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The Christmas trees are being lit. The red and green garlands and beginning to appear at the entrance of buildings. Phones are now blaring melodious carol when they ring. And yes, even the harmattan is here. We are all winding up activities in preparation for that all important annual festival, the worlds most celebrated; Christmas.

The question really is. Would you be going home this Christmas?

Christmas comes with its peculiar ritual. We make that our once in a year trip home from the ends of the earth. The things that drag us home are usually both diverse and sometimes absurd. They range from House warming, marriages, Family meetings, match making or very simply to show off what the Lord has “blessed” us with in the last year. This year however, we likely might not be seeing that mass exodus?
One new phenomenon is responsible for my hypothesis; Hostage taking.

Now, that’s one phenomenon that would go down as the most outstanding for the year 2009. From a once in a while exploit of criminal minded youths who were having a tough time differentiating between militancy and criminality, it has grown to become a million dollar spinning business, one that we collectively as a nation have failed to find an answer for.

It has now assumed a very domestic form with brothers arranging to pick up brothers or an Uncle or their children especially those that live and work outside home, with the aim of squeezing out some extra cash which they wouldn’t ordinarily part with on request. Only last week, I watched the police in Enugu parade a gang that kidnapped an octogenarian. The leader of the gang (who as is with most police stories was still at large) is a step son of the granny and had whisked her away with the aim of squeezing out juicy amounts from his step brother who he claimed was rather stingy. A while ago I read of a young man who had kidnapped another old lady because her son who he served in Lagos refused to settle him.

With Hostage taking becoming the option for settling domestic disputes and for getting rather stingy relatives to part with some of their hard earned wealth, it becomes a major concern and indeed a threat to all those who usually flock back home by this time of the year. Already it is changing the way we do things.

A cousin of mine recently decided to make his Traditional marriage ceremony a quiet one (just an indoor interaction between the bride and grooms family) because of the fear that hostage takers were sure to come around as soon as you set up canopies and got a record man to play sunny Bobo or Rex Lawson in large loud speakers as is normal of us.

Perhaps an added concern for those from Anambra state is the heightened political tension in the state due to the Campaigns for Gubernatorial elections. Guess there is no need reiterating here what that means to the state of security in the state especially with the many money bags the state has been ‘blessed’ with funding and equipping thugs to protect their interests.

With all these and more in mind, you might really wish to ask yourself again if you will be home for Christmas this year. Though it is said that the fact that people die in war has not stopped countries from going to war, you might really wish to look again to see if you are generous enough to give out a million naira to a group of boys who chanced upon your lovely daughter or your aged mother.

Sylva Nze Ifedigbo

Abuja at the moment is experiencing the worst form of fuel scarcity, the worst I have seen in recent time.

The streets are now so free. Most of the cars are at the filling stations. Routes along major filling stations have now been blocked off by cars waiting and waiting to buy fuel. The crowd at the bus stops is unbelievable. People scramble and elbow their way to seats on the few cars that still manage to be on the road. The transport fare has expectedly shot up. That should be expected when a liter of fuel is going for as much as N300 (as against the official N65) in the black market.

Yesterday, a cab to the Nnamdi Azikiwe Airport charged me N4000.00. The normal cost is usually between N2000 and N2500.00. The driver told me a tale fit for a best selling novel, of how he had spent a full twenty four hours at the NNPC Mega filling station before he could fill his tank, of how his wife had continued to call him perhaps scared that he might have spent the night in another women’s bosom, of how some smart women have quickly raised up makeshift restaurants around the filling stations to provide food for the drivers who now have an abode there.

The only bright side to the whole situation is that the normal traffic on the roads leading to the city center has disappeared. Yesterday I got home at 6.00pm which is a miracle by all purpose. Well that was because I was lucky to get a car. For many, despite the fact that the roads are free, they got home late at night as there were no vehicles to convey them.

This morning I got to work by sheer dexterity. I wouldn’t bother you with the graphic details of my martial act skills that helped me secure a standing space on the big mass commuter buses which luckily are still on the road. In the bus, I over heard many civil servants complain bitterly. Many can not make it to work. Many have sworn not to bother if by tomorrow the anomaly has not been rectified. Many just hiss and curse.

