The Mirror We Refuse to See: Leadership Starts With Us
Lost in the Whispers of Greenmount: My Fortnight Immersed in the Spirit of KSP
Look Ever Forward
A Day in the Life of a PhD Researcher: The Relentless Pursuit of Knowledge
The Tragedy of Victory
The Ikenga’s in Museums Around The World: Reflections on the African Art Artefacts Debate
From Accounts to Siberia: My Brush with Bureaucratic Corruption
Ever wonder how officials like Yahaya Bello allegedly divert public funds for personal use? This article lifts the veil on civil service corruption through a firsthand account. I share my experience as a young officer encountering a system where budgets are manipulated and projects become a source of personal gain.
It was at the turn of the decade that I got employed as a Grade Level 8 Step 2 Officer in the Lagos State Civil Service and posted to Agege Local Government as the Officer-in-Charge (OC) Accounts. I had just completed the mandatory one-year national youth service far away from home, returning to Lagos to start life after having spent the last two decades being prepared for it.
It was at Sita Street that I was introduced to Lagos, and this was where I called home. It was from here that I made the daily trip to the local government office on Abeokuta Street and back.
As the OC Accounts, my job was to ensure that the revenues and expenditures of the council were properly recorded, and that all expenditures were in line with the budgetary provisions as approved by the local government legislature as headed by a speaker. In short, to ensure compliance with the Lagos State Local Governments Accounting Manual, maintaining the Departmental Vote Expenditure Account (DVEA) and the Departmental Vote Revenue Account (DVRA).
To ensure this, all expenses were brought to my desk to confirm that there was a budgetary provision for the work and that the remaining provisions were adequate to accommodate the expenditure being made. It wasn’t a tedious responsibility for a young man aiming to become a Chartered Accountant, except that I wasn’t prepared for the politics that come with the position.
On this special day, as the hours on the clock ticked towards closing time, a voucher was brought to my table for approval. Reviewing the voucher, I realised it was for the installation of publicly funded pipe-borne water, not anywhere else but on Sita Street. I was alarmed! I had woken up and arrived at work from this street and had been unaware of any construction activities that would have led to a functioning pipe-borne public water tap being made available. Had I missed something? I held off on approving the voucher so that I could check out this good news.
Arriving on Sita Street at the close of work that day, I walked the entire length and breadth of the street looking for this public water tap and the accompanying infrastructure but found none. I asked my mum and siblings whether they were aware of any such installation, and the answer was No.
At work the next morning, I refused to approve the voucher and it was returned to the Council Engineer Office. Following this, the contractor who was to be paid for the work came to my office demanding an explanation, of which I told him that there was no such work done in the mentioned street. He drew my attention to the “certificate of work completion” issued by the Council Engineer, asking when it became my responsibility to validate whether work was done or not and left my office in anger.
Not very long later, one of the errand boys showed up at my office, informing me that the Chairman wanted to see me. At this point, I was frightened. I was just at the entry level of public service, so I had no direct communication line to the Chairman, and for the Chairman to request my presence was intimidating. For the very first time in my stay at the local government office, I was ushered into the expansive office of Mr Ajagunna, the chairman. Without looking much at me, he asked why I had refused to approve the voucher, a question to which I stammered to respond. Nothing I was saying made sense to the chairman, whose next instruction was, “Go and get me your boss.”
How I got downstairs, I still don’t know till date, but I surely did make my way to Mr Vaughan’s office. He was the treasurer, and having told his secretary about my mission, I was ushered into his office. He was a big man with a loud voice to match his stature. I explained to him that the chairman wanted to see him. Immediately, he heard that the call was from the Chairman; he didn’t bother to know why but started fuming, saying what have you, small boy, done now? Why would the Chairman want to see me? With myself in tow, we made our way back to the Chairman’s office, who flung the voucher at the Treasurer, saying, “Your boy has refused to approve this voucher, saying the work has not been done. Could you sign off on it?”
Muttering words of apology, he took the voucher and signed off on it in front of the chairman and promised the contractor, who was sitting relaxed at one end of the office, that the voucher would be expedited for payment. He took the voucher with him, and he continued bashing me with unprintable words as we made our way downstairs. He told me that my action was unauthorised as the work of validating whether a project had been done or not was that of the Council Engineer. All my protests that this was a public project claimed to have been executed in the street where I lived fell on deaf ears.
When you fight corruption, corruption fights back…
The version of me that left the council offices that day was the opposite of the ever-bubbling, confident self that had arrived earlier that morning. I knew the story would not end there; I had chosen to ride on the back of the tiger!
And truly, it didn’t. On resumption the following Monday morning, as I stepped into my office on the ground floor of the main secretariat building, I was handed a redeployment letter. Over the weekend, the civil service machine had been at its most efficient. I have been transferred and re-designated. I was no longer the OC Accounts but was now the OC Reconciliation. The humour was not lost on me; someone must have been ingenious in thinking that I would make better use of my investigative powers in reconciling the bank ledgers and statements.
I had been sent to Siberia. My Siberia was in sharp contrast with the Accounts Office that I had left behind. While the Accounts Office was on the ground floor of the main council building and was so big that it accommodated about six employees, Siberia was not. It was located at the back of the customary court area and away from any traffic or interactions with other people. In fact, until then, I had only heard of the office by name but was unaware of where it was located. It was a single room with no amenities apart from the ceiling fluorescent light, not even a fan. The office was messy, with files stacked wall-high and cheque stubs all over the place. At the account office, I had a team of about six reporting directly to me; in Siberia, that number was zero. My wings were clipped, and I could be of no further threat to anyone.
Nobody needed to say much to me; it was clear that I had no future career in Agege; my career in the civil service that had not started had ended already. I made up my mind that I needed to leave the local government for pastures elsewhere, and I did.
In a sad twist of events, related or unrelated, Mr Ajagunna was killed while he tried to be a Rambo on a rampage by Armed Robbers who invaded his house.
The Library on Wheels program….
But that wasn’t the only experience, though; it started with the Library on Wheels program. The council had conceived the brilliant idea of bringing the library to the people on wheels. I had been a beneficiary of the wonderful library system that Agege had, so I was sure that this initiative was one in the right direction.
