the value of the painting as it carries a much deeper message. It is a depiction of not just an artist’s imagination but of a daily occurrence in Nigeria. People who have lived in Lagos and have had to contend with the sorry public transport system will attest to have witnessed such a sight many times before.

Even more, the picture is not just about a scrum for space on an already full rickety public bus, it tells the Nigerian story in many ways…the scramble by a frustrated people for any thing they can lay hands on….the tendency to want to grab and grab…the inadequacy of everything from drinking water to spaces on buses…the survival of the crook-iest …the lawlessness…the confusion…the hunger…the prevalence of killer diseases…the high maternal mortality rate…the darkness…the rigged elections…the failed projects…the strikes…the over crowded lecture halls…the o-yes legislature… the cash-n-carry judiciary…the comatose executive…

What have I left out? Fill up the blank spaces jare.

Have a lovely weekend peeps.

Sylva Nze Ifedigbo

What if I said PDP is Haram? Wouldn’t I be unnecessarily looking for trouble? Wouldn’t I be branded a terrorist and the SSS sent off to haunt me? Wouldn’t the most vicious men of the Nigerian army be sent after me and my clan? Wouldn’t my body be pumped with hot lead and brandished before tv cameras as a vivid example of what becomes of a renegade? Wouldn’t I get the same compliments as Mrs. Clinton got after she said the same thing in different words?

What if I really insist that PDP is Haram and deserved the same kind of treatment that they recently meted on the Boko Haram? No, not from the police or the army, but from me and you. What if I had proof to substantiate my claim? would I get a followership like Yusuf Mohammed, willing and eager to execute my own style terrorism that aims to chase the evil way?

What if I told you that for ten years PDP has done nothing but sing us a two versed poem. Verse one: Reform, Verse two: War on corruption, would you sign up to my unusual agenda? What if I told you that the reforms have been very successful only in the area of turning the reformed into competitive scavengers, recharge card sellers and graduate okada riders? And that the war on corruption has seen the anti corruption body with the eagle eye logo turn into a debt recovery tax force, would you then be convinced of the exigency of my call?

Oh! Sorry, how could I have forgotten so soon? Yeah, indeed there is a third verse to their poem; Rule of law. What if I said it was actually a rule of no law? What if I said there were no rules and no laws? What if I showed you countless news items to prove that? What if I wrote you a dictionary sized book about it all? What if I told you that we were all prisoners of their complete lawlessness? Would you then sign up to my noble course?

What if I told you this particular evil would be everlasting? What if I told you that their sixty years boast is not a bluff? What if I told you that a one party state is closer than we can imagine? What if I gave you Zamfara, Bauchi and Imo as proof? What if I told you Abia is being baited? What if I showed you the rancor in APGA and now PPA as more proof? Would you become as worried as I am?

What if we continued to grumble about our woes in the safety of our bedrooms; daily watching as two pieces of meat reduces to one in our dinner plate until there is none? What if we lamented about the rigged elections, the pot hole infested roads and our mortuary of hospitals until bloods instead of tears flowed down of cheeks? Would it make them change?

What if we all decided to troop to the US and UK embassies daily begging for visa, running to safer climes and shouting from the other side of the fence, would it take away the spot from the leopards skin? What if we decided to Kneel down and pray, calling the name of God more times than the waves of the Atlantic hit the bar beach shores, would it make them to suddenly repent?

What if instead you decided to join me in employing my kind of terrorism? What if we turn those tools at our disposal into fuel bombs? The facebook, tweeter, blogger, and Youtube.  What if we stop gossiping on them for a while? What if we stopped spending hours on them chatting with faceless people? What if we sang less of hate songs and beef raps? What if we wrote more, blogged more and sang more against them? Don’t you think they may begin to snore less in their sleep?

What if we did more than just write and sing?, what if a million of us marched down the three arm zone, into the National Assembly to tell them our mind on the issue of Electoral reforms? What if we remain on the road until they grant us audience? What if we carry placards and scream out our demands? Oh yes, the Public order Act! I have not forgotten. But what if we went to court to challenge that obsolete law? What if we resist the police and their rusty guns?, what if we reminded the police that the future of their kids was also threatened by this evil? Don’t you think we might strike a cord?

What if we publish the names of their children and the schools they are attending abroad…and of course, the fees they pay? What if those of us in the Diaspora march out and take our petition to the United Nations.  What if we told them our undergraduates have been idling at home for months while they share banters over glasses of sparkling white wine in Wadata Plaza? What if we champion the call for a law that makes it compulsory for their children to attend our public schools? Do you think our teachers and undergraduates will begin to get a fairer deal?

What if we printed pamphlets condemning them? What if we all went down to our villages to talk to the youths? What if we get them to see who is responsible for the uncompleted school project and the higher cost they pay for kerosene?  What if we are able to talk them out of carrying arms for them on Election Day? What if we told them to insist on the best candidate? What if we talked to them about insisting that their votes count? What if we got them to resist false results?  Would we have to wait for sixty years before the plague disappears?

What if I told you PDP is Haram? What if I am no more guessing but speaking fact? What if I am rounded up for daring to say this? What if they come in a convoy of trucks to seize me? What if they don’t shoot me, but charge me for treason and leave me to languish in “awaiting trial”? What if my ink dries up and my quill breaks? What if my voice cracks and my heart fail? Would you say the things I say today? Will you carry on my struggle?

(Tributes to Late Chief Gani Fawehinmi SAN)

Sylva Nze Ifedigbo