The Scramble for Nothing

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?

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

Life Before Death

I have heard enough of that crap. And no, I am not an atheist. I just think that logically as it is in the English alphabet, there should be an “A” before a “B”. If that sequence is generally accepted, I therefore refuse to be continually harangued by the talks of life after death. No, enough of that crap.

Logically, there could only be a life after death when there is a life at the present. Does it make sense to worry about tomorrow when it is still dawn today? Why worry ourselves sick about a life after death when we are not living at the moment? If you ask me, we have proceeded just too fast for our senses. Far away from reality. Guess it’s time we do a little reverse and begin to ponder a little more about life before death.

What is this guy talking about I can almost hear you asking aloud. It’s so simple. I am speaking on behalf of the little boy in rags who approaches your car window in the traffic, with a dirty old rubber bowl in hand. You see him approach, and quickly wind up your window, your face either bearing pity or disgust.

I am speaking on behalf of the six year old girl hawking pure water under the scorching sun at an hour children her age should be in school. She has not even slippers under her feet. Her hair is dirty and unkempt and strings of catarrh hang down her nose. Her eye pleads with you as she announces the sale of her ware. Does she remind you of your daughter of the same age?

I am speaking on behalf of the pre-pubescent girl who is married off to a man three times her age by parents who need the money to keep them selves alive. You read such things in the paper and it sounds so distant. No, you really do not read it, you simply flip past it to more interesting stories about celebrities and beauty pageants.

I write on behalf of the many children who are destined to live but a few days on earth because of the accident of their birth. Children that suckle hungrily at dry flabby breasts. Children that are at the mercy of the elements both hot and cold. Children who can not access common chloroquin to fight malaria. Children who were better of not born.

I speak for the farmer who has watched his produce dwindle every passing year.  He doesn’t read in the papers of his Local Government Chairman’s boasts of spending millions on fertilizer every year. I speak for the Cocoa farmer who has lost his sons and helpers to the scramble for the city. I speak for the palm oil farmer who is losing his trees and house to erosion.

I speak for those women who will die and are dying for trying to bring forth others to this life. Those who have never heard of ante-natal. Those who must continue to satisfy their husbands crave for more children.  Those women who are raped and are too scared to say they were. Those who sign up for shipments to Italy not because they find it pleasurable. Those who are forced to give or throw away their nine months pain.

I speak for that child who is condemned by HIV. And the mother who bore him/her. And the father who has lost his job because his bosses heard he is positive. I speak for those who queue for days to get a dose of the antiretroviral. Those people who we establish NGO’s for. NGO’s that make us rich. NGO’s we administer from the comfort of our air-conditioned four –wheel drives.  NGO’s that don’t exist.

I speak for the child who learns from under a tree. The child who has an AK47 hanging dangerously from his neck. The Child who pushes that barrow around behind us in the Market. That child that has never seen a television. That child who forms the character of our more touching stories. Those stories that win international literary awards.

I am shouting aloud for that graduate who has lost every faith in himself and his country. The one whose shoe tell a million tales. Tales that make the wonderful degree certificate he carries about in that worn out brown envelope seen like a huge joke. He has lost his voice and can’t speak anymore. He is close to losing his spirit too. He has no money to take the next bus.

I am weeping along with that man who just lost his job. The man who has to layoff his workers ‘cos the books are not balancing anymore. The barber who can’t work ‘cos his tiny generator has broken down. The okada rider who can’t buy the spare part to fix his bike. That man who has been paying his tithe and waiting for a miracle. A miracle that only his pastor experiences. The pastor who keeps talking about a life after Death.

No, enough of that crap. I really would wish to know some life now not after. So stop threatening me about what would happen after I die which is very soon given my current state. Stop asking me to wait. I am tired of your deception and sweet talk. Stop postponing my joy. Give me something to hold unto today. Tomorrow will sure worry about it self. I need a life before death.