As usual, there is really no explanation for what is happening. I listened to the NNPC Spokesman (the one who used to anchor a late night talk show on NTA a while ago) do what he seems now so good at doing; differentiating between six and half a dozen. It’s been his burden to convince Nigerians (through word of mouth) that deregulation is the best option and now he struggles to tell us why there is a drought of fuel in Abuja. Listening to him, I got no answers. He blamed tanker drivers. Tanker drivers on the other hand blame the NNPC.

While all this happens, our President cools off in the ICU of a Jeddah hospital, adamant to resign, adamant to hand over to his vice. So we sit back and watch this ship without a captain sail in troubled weather to a destination that is nothing but doom.

Did I hear you ask about the FCT minister? Hahaha. I don’t think there is one. The person pretending to be one currently is as good as his principal. Species off the cuisine list of a sea food restaurant. Slow. So slow, he wished the FCT residents to be as slow by fitting all junctions with annoying speed breaks. I doubt if he is aware that there is a scarcity. If he is, I don’t see him giving a damn.

The situation forms the core of every discussion in Abuja right now. I was at the canteen for lunch and I heard someone say (with a measure of authority) that the deregulation has commenced. I think again between morsels of eba and egusi soup if the man really isn’t talking sense. Well, the NNPC people would not agree with him but I guess that’s the only truth about the situation. It’s all about deregulation. We have deregulated everything, from our elections to our sense of responsibility. Now, we have also deregulated truth.

I really wish Nigeria had oil.

Sylva Nze Ifedigbo

I was present at Pen & Pages bookshop Abuja few days ago to listen to Sarah Ladipo Manyika’s read from her book “In Dependence” which is published in Nigeria by Cassava Republic. Apart from the privilege of getting an autographed copy of a writer’s book, one of the other main attractions to Book Readings for me is that intellectual discourse on writing and Publishing in Nigeria which always comes up.  The opinions of the audience often either provides me a consolation in the realms of “you are not alone” in the challenges you face as a budding writer chief among which is getting a publisher or a new line of thought on what could be done to rescue Nigerians from their chronic poor reading habit.

Sarah Ladipo’s reading wasn’t an exception. During one of the usual questions and answer interludes someone directed a question to the book publisher wondering if they really intended to make sales with the cover price of the book which was N1200.00. Responding Bibi Bakare said many things from which I picked out this rather interesting line, “Nigerians Talk too much”.

Bakare’s argument was simple. Nigerians spend (and do so with no qualms) on the average N600.00 every day on GSM recharge card just to talk and would find it difficult investing the same amount in a book which will not only continue to be theirs until they die, but will also provide them entertainment, education and companionship.

I left the reading (with an autographed copy of “In Dependence” of course) thinking about Bakare’s statement not because it was news, but because it was a situation that should worry us all as a nation. Giving it a little thought would reveal that much of our problems as a nation, the reason why we’ve been variously described as a failed state, the reason why we are not going to meet with delivery of any of the Millennium Development Goals by 2015 and indeed the reason why we are spending billions in what we call a Re-branding campaign, is simply because we as a people are simply talkative.

We talk and talk and talk and do nothing. It is not just about buying recharge cards now, it’s about our very conduct and attitude to those things that affect us. We react by talking. The light goes off and we are content to shout “Nepa” and then we put on the generator. We hiss and curse inside the buses about the pot hole infested road and that is all. In the secured comfort of our homes we lament about the failure of leadership yet we don’t own a voters card against the next election. We decry deregulation but when NLC organizes a rally against it, we sit back at home and do more talking.

We talk and talk and do nothing. At the newspaper stands. At the Bus stops. At the beer parlours. The radio and television is lined with programs appropriately described as “Talk shows”. In the churches and mosques, we talk. Our Government is perpetually rubbing minds, with retreats and conferences and workshops. All the talk has led us no where. We sit there tight at the bottom of the pack.

GSM hasn’t helped issues in this regard. I remember the signature line of one of the foremost GSM companies which read “Talk d Talk Now Now”.  Indeed Nigerians in obedience have been talking their lives away. We are all guilty of this. I think of the amount of money I spend on recharge cards in a week and I imagine what library of books it would have bought me. No doubt the importance of communication in our lives can not be over emphasized, but do you know what difference it would make if we talked less and read more?

It’s a shame that in a country of over 150million people of which at least 70 million are literate (Can read and write English language or their mother tongue) writers should be poor and writing considered an appendage profession.  It is a shame that books that sell 5000 copies in Nigeria are considered to have ‘sold well’. We are all familiar with the popular joke which says that the best way to hide something away from a Nigerian is to put it in a book. It is a shame that such a joke should be made about us and an even bigger shame that we tell ourselves the joke and laugh about it because we know how true it is.