Our Sita Street had a mix of kids when I was growing up – some more privileged than the others, and the Bankoles were surely privileged. We knew each other just faintly, as my uncle hardly allowed us to mix. With privilege also comes the opportunity to take life for granted and rebel. Not one of the Bankole’s pursued their education beyond the secondary school level, but then, with the privilege of being of the Bankole stock, one of them contested and got elected as the Supervisory Councillor for Education. With this election, he became one of the authorities that I needed to defer to.
On this given day, he had walked into my office with a voucher that had been approved for a training to be held in Ibadan. The problem was that there were no more funds on the vote for Education, and as such, I could not ascent to it. I explained this much, and he was furious. Condescending as well, calling me all sorts of names and questioning my competence. He asked me to use the budget of the proposed Library on Wheels, and I asked him to seek approval from his colleagues for the virement of the budget to cover this expenditure. He left very disgruntled and promised that there would be retribution for my subservience.
How the fund got paid to him, I don’t have a clue, but a few days after the training had taken place, I got a memo with the approval of the Treasurer to code the expenditure against the Library on Wheels budget head, depleting that budget line. At the time I left the council employment, the project had not taken off, and I doubt whether it did actually take off eventually or at the scale at which it was planned.
Mind where you thread…
Before all these events occurred, I had been forewarned by Mrs. Sanni, only that I did not take some of them seriously. Mrs Sanni was a kind soul sent to me divinely to guide me in my conduct as I got settled into working at the council. She was the OC in charge of Markets and was my direct report. We didn’t have a boss-subordinate relationship; how could we? What we had was more of a mother-son relationship. She was much older in years and had been working for the local government, probably from the time I was still in primary school.
She had whispered to me that I should be cautious of where I sit and where I thread in the council offices as there are those envious of my position who would do anything to hurt me and get me removed from the position. She narrated that as the OC markets, with responsibility for collecting revenues from all the stalls and women in the various markets in Agege, she was not conscious of this until she sat on a charm that someone had placed on her chair and developed a sickness that assails her, to the point of death, once yearly.
Until then, I never had an inkling of how powerful the position I held was and that it was the cynosure of the eyes of many of my colleagues. In those days, we had fash, pedi, and one young married lady as colleagues, all of whom had been sent freshly to Agege Local Government from the Ministry of Local Government Affairs. All these names have become big guys within the local government system and I disappointed not a few with the decision to exit the system such that a family member threatened never to have anything to do with me in the future, given that I was given an opportunity that he never got and I casually threw it away.
I started checking my seat before sitting down, removing the foot carpet before stepping on it and stopped sending the office attendant messages to buy lunch for me.
We get the leaders we deserve?
What I was to learn later was that society fuels the corruption that pervades the environment. Next to our house was a lady who had a drinks store, Iya Rashida known for her bleached skin and mingling with men of all sorts. Her beer parlour was the final calling place each night for people of different characters. She also wielded a large political influence as I guess she was the Ward’s Woman Leader for one of the political parties. Elections are not won on just promises; after all, anyone can promise heaven on earth. More importantly, they are not sustained either with emptiness; the boys have to be placated, and patronage in the form of opportunities for personal enrichment occur. A chairman that ignores this stands the risk of being removed by the legislators. She was a recipient of fridges, freezers and gas cookers from the local government, and I wondered how. What I came to learn was that by awarding fictitious contracts, contracts meant not to be executed, the party generates the money to run the organs of the party and buy the necessary patronage and votes of those in the local government that will make the next election possible. How else could people like Iya Rashida get the ‘dividends of democracy’ in the form of fridges and freezers? It was through grafts like invoicing for work not completed that the chairman and his cronies amass the cash with which they gratify the people to secure their votes.
This process has become institutionalised in our lives. We only need to look a little closer at the multitudes of abandoned projects and contracts not executed but announced on radios and televisions to understand the ramifications.
Some have said that we should shine the light on the Lagos-Calabar Expressway to be sure it doesn’t end as ‘food for the boys’ by ensuring its execution.
Kila’s Nightmare
Yosemite – El Capitan and the Merced River
The Evolution of Morality: From Achan
The Silent Danger: Sleep Apnea and the Road
There is a mousetrap in the house
Lying At Bethesda
At the place of kindness in Old Jerusalem, Bethesda, was a pool. Here lay a man, who for 38 years, was afflicted with paralysis.
For 38 years, he had coped with the challenges of everyday living arising from his condition – movement was ardous and slow. Some time, within those 38 years, he looked at his past, his present and future and concluded that a solution to his paralysis was necessary if he were to live a meaningful life. We weren’t told of the options he had considered but we know he ended up taking a spot at the place of kindness. What made the pool at Bethesda special was that the waters of the pool get stirred by an Angel but the efficacy of this renewal was just for only one individual, the one that gets in the water first thereafter, to be made whole.
He was focused, determined and was aware of the times and seasons. He wanted no handouts, no pity, nothing else but healing. But, he was not alone. Around that pool at Bethesda were many others with different life issues ailing them. There could have been other paralytics as well but these other competitors for the kindness that gives healing were not hindered in their ability to move. This much was revealed in his statement of self pity “while I am going, another steps down before me.”
Why he persevered and kept hope alive is beyond understanding as one should ask, ‘ realising his inability and the superior prowess of the others, what was he still doing by the pool?’ Jesus saw him and knew his story, understood his needs but still went ahead to ask him first “Do you want to be healed?”
The question could be considered unnecessary since Jesus already knew but in asking, he established communication with the man so that the work of miracle he was about to do could be meaningful and enduring. Yes, I want to be healed was all he should have said but he has had it and would like this stranger standing before him to know that his being by the pool was not for a fluke. He answered “Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up, and while I am going another steps down before me.”
One can say he expressed the hopelessness of his situation. In popular palace, many would be right to regard him a fool, afterall doing the same thing, in the same way, over and over again expecting a different outcome is what foolishness means. One should then ask why was he the one that Jesus directed his question to? As we did agree, there were others of his ilk lying there, at Bethesda, so why not others or why not to everyone of them?
There probably is no better answer than saying that the man’s resoluteness in a hopeless situation must have been known to the Saviour who then decided it was time to make a way where there was no way for the paralyzed man. In essence, the same thing that others had termed foolish was the one thing that brought mercy to him .