Sylva Nze Ifedigbo

AWF 2009 LITERARY CONTEST

As part of its objectives to promote the development of literature within Nigeria and beyond, the Abuja Writers’ Forum(AWF) proudly announces the AWF 2009 Literary Contest. The three-part contest is as follows:
SECTION ONE
The contest in this category is exclusively for writers resident in Nigeria’s Federal Capital Territory (FCT) – that is Abuja and the Council Areas of Abaji, Bwari, Gwagwalada, Kuje and Kwali. Submissions should be of previously unpublished work in Fiction (Short Story), Poetry or Drama(One-Act Play). If the work has appeared in print or online in any form or part, or under any title, it is ineligible and will be disqualified. However entries in last year’s contest which did not win can be resubmitted if they have been reworked.
Short Story – One entry per contestant and it should not be more than 2,500 words.
Poetry – Three poems maximum in any style or form.
Drama – A short play that takes place in one-act or scene.
Contestants can enter in all three genres but only one entry per contestant in each genre. Send three typed copies of each entry and include on a separate sheet, contestants name, proper contact address, email, phone number(s), and title of entry. Entries should be sent to : AWF Literary Contest, P.O.Box 7131, Wuse, Abuja.
Top three in each category will win N50,000, N30,000 and N10,000 respectively.
SECTION TWO
This section is in two-parts and is open to Nigerian creative writers and scholars regardless of where they are domiciled.
Part I – Creative Writing
Entries can be sent for the following categories:
(A)Cyprian Ekwensi Prize for Short Stories endowed by Emzor Pharmaceuticals.(Manuscripts and published works.)

(B) T. M. Aluko Prize for a first  book of Fiction.(Published works only.)

(C)Ibrahim Tahir Prize for Fiction. (Manuscripts and published works.)

(D) Mamman Vatsa Prize for Poetry in Pidgin English sponsored by the Abuja Municipal Area Council (AMAC). (Manuscripts and published works.)

(E) Carlos Idzia Ahmad Prize for a first book of Poetry. (Published works only.)

(F)Anthony Agbo Prize for Poetry endowed by Senator Anthony Agbo.(Manuscripts and published works.)

(G) Zulu Sofola Prize for Drama. (Manuscripts and published works.)

Entrants are limited to one entry per category. Books must have been published between 2007 to 2009.

Six(6) copies of each entry should be sent to either : (a)AWF Literary Contest, P.O. Box  7131, Wuse, Abuja; Or , (b) AWF Literary Contest, 2nd Floor, Hamdala Plaza, Plot 23, Jimmy Carter Crescent, Asokoro, Abuja.

AWF will bring shortlisted manuscripts to the notice of reputable publishers.

Top three in each category will win N150,000, N100,000 and N50,000  respectively.

Part  2 – Critical Writing

Literary essays of not more than 5000 words can be entered in the following categories:

(A)Ime Ikiddeh Prize for Literary Criticism in Fiction, endowed by the Akwa Ibom State government.

(B)Donatus Nwoga Prize for Literary Criticism in Poetry.

(C)Oyin Ogunba Prize for Literary Criticsm in Drama sponsored by Alhaji Ibrahim Nasir Arab, Clerk to the National Assembly.

(D)Sunday Anozie Prize for Literary Theory (including literary history , criticism of non-fiction, and criticism of criticism/theory).

Essays should be original and those that focus on less known or emerging Nigerian writers have an advantage. Essays previously published in journals or books between 2007 to 2009 are eligible but should be so noted in the submissions.

Entrants should include on a separate sheet, name, proper contact address, email, phone number(s), and title of entry.  Essays shortlisted and previously unpublished may be published in Cavalcade. Entrants are allowed only one entry per category.

Six(6) copies of each entry should be sent to either : (a)AWF Literary Contest, P.O. Box  7131, Wuse, Abuja; Or , (b) AWF Literary Contest, c/o International Institute of Journalism (IIJ),  2nd Floor, Hamdala Plaza, Plot 23, Jimmy Carter Crescent, Asokoro, Abuja.

Top three in each category will win N150,000, N100,000 and N50,000  respectively.