I think the joke has gone too far and the laughter lasted long enough. If we must save this country from final collapse then, we must go back to the book.  This in my opinion should be one of the main objectives of Dora’s Re-branding Campaign. Only an enlightened and informed people that can first appreciate their immediate challenges and be better equipped to forge ways of solving them.  This enlightenment doest come only from acquiring university degrees and bogus certificates from the ends of the earth. It comes from taking time off to turn through pages of critical and literary works and  imbibing the wisdom contained therein.

I love it when I listen to my father quote Shakespeare with glow in his eyes when speaking to me. I will love to quote Sarah Ladipo for example to my children. That’s how we raise a nation of informed minds. That’s how we can re-brand. You too can join in this march. Spend less on those recharge cards. Spend less hours talking in the clubs, buses or places of worship. Buy a book. Use books as presents to your Children and friends. Talk less and Read more.

Sylva Ifedigbo

By Nana Awere DAMOAH
ndamoah@yahoo.co.uk

This advice was given to someone young and it carried him through the years and up his corporate ladder: ‘Life is all about sales, so sell yourself.’

Indeed, life is about marketing oneself. A wealth of wisdom is encapsulated in that curt statement. Selling oneself is something that we all need to learn and should start teaching our kids.

It amazes me that whilst in many parts of the world kids are being taught to be outgoing, forward, on the move and assertive, in Ghana it is deemed a virtue to be shy! It is an unwritten but practised code of conduct that when one appears shy in public, he/she passes as a good and respectful kid. To merit a smile and a friendly pat, kids should not be open, especially in public.

So we train our youth to have this diffident, timid attitude, and it continues with them through the University. And so we churn out shy graduates – in droves each year. And then, these graduates attend job interviews and exhibit plain docility, muteness and taciturnity.

I can certainly share from my experience. I grew up a very shy boy, though most of my friends just can’t believe it when I tell them! Thank God for that, and that proves to me that I have overcome it quite well to be able to share with you about overcoming it!

Elderly folks around me as I grew up were so consistent in shutting me down when I attempted to contribute to their discussions that I still carry some of that baggage. When my old man was alive and I visited my parents in my village, when they were discussing an issue that I was more knowledgeable about, I hesitated before giving an input. Sometimes, I failed to correct their mistakes, as a punishment for years gone by!

The turning point for me was in Sixth form when, in Ghana National College, Cape Coast in Ghana, I was made both Secretary and Financial Secretary for the Scripture Union and also, the Library Prefect. Being the Secretary was the critical factor – I had to address the gathering of saints anytime we met, and that was about three times a week. Reading Dale Carnegie’s book How to Win Friends and Influence People, and actually applying the principles therein helped in no small way. I had to come out of my shell, and that was when I began to realise that there was so much I could achieve, there were so many I could influence and there certainly was so much mileage I could add in moving towards my dreams and aspirations, by just refusing to be shy. But it wasn’t a total reformation.

There was still a great dose of shyness in me, and going through University, in my activities with Joyful Way Incorporated, going on crusades, talking to people about Christ, leading prayer meetings and Bible studies, taking leadership positions thrust on me (I never really went scouting for them! Oh my shyness!), reading and practising more to be comfortable in public, writing and reciting poems in church, acting on stage with Literary Wing of the Christian fellowship in the University – all these helped on the journey towards recovery from shyness. It was good progress when I graduated from the University, but it was still not good enough.

My rude awakening came when I applied for and got invited to the Unilever Management trainee interviews. That was in March 2000. I had graduated and was serving my one-year National service as a Teaching/Research Assistant the Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology, Kumasi. The management trainee interviews were in stages and the two last stages were the most rigorous. The last but one stage involved senior managers of Unilever engaging the applicants in one-on-one discussions, which could last for about 30 minutes, and leaderless discussions on topical and business issues. A pass at this stage meant advancement to the final stage – the Board selection. At this stage, the applicants got to meet and be interviewed by the Board of Directors, including the Chairman of the company. At this stage, applicants are taken through case studies, discussions of these case studies with the Directors, leaderless discussions in groups – progressing from small groups, till the entire group for the day met for one big discussion!