Could we also then say, Mercy is not for everyone? Afterall Jesus did not heal any other invalid at that pool on that day? Also, remember, the refreshing of the pool by the Angel was just that only one invalid, the one that gets in first, be healed, not everyone. Well, the Lord himself answered this question when he said to Moses “I will be gracious to whom I will be gracious, and will show mercy on whom I will show mercy”. Here was a man in need, he did not cry out like the two blind men in Jericho did, saying “Lord, have mercy on us, Son of David!” He did not get on a treetop like Zaccheous before Christ’s mercy found him. He did not follow Jesus around, hoping to touch the helm of his garment as the woman, up north in the region of Galilee, with the issue of blood did.
We could conclude, without being wrong, that up until that day, our man, perhaps, was not aware that there was a living, breathing saviour walking amongst men, healing the sick and setting the captives free. If he did, he wouldn’t have kept on at the pool in Bethsaida and would most likely have asked to be carried before Christ as the four men did with the paralytic whose sins Jesus Christ forgave. What we know is that, where he was, in the hopelessness of all situations, he that carries the annointing that breaks the yoke found him and healed him.
How do these pertain to us? Well, there is one lesson that we need to walk away with – mercy is only of God, it is not by any work that we do. It is God that dispenses mercy as he finds suitable. Why he does so and the yardstick he uses in doing so, we do not know. Not even the foremost Apostle, Paul, knows as he simply concludes that the potter has a right of what to make from a lump of clay – a vessel to honour or dishonour.
How do these pertain to us? Well, there is one lesson that we need to walk away with – mercy is only of God, it is not by any work that we do. It is God that dispenses mercy as he finds suitable. Why he does so and the yardstick he uses in doing so, we do not know. Not even the foremost Apostle, Paul, knows as he simply concludes that the potter has a right of what to make from a lump of clay – a vessel to honour or dishonour.
So, relax. If you are deserving of our Lord’s mercy, at his time, he will find you out and bestow it on you. Till then, keep the faith alive.
Schadenfreude
Bali, City of the gods
David Finley
The Underground River of Puerto Princesa
Ujevwu Train Station
An experience with the Police
We are the world’s best farmers
Had I flinched, when I should have scurried…
“Mami Wata”, a broken phone and a Bay
APATA GANGA
Tales By Moonlight – 3 Short Stories
Story 3: YEAA - Release Barrabas but kill Jesus
In the first tale, I told you about the gap-toothed throne usurper and in the second one, I reminded you about the new monarchy in Arokostan. What we haven’t talked about was how the monarchy was restored.
Well, our Maradona was a good dribbler, a master of a “little to the left and a little to the right” tactic. He got many fooled on restoring the monarchy but an election was finally held. One Arokostan,from the southern wards, was on the clear path of becoming the King.
In the East was a notable arms dealer of great repute. Behaving like a thief in the night, while Arokostans were deep asleep, our man, under the aegis of ABN, approached the courts and got an injunction to stop the elections.
Well, let’s just say that this singular act put in disarray the whole village and set in motion a chain of events that changed Arokostan for good. Immediately this brought into the monarchy another khaki wearing dark goggled usurper who ruled with fierce iron hands and placed the rightful heir to the throne in jail along with many others.
But, our man Friday from the East turned out to only be a forerunner, another was to come, mightier and more deadly. His name is DK.
Have we forgotten him so soon? Haba, we can’t afford that. He was the young Arokostan that started the YEAA movement, yes YEAA.
Just in case you still don’t remember him, I will refresh your memory. While the rightful heir to the throne remained imprisoned, the YEAA campaign, led by DK, placed billboards around Arokostan and was on all media channels proclaiming there was no one good enough to rule Arokostan. They were good, very good. Even Caiaphas, in whipping the crowd to frenzy, chanting “release Barrabas and kill Jesus” would have learnt one or two things from DK and be envious.
Proselyticing anyone and everyone, they called the usurper God on earth. It seemed that was where they made their biggest mistake as they got the one that beyond the clouds angry and jealous. He sent the Angels of death in the shape of two Indian beauties who gave the dark goggled general the Apple and he died.
DK eloped from the land as Arokostans became jubilant. The streets were up in celebration shouting “Free at last, free at last, thank God, we are free at last”.
Our story teller looked into the crystal ball but what he saw caused him to weep. Weeping not because of what has happened but what was to come. He was yet to wipe up his tears when poisoned tea was served to the rightful heir in his prison cells and he died.
Some said it was to balance the polity. It was this act of wickedness that caused a voice to be heard from the heavens, saying “O Arokostan, Arokostan, thou that killest your wise men, and stonest them which are sent unto thee, how often would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not! Behold, your house is left unto you desolate.”
It was like the day of the Lord had come. The Ifa worshippers, Sango, Oya, Obatala were all out making sacrifices to him that sit beyond the clouds. The Moslems were shouting “Allahu akbar” and the Christians were not left behind. Gathered on different mountain tops, they proclaimed a season of prayers and fasting. Somehow, they all missed understanding that to do righteousness and justice is more acceptable to the Lord than sacrifice.
Regretfully, till today, Arokostans keep increasing the number of worship centres but have failed to be righteous and just in their dealings.
While the blood of the martyrs cry from the land, DK is back, making speeches and being celebrated. Even Maradona, now on his wheel chair, lectures Arokostan on democracy and they listen. It’s as if the whole village has been bewitched.
by ‘Bimbo Bakare, the story teller.
[This concludes the 3 short stories]Tales by moonlight: 3 short stories
Story 2: Let there be light
No where were the words found in the Book of Prophet Bob Marley 2: 1 that “You can fool some people sometimes but you can’t fool all the people all the time” true as it was in Arokostan.
They got fed up with Maradona and all his tomfoolery and made the village too hot for him and his gang of throne usurpers.
Through some reversed logic thinking, they felt that an incarcerated felon was the one most suited to lead them out of the doldrums, and, without much ado they brought the man out, changed his prison garments and robed him in royal apparel.
All the while this man was shouting “Opę oo”, some greyhaired elders convinced the youths that it was the new dawn for Arokostan. Afterall, who else was better suited to turn the fortune of the village around than someone who had just been graciously given a second life?
Looking frail, the years of imprisonment have caused the tribal marks on the face of the new king to become very pronounced. He never believed that he, of all men, could suffer the fate of imprisonment.