SECTION THREE
This category is open to Nigerians and non-Nigerians.  Entries are invited for previously unpublished poems and short stories. Contestants can enter in both genres but only one entry per contestant in each genre. Poems can be of any length or style (not more than five per entry). Short Stories must not be more than 2, 500 words (not more than one per entry). There is a fee of $20 per entry.
Submissions must be made only online through the AWF website (after payment of entry fee) with contestant’s name, genre of submission (e.g. “Poetry Submission”) and include in the body contact info such as email, phone number, and physical contact address. Send request for payment procedure to abujawriters@fastermail.com
Shortlisted entrants will get a year’s subscription of Cavalcade and may have their entries published in the journal.
Top three in each category will win $300, $200 and $100 respectively.

ADDITIONAL GUIDELINES FOR  THE CONTEST

·        Manuscript entries must be properly formatted, typed in Times New Roman or Baskerville Old Face at 12pts and double-spaced. No fancy fonts.
·        Manuscript entries must be properly paginated.
·        Entries will be acknowledged only by email, so there must be an accompanying email address in each entry.
·        Online submissions must not be attached but pasted in the body of the mail.
·        Online entries sent as attachments will be automatically disqualified.
·        Closing date for all entries is October 1, 2009.
·        Late entries will be automatically disqualified.
·        No entries will be returned, even if accompanied by an SASE.
·        For an additional fee of $10, entrants can request for a critique of their unpublished entries after the result of the contest has been announced.
·        The contest is not open to members of the AWF Executive, patrons, screeners and judges, nor to members of their families.
·        Authors whose publishers are directly linked to the AWF Executive, patrons, screeners and judges cannot enter works issued from such publishing outfits.
·        Winners will be announced at the Second AWF Literary Festival in Abuja in the first week of December 2009.

What is Your Hostage Value?

For popular nollywood actor Pete Edochie, it was his status as Chairman of the Re-branding Campaign and the possession of a priced MON that made him a choice pickup for the boys. Edochie topped the chart as ‘Top Hostage’ for last week and unlike most other cases of hostage taking, he came out with a feedback.  A clear message from the boys. They couldn’t have chosen a better messenger for the assignment. And in his characteristic way, Edochie shortly after his release, called the press and delivered the message, Hot!

The media had reported Edochie’s kidnap, the demand of 60million and later 10million as ransom, but were rather too silent on what was finally paid for him to get out. Well, as we all know-though the security guys would rather have us believe otherwise- no body goes in there and comes out without dropping something, at least in appreciation of the entertainment the kind of which Edochie alluded to.  And for a big fish like Edochie who ironically heads the Governments effort at burnishing away with a wave of wand the bad image we have acquired for ourselves after many years of failed leadership, one can guess that quite fair amounts must have changed hands.

While Edochie’s kidnap made news headlines, so many other similar events went unnoticed and unreported.  What started as isolated cases of malfeasance by Niger Delta militants has now grown to become a full blown trade and has assumed such heights especially in Eastern Nigeria that is now both alarming and I dare say, interesting.

Time was when it was just foreigners who enjoyed hostage threats in the country. The threat had later flowed down to the relations of political office holders and the rich. Today everybody including yours sincerely who daily does battle with the same realities of our failure as a nation just like the Boys has a hostage threat hanging down the neck. It doesn’t matter who you are or what you do, everyone has got a hostage value.

The boys seem well learned in the art of pricing. When you are picked, your worth is ascertained and a price tag put to you. Typical of Nigeria where no agreements is reached except by negotiated compromise, they hike the price just a tad, so that after the usual market place bargain a price just about your real worth is settled for at the end of the day.

Your worth as a hostage is measured by the car you drive or that which a relative of your drives, the house a relative of yours lives in, Your close relationship with someone who is suspected to be of high hostage value, the information that you live and work in Abuja (or any other city) or you have relatives who do, an information that you just came in from abroad, as well as less seemingly worthwhile reasons as the size of your tummy, the swagger in your step when you walk, the impression that you are rich or smell of riches of any form.