It was during these interviews, that I realised that unless I could articulate my views, experiences, and potential, unless I could demonstrate my competencies through my actions in public, and unless I could come out of my shell and banish shyness, I could never get employed in Unilever! It was during these interviews that the force of that quote came to me: Life is all about sales, so you need to sell yourself. And the change curve had to be steep. I needed to undergo a drastic and aggressive reformation and revolution to project myself. I had to exert more and push myself. I had to talk! Getting employed after the interviews, in June 2000, shows I succeeded to any extent. But the journey was still not over.

And it is still not over. Over past ten years, working with Unilever and now with Nosak, attending courses on public speaking, working with high energy people, conducting training sessions, engaging in company discussions in various forums, doing presentations in various ways; being a member of Joyful Way, and working in various leadership roles – I am still on the journey towards banishing shyness from my system, and dethroning it from the high place I gave it. And I have learnt that shyness is certainly not a virtue. “For God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but a spirit of power, of love and of self-discipline.” II Timothy 1:7.

We need to distinguish between arrogant pride and assertiveness. One is negative and undesirable, the other is pure, spiritual and empowering.

Action Exercise:

Don’t settle for shyness. Don’t teach your kids to be shy. And if you haven’t started the journey away from the Shy City, you’d better start now. A second more may be too late.

Quote
“Ah, pray make no mistake, we are not shy; we’re very wide awake, the moon and I.”
Sir William Gilbert

End note
This Article was first published in Ghana’s BFT Lifestyle newspaper of 13 Nov 09. Its been reproduces here with writers kind permission.

The writer is the author of “Excursions In My Mind”, published by Athena Press UK and released in October 2008. His second book in the series, Through the Gates of Thought, is in the publishing process (under contract with Athena Press) and is expected to be released by early 2010.

Excursions in my Mind can be purchased online from www.amazon.com, www.amazon.co.uk, and www.athenapress.com, as well as Amazon sites in France, Germany, Finland, Japan and Canada. You can also purchase it from Exclusive books in South Africa and Botswana (and other outlets) and in Accra from University bookshop (Legon campus) and Silverbird bookshop (Accra mall).

The time of the psychological passing over from boyhood to manhood is a movable feast. The lega date fixed on the 21^st Birthday has little or no connection with it. There are men in their teens and there are boys in their forties. James Weldon Johnson (1871 - 1938)

U.S. writer, lawyer, and diplomat.

It’s my Birthday today and I want to give thanks;

To God for the very moment of my conception. To my parents for all the love, struggling through their meager teacher finances to raise me. To my three lovely sisters whose lives I feel privileged to share, I live for you my cuties. To my big aunties, my many alternate Mothers. To my Cousins and relations who I can’t list here for making me feel special always. To my man Chuka Charles Sokei, a brother in the form of a friend.

To my friends, all those who I have met in my time on earth, all my ‘lost’ primary school friends, those with whom I played football with bare feet in the rain, all my peeps at Gifted School who shaped much of what I am today, all my fellow Lions & Lionesses who I interacted with as a Student Unionist, as a member of the Editorial Board of the Campus Magazine, as a guy. To all my class mates, the Unique 47, the best group of people anywhere on earth. To all my teachers, past present and future. To all the ladies I ever dated, most of who thought ‘I deserved someone better’ and left.

To my newest legion of friends on Facebook, the people who make living seem so easy.  To all who have shaped my creative writing skills. To Ngozi Nwozor of The Nation, Chimamanda Adichie, Pius Adesanmi , Sowore of Sahara Reporters. To all those that publish me; Nigeria Village Square, Sahara Reporters, Ukpaka Reports, Nigerians in America, Gamji.com,  Nigeria2day, Genius journal and NEXT. To all those who read me especially those that frequent my blog , una too much!

To Dele Ogun for the friendship.  To the Genesis Project Team for finding me worthy of your  association. To Tomi Davies for more than I can list. To TechnoVision Communications for giving me a hand just when I was getting desolate. To Brii, the pretty face on the other side of the table at work.

To Stanley Achonu, Agbomire, Onyeka Nwelue, Dami and Emmanuel for being my friends. To the DADA Books family. To the literati in Nigeria for sustaining the flow of my quill. To the Abuja Writers Forum for sustaining my belief. To Shiang Zola my Malaysian online friend who has redefined the word ‘friendship’ for me. To you for reading this. I am who I am today because of you and on this date I wish to say that word we often forget to say; THANK YOU.

Sylva Ifedigbo

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