Being one person that didn’t agree with God that vengeance should be left to him alone, he quickly incarcerated everyone that he considered complicit in his imprisonment.
Though Arokostanians were asking for dividends of democracy, Baba Iyabo, as some preferred to call him, would have nothing of the idea that vengeance doesn’t create democracy dividends.
With electricity having become epileptic following years of kleptocratic governance, the cacophony of voices grew louder and Baba Iyabo decided to do something about it. He remembered his old nemesis from Esa Oke ward.
In Esa Oke was a man, who, in his younger days, had shown great brilliance in managing his ward in the village. He was a great orator of some sort that they call him the Cicero. Oh yes, in Arokostan of those days, Uncle B wore that garment, tightly fitting and deserving.
Critical of Baba Iyabo, the Cicero had often times smoothly talked of how he could solve the power problems of Arokostan. Baba Iyabo knew better but saw an opportunity to put his old foe to silence. The only problem was that the Cicero belongs to the camp of the Ajibuoba but not the Ajirobas.
In the winner takes all politics at play in Arokostan, it had never happened for a member of the opposition to be appointed to a chieftaincy position. Baba Iyabo lobbied his chiefs with “Ghana Must Go” bags and they eventually agree to have the Cicero appointed as the Chief for Power affairs.
The Cicero was jubilant and eagerly announced to the people “Power failure will be a thing of the past within six months.” Perhaps, he should have contained his excitement, afterall this was Arokostan where anything that could go wrong would go wrong.
Resuming at his new office, Cicero shared his enthusiasm with his Permanent Secretary (PS). To his dismay, his team didn’t share the same enthusiasm. The first salvo came from the PS “what would happen to the millions of generating sets in Arokostan?” The Cicero was flabbergasted, how could a civil servant paid from public tax revenue think this way?
Then it was the turn of one of his Engineers wanting to know why he was bent on upgrading Kainji, when he should be concerned more with stopping the unjust exportation of Electricity from the North to the South. The workers unions were not left behind. They were least concerned about the product, choosing to ignore the direct linkage between their efficiency and well-being. From Shiroro to Egbin, it was all strikes and cries about increasing our pay while the megawatts being generated was abysmal.
In six months, our Cicero was unable to get anything done. He cried to Baba Iyabo, for old times sake, save my face. Baba Iyabo had been expecting this, he was only surprised that it took Uncle B that long to realise that talk was cheap. Bola, don’t worry, I already have a soft landing for you. Şebi, you are a lawyer, I will announce you as our Attorney General and get a “barrel that doesn’t make noise” to step in your shoes.
Just close to a year anniversary of the Cicero becoming the AG, he was killed in his house. Some said that the enemies he made while managing Arokostan Electricity were behind his gruesome killing. Others have said the fingers point at Baba Iyabo because he still had unforgiveness in his heart.
What is certain is that, despite being the highest ranked keeper of justice, his murderers are yet to be found.
Moses’ Dilemma
Three Short Stories – Story 1
Leadership is difficult. It is made more difficult in a society if success is measured by riches and not many are concerned as to how such riches are acquired
Some moons ago, a gap-toothed man seized power in Arokostan, crowning himself king.
The people, of course, cried out against his tyranny. Among them, the voice of the khaki-clad school headmaster boomed the loudest. A fearless man, he led protests and lectured on what Arokostan should be, could be, but was not – unfazed by the king’s gun-wielding minions.
The headmaster was highly respected. After all, he had established a top-notch school, proving what good leadership could achieve in their community.
Despite being touted as the happiest nation; daily survival was a struggle for Arokostanians. Life was not a walk in the park. The gap-toothed king, a cunning leader, navigated Arokostan through economic, social, and political turmoil. He earned various nicknames. Some called him Arokostan’s Maradona, his political astuteness likened to the Argentine footballer’s dribbling skills, albeit with a touch of the “Hand of God.” While nobody saw him as a saviour, his undeniable intelligence earned him the moniker “evil genius” from some.
Maradona, tired of the headmaster’s constant wailing, spent sleepless nights plotting how to silence his nemesis while simultaneously winning over the people. The idea struck him like a sudden burst of light – a brilliant one. At dawn, he summoned his chiefs to a council meeting, sharing his plan. Of course, they were not as gifted as him in such matters so all they could say was that it would not end in praise. He was baffled – couldn’t they see his genius?
Maradona then sent out the town crier to announce the establishment of a “People’s Bank” offering soft loans to pursue various endeavours, with the esteemed village headmaster as chairman to ensure responsible management. The people rejoiced, expecting a new dawn. The headmaster, convinced it was a good thing for Arokostan, diligently took charge, determined to enact positive change.
Everyone seemed happy – Maradona with his gap-toothed grin, the headmaster and his ilk, and the people themselves. According to surrounding villages, Arokostanians were brash, self-centred, lawless, corrupt, and immoral. The king was not nicknamed Maradona for nothing; he was aware of this, something hidden from the headmaster who was consumed by his nationalistic fervour to improve Arokostan at all costs. Maradona anticipated the inevitable collapse and bided his time.
Arokostan had everything to be great – wonderful people and abundant natural resources, the envy of other villages. Despite this, Arokostanians were treated with disdain. Surrounding villages stopped trading with them and imposed excruciating permit processes for any visiting Arokostanian.
Well, a few moons later, the headmaster learned the harsh truth Maradona had known all along: Arokostanians were not ready for good leaders, perhaps didn’t even want them. Their actions spoke volumes different from their words. They only complained when things were not in their favour.
So, what happened? While the headmaster tirelessly strived to ensure a “better life” for the people, granting loans for what he saw as worthwhile opportunities, corruption festered under his leadership. When the scandal broke, he was in disbelief. How could this have happened? The very people he made policy decisions with were presenting fictitious projects to secure loan funding. Dejected, he approached Maradona, requesting prosecution for those involved.
Maradona, with a satisfied grin, placed a hand on the headmaster’s shoulder. “Sir, you’ve got the Moses problem. Remember him? While he was busy on Mount Sinai working with God, his people were busy making idols! While you focused on the bank’s vision, your people siphoned off the money.”