“Riches” now doesn’t have to be millions. A friend and her family recently traveled to their village for the New Yam festival and annual August Meeting ritual. Her little brother of fourteen was picked up by persons who were nothing more than village urchins and a ransom of a hundered thousands was demanded. Eventually they settled for Forty thousand naira.

Now what beats me is that save for the case of the visiting female Rotarian who was kidnapped in Kaduna by persons who obviously were amateurs in the game, our security network which funnily is an amphibious collection of so many different bodies funded annually by the federal budget, has irretrievably failed to smash any of the gangs doing this and free a hostage. Did you just say shame on us?

Well, back to the experience of the reigning top ex-hostage Pete Edochie. The message the boys asked him to deliver ironically had the same content as much of what Mrs. Clinton told us some weeks back that got the PDP really ranting. It had the same content as you will find in the writings of all the popular angry Nigerian columnists from Soyinka, to Okey Ndibe and Pius Adesanmi and everybody in-between. It was the same message in all the articles you will find in Nigerian online forums and individual blog sites. It was the same thing we’ve all be shouting about; that these people have gotten so good at stealing that even the very cloths on our bodies doesn’t seem safe anymore.

Pete had undertaken to offer the Government (which he ironically currently serves) some words of advise. I remember very much the word “stipend”. He asked that that word be added to our national recurrent expenditure list on behalf of unemployed youths just like politicians already enjoy. If Edochie was suggesting that cash be doled out monthly, then I wouldn’t quite agree with him simply because, we would only be providing yet another avenue for people to sink their filthy hands into the public till.

These stipends should come instead in the way of a resolution to the ASUU (and other union) strikes, the better funding of education, the provision of constant power to drive the Small and medium industries, the training of youths to enable them to be self employed, the genuine fight against corruption, the establishment of hospitals that are not mortuaries, the fighting of the extreme poverty, an end to the stealing…

Well, until these stipends are thought important enough to receive the attention of our leaders, we can’t help but continue to walk about as hostages each with a distinct Hostage value. On my part, I have been trying to work out what my value could be just in case the boys undertook the misadventure of picking me up one of these days. You might wish to take some time off and do the same.

Sylva Nze Ifedigbo

25 years of bliss

I make bold to state that I am of the best family on earth. This is not something I say everyday. Guess I am often too busy trying to pooh pooh Government or catching up with the muse and create dazzling works of fiction to remember to do something for family. Today however I wish to spare off sometime to tell the world about my wonderful family.

There could be no better opportunity to do this than on the 25^th wedding anniversary/silver jubilee celebration of my parents Sir and Lady Sylva Ifedigbo. KSJ.

On Tuesday 11^th August 2009, my parents joined the elite class of couples who have met the 25 years mark. There was of course a party. Well really, my parents are quiet people and had planed a simple family and friends get together but it turned out to be much more. Something about a gold fish having no hiding place. Guests continued to troop in, every one who got wind of it immediately dropped in many expressing apologies for being late. I remember hitting my bed at almost 12 midnight exhausted from the hours of entertaining guests.

We ate, drank and made merry. There were also a couple of speeches. It was a happy evening, one that made me glow with pride. Pride borne out of the fact that I am privileged to be the first born child of this happy union. For the first time in many years, as I lay down to sleep I thanked God in tears for blessing me so much.

My parents are teachers. I am always proud to announce that at every opportunity.  It is not difficult to guess therefore that they were both disciplinarians. It’s not very common to find children born of teacher parents who did not grow up under some set rules. These rules as inconveniencing as they were for me while I grew up are largely responsible for who and what I am today.

Honestly they didn’t spare the rod and I never had the privilege of being pampered or spoilt. You don’t watch Tv when you should be sleeping. You don’t play foot ball when the dishes are not done. No body washed you cloths as soon as you were old enough to do so. You don’t come home at the end of a term with a result that was anything less than the very best.

And despite the harsh economic conditions and the many challenges of the extended family, they made sure they provided us with all the basic needs of life. They also went through great sacrifice to send us to good schools. My siblings actually are all still in schools. They were never late when they were needed. They have shown us love beyond any imagination.