“So, sir,” the evil genius continued, “if you can’t manage a small thing like the People’s Bank, how can you handle Arokostan?” And uncle, he added, hammering home his point, “you’ve smeared my name because of my team’s corruption. It would only be fair if I blamed you too. But I will not, because I know who Arokostanians are. Why don’t you just go home and let me clean up this mess?”
Feeling humiliated, the headmaster went home, a broken man. How could this have happened to him? He was an honourable man and saw no justification to take part in any other protest against Maradona. The weight of it all likely contributed to his death a few years later.
His epitaph, self-written, reads: “Here lies Tai Solarin, who lived and died for humanity.”
by ‘Bimbo Bakare, the storyteller.
Shaken, Not Stirred
My Lagelu Years – Part 3
My love for education was forced, it did not come naturally. In the face of the alternatives I had, it quickly dawned on me that education was the only path way to climb out of the miry clay in which I was.
Right in front of our compound was a mechanic workshop. It was owned by two friends and aptly named Ṣẹ̀mi n’biọ́ (If you offend me, I will ask you why), A childhood friend of mine was undergoing apprenticeship there and I spent a lot of time with him, after school hours. Watching him removing car tires, opening up vehicle engines and seeing him being beaten when he does some silly things gave me the negative motivation that I needed to focus on my academics. I knew I wasn’t tough enough to bear the same punishments that he was receiving!
I had three subjects that interested me in Lagelu – Literature, Biology and Geography. Mathematics was to become a favorite subject later. I considered myself good in these subjects though I enjoyed English Literature the most. It was this subject that took my youthful mind through plays, poems and stories written by African and European Writers. We went through Tell Freedom by Peter Abraham’s, through Poems written by JP Clark, through the Shakespeare plays such as Merchant of Venice, Macbeth etc, “Things Fall Apart” by Chinua Achebe, “Mayor of Casterbridge” by Thomas Hardy, Soyinka’s Trials of Brother Jero and more.
My circle of friends was voracious, we read more than the prescribed texts! We read all the books in Eric Blyton’s Famous Five, all the James Hadley Chase books, the Iam Fleming’s James Bond novels. It was from here that we caught the catchphrase “Shaken, not stirred“. We appropriated this to ourselves saying “I was shaken, not stirred”. We also caught the romance fever that the Mills & Boon novels provided. As we became older, we were introduced to the works of the African Writers Series such as Kenneth Kaunda’s “Zambia Shall Be Free”, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o’s “Weep Not, Child” and T.M Aluko’s “One Man, One Wife”. The icing on the cake were the Macmillan Pacesetter Novels. They were to us what video games are to the present Gen Z. Pacesetter Novels are not created equal, that is a fact that was known to very few of us. Dickson Ighavini’s “Bloodbath At Lobster Close” was not on the same pedestal as Helen Ovbiagele’s “Forever Yours”. There were the more sought after titles like “The Equatorial Assignment” by David G. Maillu, “The Black Temple” by Mohmed T. Garba, “Death Is Woman” by Dickson Ighavini and “Mark Of The Cobra” by Valentine Alily
Obviously we couldn’t afford to buy all these books and our school library didn’t stock them. The plan became buying one title (for those in the know, the popular ones) and exchanging with many others for their own titles. My young mind was being fed with tales and ideas from many lands, I started to see the world differently. Different from my circumstance and the environment in which I was being brought up. I warmed up to what lay on the other side of the Atlantic.
My interest in books was further helped by an inheritance that came my way unplanned. Father did not have many possessions when he died. He had the Lada Car, a few household items and some balance in his account with the Bank of the North, an amount that never was to be received by any of us because he died intestate. Of all these, I received three (3) pieces of Agbada that were obviously of no use to me because they were oversized. But I also inherited something else, a wooden box full of books. Well, this was not particularly given to me, it was abandoned in the house and was of no interest to anyone else, not counting the rats that had made a hole through the wood and turned the box into their abode. I can’t remember how and when I became interested in the box but I soon found it a goldmine – the panacea to many of the things I was struggling to comprehend in school. It was in this box that I found useful textbooks on Quantitative Reasoning, Larcombe’s Arithmetic, a compendium of plays by Shakespeare, one of the best Biology book ever written and books on poems and many more. I also found some texts on Calculus, Algebra and Geometry, books that were later to become very useful to me as I pursued my Higher School Certificate in Government College Ibadan.
Another helpful event, in some ways, was the opportunity I had to spend my vacation at the end of my second year in Lagos with my mum and her brother, Uncle Yisa. He had just bought a brand new Volkswagen 1500cc then and drove to Ibadan to pick me up in the car to Agege. I was looking forward to a fun-filled holiday but I got something else. On reaching Agege, he gave me the New General Mathematics Book 3, the same text we would be using the next year in school. Each day, before he leaves for work, he would mark out 50 questions that I must answer before he comes back in the evening. He would work me through the problems, if I get them wrong but punish me severely if I did not attempt them. He grilled me through all the knotty questions, spending most evenings going through examples and working the corrections with him. Looking back, this in addition to the “Trachtenberg Speed System of Basic Mathematics” by Jakow Trachtenberg that I found in my father’s wooden box, spurred my interest in numbers.
Following my awful experience in boarding school and the temporary relieve provided by Uncle Raufu, I was considered grown-up enough to trek to Lagelu from Oke-Labo each school day. I was back in the care of my grandmother, ably assisted by innumerable uncles, aunts, cousins all living within our agbole (neighborhood). We would wake up by 5am, we needed no alarm bells as the Muslims call to prayer that blasted out through speakers positioned in the minaret of the three mosques that surrounded us was enough to pull anyone out of coma. Drowsily, we make it upstairs to the parlour where we were made to sing hymns, do praise worship followed by Bible reading and prayers. After this, we would make trips to the community water taps, when public water was running otherwise to the wells, or the river, depending on how scarce water was. The very diligent of us kids would have done this the night before but for me, and some others, it was better left to be done early in the morning before schools.
The trip to Agugu would start at between 6.30am and 7am, when I step out of the house, all alone. Across the road lived Shina Adeoti, who would join me as we walk through the many Agboles that were in Ibadan. Going by the back of Wesley College, we will wade through the stream (that was until a pedestrian bridge got erected) and surface on the other side to join Sunday Oyebola. From here, we continued the trip through the back of Adekile Goodwill Grammar School and through the Aremo Church burial ground, across the Aremo River. There was a particular year that Ibadan witnessed one of its perennial flood and the bridge across the river had been carried away, it was divine protection that saved us from being swept away while crossing that river.
We would buy puff-puff, buns, fried fish and anything we could afford on the way to school and share amongst us. By the time we reach Aremo, there would be many more kids of our age in other school uniforms on their way to school as well. Passing Renascent High School, we will eventually burst out somewhere in Agugu. And it was here that the real fun begins, as we take our breakfast. There were a few canteens selling Iresi, Adalu Ewa, Buredi and all sorts. These canteens were busy and always facing shortages of serving plates. It was normal for us to pick a dirty plate, wash it and scuffle with other kids, pushing our plates as far forward as we could reach towards the food seller while shouting our order. These were some of the best foods that we ate as teenagers. It was only after this that we would now complete the last leg of our journey to school, a short walk through the bush pathway on the expansive school compound, first to get to class to drop our bags and then to the school assembly. Most days we got to school early but on some we would be late. The idea then is to sneak to assembly unnoticed, while evading being arrested by the retinue of tutors and monitors spread across the many pathways to catch late comers. Being late had stiff consequences. There were weeds all around the school always in need of cutting. With no lawn mower or any mechanized help, the late comers were assigned the tasks of cutting these with àjáàgbá (slim cutlasses).
At break time, we would all flock our different ways depending on our social-economic status – the ajebotas (rich kids) to one side and the ajepakos (poor kids) like me to the bush path, at the side of which Ìyá a’lánàmá cooked recently harvested iṣu (yam), èsúrú (bitter yam) and ọ̀dùnkún (sweet potatoes) all in one big cauldron using fire wood. Depending on the fruit available in the season, we get to buy Mangoro (Mangoes) , Oro, Agbalumo (African Star Apple) etc.
It was in our third year that we got offered three pathways – to become science, social science or art students. Everyone wanted to be a science student, the families expected us to become Engineers, Doctors and the like. No regard wad paid to those wanting to be anything else. It was at the end of that year that I faced my defining moment. For some reasons, which I can’t fully explain now, I had wanted to become an Aeronautical Engineer. However, my performance in the final examinations in year 3 was not good enough. I had done well in only Biology, had passable marks in Physics but woeful in Chemistry. The school had a requirement that each student must pass these three key subjects to be allowed to pursue science, I had not met that requirement. I convinced my mother to come to school with me to make the school to waive this requirement for me. During the meeting, the teacher explained my performance to my mum and explained that I was better as a Social Science student than a science one. However, if she was insistent, the school would allow me to pursue the science path. I was happy but this was to be temporal – my mother failed me. She supported the school`s decision and asked that I be placed in the programme that best aligned with my performance. My own mother! I couldn’t believe she would do that.
We had some great tutors. The Vice Principal, who taught us Biology, was one. His mnemonic, regarding the heart valves, still rings in my ears today. RA LA, RV LV, he taught us, demonstrating as a Soldier to the matching tune Left, Right, Left, Right, Left Right. He taught us to remember RA is for Right Auricle and LA for Left Auricle and in similar manner Right Ventricle and Left Ventricle. We also had the Youth Corper that taught us Geography, stunningly beautiful. I can still picture her teachings on the life stages of a river . Then there was our literature classes, which I already wrote about.
And there were others, not so great. The tutor that taught us Yoruba made me to hate the subject and I had to withdraw from the class. Economics was made very strange and in this I just followed the “Kramers Method” by cramming all that I could apart from the very first lesson on scarcity – Human wants are insatiable and there are limited resources.
Many other things happened but before we knew it, we were getting to our final year. It was the penultimate year that another unplanned event was to alter the course of my life – I met one of our seniors who was known as “Accountancy”. Prior to this meeting I never knew who an Accountant was talk less of having any interests in becoming one. This gentleman, who went on to become an accomplished Accountant working for Wema Bank slept and talked of nothing else but Accountancy. I admired him as a person first and then decided that if it was good enough for him to aim at becoming an Accountant, same was good enough for me too. It was an easy decision because, prior to that, I was drifting aimlessly between being a Town Planner or an Archeologist, without even knowing what an archaeologist does. The path towards becoming an Aeronautical Engineer had since been closed by the singular action of my mum earlier in Year 3.
It was time for us to sit our final examinations, the much dreaded West African School Certificate (WASC) examination. But first, we were to sit the mock examination, organized by the school to assess our level of preparedness for the WASC. Tutorial classes were organized for the difficult subjects like Mathematics and these were to start early each morning by 7am before regular classes. The commute from Oke-Labo became very difficult as I had to step out of the house as early as 5am. More so, Sina Adeoti, my classmate for the commute had died by now. Passing through the Aremo burial ground in the wee hours of the morning was very frightening to me, I was afraid that some ghosts of those buried there would attack me, yet I had to do so daily in order to attend the tutorials. As we were preparing for the examination, the duo of Buhari and Idiagbon promulgated Decree 20, the dreaded Miscellaneous Offences Decree promising a 21years imprisonment as punishment for anyone caught cheating in examinations. We were all scared as we cramped into different halls and classes for the examination. The invigilators, mostly our teachers abandoned us as Jesus was on the cross, we were there on our own sweating it out. As expected, I found the English Literature, Biology, Mathematics and Geography examinations easy while I struggled with Commerce, English, Economics papers.
I knew not much about what the world held for me after college, much was not expected from me either. I knew nothing about the Joint Admission and Matriculation Board (JAMB) entry examination to Universities and Polytechnics and neither did anyone in my family do, so we never procured any admission forms in my final year. But, we did something right, GCE forms were procured, in the highly likely expectation that I would not have performed well in the WAEC exams.
When the announcement came that the results had been released, I was not particularly enthusiastic. Finally, I showed up, queuing in front of the office of Reverend Omotoye, the Principal, who insisted on checking that I was not in any way indebted to the school. I got my testimonial, it was a fair reflection on my academic and extra-curricular performance and then the statement of my WAEC result. I was jubilant, I had gotten the six credits and two passes. I did not have any distinction but the result I got would gain me admission to any institution of higher learning in Nigeria but, alas, I had not applied for any.