Who are the “us” you might wish to ask. Well, it’s simple. Over the last 25 years my parents have been blessed with 4 children. These are me and my three lovely girls; Amaka, Nonye and Chizaram. I am the only guys on board. You couldn’t have wished for a better family.

As we celebrate 25 years of bliss, I wish my parents many more years of happy co-existence.  The party might have been low-key, but I have made a silent resolve that when they are 30…just 5 years down the line, I shall throw them a banquet, because they deserve nothing less.

Sylva Nze Ifedigbo

Must fiction writing carry some moral message?

I have been in this argument before and yesterday after reading my piece “we must do something” at the weekly critique reading session of the Abuja Writers Forum the issue came up again.

My piece basically painted a picture of legislative corruption which to say the least is a norm around here. Besides the style of presentation of the story (which most of the more senior members of the forum who felt they should know thought was rather strange), the two corrupt lawmakers in the story were having a field day doing their thing. In fact they were grumbling that they were not getting a fair share of the kickbacks that should be getting to them.

The question then was, shouldn’t we write fiction in such a way that good transcends over evil?

In the opinion of the person who raised the issue, fiction should be used to preach some morals. In the context of my piece therefore, he felt I should have done something to show that the corrupt lawmakers did not get away with their actions. Perhaps I should have written that they were rounded up by the EFCC, tried and sent to jail.

Of course this generated some argument immediately. There were the “For’s” and the “Against”.

Without any fear of contradiction, I make bold to state that I am an Against. The concept of happily ever after is fake and a look around our society proves it. The stealing and the looting continue without end. The perpetrators do it with impunity because there is no consequence.

There are wars, fuel queues, unemployment, hunger, armed robbery, campus cultism etc. prevalent in our society.  That is the reality of our society. A writer who leaves in this clime can not thus begin to write about surplus job availability, or an efficient police or criminal justice system when all of these are mere fantasies to him.

Writing Happily ever after stories cannot then be the preoccupation of a Nigerian writer when there is little ‘happiness’ around him . And he doesn’t also have the luxury of preaching morals in his writing as really that is not what art is all about.

In any case, what is the definition of what is good or bad? Who can lay claims to being a judge of morality?

Just last week we had to contend with a sect- Boko Haram- which believes very strongly (strong enough to become violent about it) that western education and everything western was bad and a sin. Who says they don’t have a right to believe in that? Assuming then that a member of that sect was reading a writing that was preaching against anything his sect believed in.

We find among us persons who believe in God and those that do not. Among the Christians we have Protestants, Pentecostals, orthodox and Catholics. Even among Catholics, there are extremists and liberals. The muslims have their own belief variations. There are atheists, humanists and pantheists, pagans, etc. All with their various belief system. How does a writer succeed in preaching whatever morals when he’s readership isn’t specified?

My submission therefore is that while arts should be an instrument for education, entertainment and  societal change, it must not achieve this by giving the impression that good always wins over evil, for in reality, it does not.

What do you think?

Sylva Nze Ifedigbo

The Abyssinian Book

I recently read the book The Abyssinian Boy (TAB) by Onyeka Nwelue.  It was a special experience. First, I read an autographed copy of the book…fresh, well bound, beautiful copy, which makes me want to begin by giving some kudos to Dada Book (the publisher) for such a wonderful outing.

The second reason why reading TAB was a special experience is the same reason why I read the 256 paged book for almost two weeks; The story was free flowing, Sexily crafted, Filled with exaggerations which all combined to make it an entrapping work of Fiction. When I like a book, I don’t rush it, I take each page at a time…I go back to re-read some pages, I read a page and imagine the scene. That’s why it took me nearly two weeks.

The Abyssinian Boy is about a South Indian essayist and his East Nigerian Christian wife Eunice Onwubiko and the hallucination their nine year-old child faces. The book lays bare the many paradoxes of culture clash with thought provoking and often amusing ironies.

At the center of the tapestry is David the Nine year old son of Rajaswamy Rajagopalan who dies on the way back to Nigeria after a visit by the Indian based family to Nigeria. David’s death which is a consequence of some age old breech of tradition (it self a product of the early church-tradition friction in Nigerian villages) that happened many years before David was conceived coincided with the decision of the Nigerian Government by a law of the senate to Send all Indians away from the country.

The first chapter of the book did it for me. It flows, reveals and keeps the reader turning the pages. It introduces the reader to a typical Indian setting; Indian Names, Indian households, Indian dressing, names of Indian towns and Indian streets. The reader finds him/her self in New Delhi or inside one of the many popular Bollywood movies. The writer (who wrote the first draft of the book in India) shows a keen mastery of India. The conversations and expressions are unmistakably Indian. It’s refreshing to read so young a Nigerian writer leaving the comfort zone of writing about Nigeria-the corruption and the fuel queues and attempting a cross-continental novel. I would say without contradiction that this was a good attempt.

However it is pertinent to observe that the language of the book is however overtly childish. Perhaps this could be linked to the age of the writer (Bon in 1988). Adult readers interst might be hard to sustain. There are some unnecessary details with a lot of telling as against showing. Some issues were simply exaggerated for example; I can’t still come to terms with David’s overwhelming intelligence as seen in his expressions when he was only nine.

Still on David. The writer showed us in the earlier parts of the book that he had problems with his written English. It is shocking how his letters in pages 196-198 were so flawless.  It leaves a question mark. How come?

An interesting  character;  “Dada Felicia” was shown to have mother tongue interference in her spoken English. Good! But the writer slightly over did it. Quite ok, Igbos can have problems pronouncing rice (lice), bread (blead), but not words like “sure”, “your” or “are”. Having the character pronounce ‘sure’ in her speech as “sule” (a popular northern name) didn’t read well at all. More so, there was no consistency  in the presentation of the characters speech problems. In pg 211 for example  there was an out burst from Dada Felicia (3^rd paragraph from bottom) and all here pronunciations were ok including words like “responsible” which should have been a good example of mispronounced words due to language interference.  Just after that in pg 212 (last line) we see words like sule (sure) and youl (your).  This is either an oversight on the part of the writer and his editors or simply a typographic error.

I have no problems with the introduction of sex, seduction, lesbianism or homosexuality in literature. If anything, I promote it. But in TAB, there was simply too much of it in my opinion. Accepted, we have gays/lesbians, but their activity is not yet as rampant as portrayed in TAB and the persons (i.e the gays/lesbians) are not yet as confident as the characters in TAB were in expressing their sexual orientation. Well, I guess we can condone this, as after all the work is FICTION! Fiction writers don’t owe anyone the duty of presenting issues as it is in reality.

That said and taking nothing away from this beautiful piece of creativity, I wish to state that for a debut novel, TAB sure made a loud statement and the writer has earned himself a battalion of fans waiting to eat up the next meal he serve. I am one such fan and I think you should pick a copy too.

Sylva Nze Ifedigbo

The Fraud called Abuja

Many Nigerians (and foreigners alike) especially those who visit Abuja, Nigeria’s capital city periodically often come off with the impression –which they also express gaily- that Abuja is a beautiful, model city- one of Africa’s best.

One can not blame them for their rather myopic and false impression. What they see for the period of their stay, usually from the comfort of their air conditioned taxis leaves them with no better knowledge. From the Nnamdi Azikiwe International Airport, the airport express way (which is now being expanded), the sprawling main bowl of the National stadium, to the massive heaps of concrete and granite in the form of buildings all over the city, it sounds logical that yeah, this is a model city.

But from someone who resides here and who in fact was born here, Abuja is one big fraud and one of the most successful attempts by our leaders to –as they are known to always do- cover up the real situation and give away the impression that we were a great nation and of course with a beautiful capital city.