As we walked home that day, it was a case of sadness and joy. For the not so many that have done well, they were offering comfort to and cheering their mates up. One thing that we all missed that day was the certainty that, for many of us, our paths way not likely cross again. There were no phone numbers to exchange nor email addresses, these communication means were not available to us, so to our different parents we returned. For me, at Oke-Labo, my illiterate grandmother only asked whether I passed, there was no special feast or fanfare. Uncle Jimi was unconcerned, my brother Yinka was not around and Uncle Soba, on visiting days later, was annoyed a bit that I had no distinctions “like the other boys”. Mother got to know about the results only when she visited a month later.
Now with the result in hand, I procured late admission forms to the Oyo State College of Education and then to Government College Ibadan for the GCE A Levels. Both admissions came through and the family’s decision was for me to go for the National Certificate in Education (NCE). The choice was not surprising, teaching was a family profession with the Bakares. My father, uncle, mother, brother were all teachers, so there was not an expectation for me to follow a different path.
I was rebellious, I had other ideas, and chose to attend Government College Ibadan for the two (2) year Higher School Certificate, studying Mathematics, Geography and Economics at the Advanced Level.
Religious Tolerance & Dundun Brought Me Back
Gbésè, GbÉbodi in karijini
Hell on earth and proud of it
The Ocean Rages
On aborigine country
The whole continent of Australia was first populated by the Aborigines. It is likely that a foreigner will see the Australian Aborigines as a homogenic group. This is wrong. The homogeneity amongst the Aborigines extends as far as the skin colour and physical features. Away from this, they are as different as an Igbo man is from a Kanuri or Zulu man. The language and culture are different from one another. To understand Indigenous Australia Aborigines, one needs to look at Australia from the structure in place in sub-Saharan Africa. The Zulus, Asantes, Songhai, Igbos, Kikuyus, Yaos and Hutus are all Africans yet they are different nations. In a similar manner, the Lurija, Anangu, Goorie, Nunga, Murrie, Arrernte are all Aborigines but different nations. Aborigines prefer the use of the word country than nation. Had Africa not been balkanised, the set-up will most likely be similar to that of present day indigenous Australia.
Our plan today is to cover the 610kms from South Hedland to Broome, that is almost the same distance from Mombasa to Nakuru, passing through Nairobi. However, before we embark on this trip, we have come to the South Hedland Library to process some documents that are urgently needed back in Perth. Here in South Hedland, we are on Kariyarra country. This fact is visibly displayed by the bronze plaque on the wall of the library acknowledging the Kariyarra people as the traditional custodians of the land and paying respect to their Elders, past and present.
The Kariyarra country is bound by Ngarla country to the north, Nyamal to the east and Ngarluma to the southwest. Hearing these names, it was as if I was back in the History of West Africa class being taught about the ethnic nationalities that preceded the modern African states. In 2018, following a 20 year court battle, the Kariyarra people were adjudged as holding exclusive and non-exclusive native title rights and interests over approximately 17,354 square kilometres of land and sea in the Pilbara region, including the town of Port Hedland. With this judgement, all the non-Kariyarra occupiers of land in this area are now tenants of the Kariyarra people as represented by the Kariyarra Aboriginal Corporation. In essence, for any use of land in this area, consent and payment of rent to the Kariyarra Aboriginal Corporation must be negotiated.
With about 25% of all royalties collected by the state being returned to the countries through the Western Australia royalties for region programme, these are supposedly rich people.
Add to this, the fund coming to the Aborigine Corporation from the signing of Native Title Agreements with individual mining companies. In oil industry parlance, this is what is referred to as the cost of the social license to operate. Money from the exploitation of the Pilbara resources is flowing back, in some ways, to the Kariyarra people. It will not be far-fetched to conclude that this may be a key reason why the Kariyarra and other Aborigine nationalities are not proportionally represented in the workforce. Why would one work if there is a guaranteed share of the national cake assignable to him?
But, we need to get back to the library experience. The building has been standing here since 1979 to aid educational inclusiveness of the people of this area. It is a small bungalow building, painted in light blue colour and located close to the main shopping mall in South Hedland. We had arrived well before the opening time of the library and had to wait a while, spending the period to observe the goings on in around us. Conspicuously posted on the outer walls of the library was a notice that says “No cash kept on premises”. The burglary proofs, something of an aberration in major Australian cities, are here. The library doors and windows are secured with welded iron barricades and we were left wondering who will be interested in stealing books from a library. We watched a couple of first nation people passed by and noticed not a few walking bare footed. It is a way through which they maintain great connection to the land. Mother earth is very important in indigenous culture.
At the time posted, we approached the door and watched as the young lady inside exerted quite some efforts in opening the locks and barricades that protect the entrance door. Inside, the library is modestly equipped with desktop computers, books, video CDs and more important, free Wi-Fi. We also saw that school bags are available for rent, something that felt strange to us. For the about the one hour period we spent here, the only folks that came in was a Caucasian woman and her daughter. No Kariyarra native was here for the duration of our stay but we could see them from the library windows as they move about, walking mainly toward the shopping mall.
We also noticed that there is an unusual high presence of police corps everywhere we have been in this area. This first occurred to us yesterday while at the shopping mall and we are now seeing them around the library, this early morning. The same will be seen at the gas station, later, as we fill up with gas for our long trip to Broome. It soon dawned on us that the further north we traveled, the more the intense the policing of these areas appear to be. Could this have to do with the crossing of the 26 degrees parallel as mentioned earlier?
Waking up this morning, I need to seek out medical help for my swollen gums. The tooth ache has become unbearable and I hardly slept the previous night. Using the search results from Google, I called some medical practices to book an appointment. None was ready to book me in and I was advised to go to the emergency ward of the nearest hospital. The only practise that was ready to see me requested that I pay twice the normal charge for consultation. I weighed my options and told my wife that we should brave the odds and go to Broome. Help should surely be available there.