Abuja is not a model city. Its does not in my estimate meet the primary requirements of being referred to as a model city. It has paved streets. Some of the roads have royal palms. El-rufai tried to salvage some green areas. There are many bridges. Julius Berger’s presence is felt at every turn. It has gigantic electronic billboards. Our mighty rich own houses here. Aso Rock is in the neighbourhood.  But Abuja is not a model city. Not at the least.

Abuja is fake. It is a tale of overwhelming poverty covered up by amazing (mostly stolen) wealth.  Abuja lacks the most basic of amenities that should qualify it as a model city. Recently, NEXT newspapers reported the dearth of ambulances in the city’s General hospitals while Aso Rock had almost an Ambulance showroom. The absence of ambulance is a mirror of the state of health care delivery in the city.  In some of the hospitals, to see a doctor, you must set forth at dawn (apologies to Soyinka) and endure a long wait in a queue made up of persons that had set forth before dawn.

Abuja has perhaps one of worst Basic Education systems in the country. Sometime last year while I was still on National youth service, I sauntered into a primary school (In the Municipal Area Council) and was shocked to find pupils taking classes from the bare floor. That informed my decision to carry out a Personal Community Development Service effort, by providing the school with furniture and very basic materials such as a school bell which they shockingly lacked.  It made me wonder what the Governments Basic Education Noise was all about. If Abuja had it so bad, what situation did one expect in remote arid areas of Zamfara or the creeks of Bayelsa?

A while later, the new minister of the FCT, Adamu Aliero was reported to have come close to shedding tears after visiting a primary school and finding that the pupils lacked chairs. What has happened since then? Perhaps the sad school would have gotten some intervention. What of the rest?  This same minister just recently asked the senate to divert funds meant for education and health into road construction.  This is shocking as majority of Public schools in Abuja are in states that can be best described as shameful and far from model.

Perhaps the money earmarked for it has been embezzled or the developers of Abuja master plan were just plain dumb. The city has a very frustrating transport system.  Which model city In the world exists with a rail system? If you have any official business to conduct in any office in the city, it would be stupid of you to get their earlier than 10.00am as you will definitely not meet anybody in the office. Workers in Abuja go through hell to get to work in a city that was built from scratch and had all the opportunity for a properly designed transport system. The traffic on the Nyanaya  and the Kubwa roads in the mornings are now legendary. The same scenario repeats itself in the evenings. It’s not only in Lagos that a trip of fifteen minutes takes three hours. It also happens in our model city; Abuja.

El-rufai’s administration saw to the expansion of the urban mass transit system (Some thing similar to Fashola’s BRT). Till this date the system which was initially said to be an electronic ticketing system has not evolved beyond the scratch. In fact, the buses have now so degenerated that they are now an eye sore. It’s not unusual to see some spoilt and abandoned along the road. The buses have also not increased in number. So we have the typical picture of 99 standing, 49 sitting. In what model city on earth do you have such a situation; people camped up in public buses as though they were inanimate?

Time was when we could boast that Abuja was clean. Today refuse dump sites greet us on Abuja streets. The Abuja Environmental Protection Board seems only very successful at seizing hawkers and their wares. Grasses get bushy before they are cut. Just the other day Sen. Grace Bent almost shouted her head off in expression of extreme disappointment when she and her colleagues visited what was supposed to be the Abuja waste dump site. She summoned three ministers (FCT, Health & Environment) to appear before her committee. Recently also the monthly sanitation was re-introduced. Today was one of such sanitation days and for most parts of Abuja, it was business as usual.

Not too many parts of Abuja have constant (24 hour) tap water supply. Save for Kubwa and the wuse and Garki districts, must of the other districts in the city center and the satellite towns do not have water. Gwagwalada taps run twice in a week and for few hours. You will be surprised to know that highbrow areas of Maitama and the large expanse of Gwarinpa do not enjoy any city water supply. The water that flows from the taps in such areas is an effort of landlords to provide boreholes.

No need talking about power. The so called capital city is not spared. The situation here is as bad as it is in my village. Ever visited any of the major markets in Wuse or Garki ? Your ear drums would continue to vibrate hours after you must left in rhythm with the many tiny generators that power each shop. I need not say more.

No other city would boast of the number of land and property hawkers as Abuja does. In this model city, agents and fraudsters hold the key to land and property purchases. You see a sea of them-able bodies men- in front of the FCDA complex and The Municipal Area Council secretariat just milling around white papers (land documents) in hand. The direct consequence of their activities is that land and property in Abuja goes for double their actual value.  Should this be the norm in a model city?

And yes, Abuja they say was designed to have satellite towns where most of the persons who work in the city center are supposed to reside in. These satellite towns are supposed to have all the basic amenities. In fact there is a Satellite Towns Development Agency to that effect, yet virtually all the satellite towns are near slums. A visit to places like Mpape (which is just behind the popular Asokoro) and you will marvel at the perfect symbiotic co-habitation between man and filth. Not to mention the unplanned development and complete absence of amenities.

Given, other cities of the world have slums as well as their own inadequacies but that which exists in Abuja, well hidden and tucked away from the sight of a visitor is one to be ashamed of. Next time you visit this ‘beautiful’ city, how about sparing some time to branch off into any of the settlements you see along the airport road. What you see will redefine your impression of this city forever.

Sylva Nze Ifedigbo

And Dora Re-branded her Daughter.

Sylva Nze Ifedigbo

While Ghanaians welcomed and celebrated the presence of Barack Obama in their country and most television cameras all over the continent were beaming the proceedings live, our African Independent Television AIT was beaming live what I would describe as the most successful outing of the re-brand Nigeria campaign till date.

The event was the solemnization of Holy matrimony between Njideka (the daughter of Prof Dora Akunyili our Minister of Information and Communication and the Face of the Re-brand Nigeria campaign) and Justin Crosby an American citizen.

Like you would expect, every one who should be there was there. It was a roll call of who is who. From the Vice President Dr Goodluck Jonathan, his wife, Former Head of State Yakubu Gowon, Former senate Presidents Nnamani and Anyim. Ministers,  Legislators, Top Government functionaries, Diplomats, Royal fathers, Priests and religious. Orji Uzor kalu took one of the intercessory prayers.

Apart from the disappointment I felt that AIT wasn’t beaming the events in Ghana as they had earlier advertised, I also felt this sense of irritation watching the wedding on television. It was in many ways a reminder for me that these people up there have it going for them and are daily devising new ways of preserving and advancing their course.

There is nothing wrong with the daughter of a minister and indeed anybody wedding. Getting married to an American wasn’t also an issue. What was an issue for me was the information that the couple had met at college somewhere in the United States.

This reminded me of the fact that our universities had been grounded for a while now by the strike action and that Government doesn’t seem worried about it because most of the children of the top Government functionaries had all their children schooling abroad. In addition to obtaining superior education and superior degrees, they now also get to meet and marry Americans.

Why then should they be bothered about the rest of us. We spend five-six years to get a four year degree; we walk the streets to find a job. We are victims of the worst conditions on earth. We don’t get to meet and marry Americans. When we wed we don’t have a bishop presiding over the wedding. Our weddings are not live on television. We remain of this brand. A distasteful brand. While ‘they’ continue to re-brand themselves.

I have nothing personal against the new couples. If anything I am happy for them. Akunyili’s are my kinsmen. We draw from the same gene pool. But I have everything against a system that has made some people very much ahead of the others. A system that continues to allow a few ahead of the lot. A system controlled by this few who have continued to look the other way because the status quo favours them. A system they say they are re-branding.

All I see is our leaders rebranding themselves. Today Prof Dora Akunyili succeeded in re-branding her daughter. She is now Njideka Crosby. Now she becomes a citizen of the free world. Never again will she worry about our bad roads and our death trap hospitals. Our dry tapes and our dark nights. Our unemployment and our failed universities. She is free. She’s been re-branded.

I wish the Crosby’s a happy matrimonial experience as the rest of us continue to wait for when our own re-branding miracle will happen.

Sylva Nze Ifedigbo