Crossing the Great Sandy Desert in a motor vehicle would be on the Great Northern Highway, either be northwards from Port Hedland or westward from the Kimberley. We are doing so from the former. As we left Port Hedland, we drove on bridges across a few river beds, all with the same dryness. The wideness of the river beds inform that these are actually big rivers in the wet season when they are flowing though currently no single drop of water could be seen anywhere on them. Once we drove past the Pardoo Roadhouse, the river channels disappear completely and we were now at the western extremity of the desert. On this segment of the trip, the Great Northern Highway is closely hugging the coast. Though we could not see the ocean which lies to our left, at no point on this road were we further than a few kilometers from it. Which begs the question, why is this area visibly dry that it is a desert? Again, the teaching of my geography teacher at Lagelu Grammar School came handy. Though I must have stolen a few looks at the very beautiful NYSC tutor that was assigned to our class, I could still hear her voice as she taught about relief or orographic rainfall. She had taught us that areas close to the coast with no mountain ridge may experience drought. She had used the Namibian desert as an example and here are voice lingers on in my ear, as I observe the lack of water in the Great Sandy Desert.
The scenery was devoid of mountain ranges, everywhere we looked was just plain land covered with shrubs, no thick vegetation of any kind. In very few places, we could notice the pastoral leases with their cattle and wondered where the water for the livestock is from. Acess to water and knowing the location of wells in this area was important to the early settlers, a knowledge that was the exclusive preserve of the Aborigine who had tendered this land for centuries before the advent of the white fellas. The knowledge had been passed down from one generation to another but is now documented for all in the Hema Maps, a good tool for all 4WD adventurists like us. Looking at our Hema map, these wells and bores are located not very far from the Great Northern Highway and one can only conclude that the men that built the road were well influenced by these bores in choosing the exact path it follows. Today, the commuter in motorised vehicles does not need to bother about water, these can be gotten at the roadhouses.
At this point, we had handed over the Explorer to its cruise control function, there is no reason to be pressing and de-pressing the accelerator and brake. The road is lonely and for major stretches of the road we were the sole traveller, each experience being punctuated by a road train or another sole traveller returning from Broome. Traffic is very light and on this long stretch of the highway, the major risk to drivers is maintaining concentration. It is no gainsaying that vehicles on this road have to be in the most road worthy condition, any breakdown will be very costly both in terms of time and money.
As we passed by the much famed Eighty Mile Beach on our left, the road sign announces that we were now on the Nyangumarta-Karajarri country lands. We chucked a little in pronouncing the name, it’s probably the longest word we have come across on this trip. After what seemed an eternity, we arrived at the Roebuck Roadhouse, situated at the turning off to Broome Road, while the road continues its way to the Northern Territory. It has been one long drive to get here and immediately we noticed a change in the traffic situation, this stretch of road has a fair bit of traffic. The vegetation is also different with tall trees on each side of the road, a great contrast to what we had noticed on the highway previously.
The sunset on the Broome road was spectacular. The cloud formation in the horizon, hiding the sunset behind them, created a unique vista too beautiful to describe. It was like a fire burning in the sky. Saf could not resist this and she pulled the Explorer to a stop to take some amazing pictures of the sunset. The first impression of a visitor to Broome is that this is an old town. The well set-back houses, the grid-like streets dotted with trees here and there and intersecting at roundabouts all add to this impression. There is not much modernity to it, no new buildings are rising up. No apartment complexes being developed and in fact there was not a single construction crane here.
After settling in to our room, we remembered that we were hungry and headed straight to the restaurant. We were given seats next to two odd fellows. One very stocky white fellow whose visible skin areas were completely covered with tattoos. Even the forehead was not spared. Added to this, he was sporting a long goatee beard running down his chin. The aura he exudes was one that says clearly “do not mess with me”. The other was a little bit lanky, tall and walked with a swagger. His mien was that of someone that wouldn’t blink an eyelid in skinning someone. Surprisingly, they were not together. Our tattooed man was busy chatting away with another man while the lanky guy sat alone, drowning his alcohol. I was unsettled because of their presence yet they remain unbothered, probably unaware of my existence in that space.
Dinner was served and it looked sumptuous but my aching tooth told my brain in clear words “you can admire the food with your eyes but you are not savouring any part of it”. I made attempt to bite a slice off the pizza and screamed out from pain. Saf was empathic but continued to do justice to the meal. The pain has become unbearable and I can’t wait till morning to get a relief. Saf came up with a home remedy that has to be made from a mixture of alcohol, ginger and pepper. We took a drive to the liquor store and purchased a bottle of gin, the active ingredient for this mixture and came back to prepare the concoction. Sleeping tonight would be an uphill task.
The Big Australian
Entering the Pilbara
yardie creek road
The Heavens Open up at Kalbarri
Life is NOT about YOU
The Abomination again
Our Light affliction
Guaidó, have we been here before?
Oh Yes, we have Guaidó. Though our attention span is short but thank goodness we now have the internet that is a great reservoir of all our human stories.
So here we go, the dateline is 11 June 1994 and we find ourselves at the previously little known Epetedo in Lagos Nigeria. History was about to be made, so Juan Guaidó please pay attention.
Bashorun M.K.O Abiola would mount the stage that date and do what no one had previously done in the history of Nigeria, declare himself President in his speech that has come to be known as the Epetedo Proclamation and assume office as the democratically elected President of Nigeria.
The events that rapidly unfolded thereafter will see Abiola going into hiding and then getting arrested and thrown into the prison by the military government. His offence, treason! He never emerged alive from the detention which yielded his corpse in 1998
But, let’s backtrack a little for your sake Guaido. Abiola’s journey to his grave all started much earlier but definitely on June 12, 1993. That was the day that Nigerians went to the poll and elected Abiola as President.
The military junta of Ibrahim Babangida refused to release the full results and declare Abiola winner. Sounds familiar? I think it does. If you replace the names in the Nigerian debacle with yours and Maduro, you have the current happenstance in Venezuela.
The period of one year from the elections to 1994 saw Abiola globetrotting. Just as you are being assured right now, these same governments promised support for Abiola’s government. He was granted audience by the United States of America, the United Kingdom and even at the United Nations he met with Boutros Boutros-Ghali, its Secretary-General. Given these assurances, Abiola grew bold, took a flight back to Nigeria and declared himself President. It is certain that without the assurances, Abiola would not have made the Epe proclamation.
But, there was a problem, one that Abiola never considered and obviously one that you may not be considering as well. Nigeria is a major Oil producer, just as Venezuela is. Now, the west has not cured itself of its appetite for oil. The world understood, Abiola did not, that any curtailment in oil supply from Nigeria will lead to a rise in crude oil prices. Just in a similar manner, a curtailment in supply from Venezuela will affect world prices and hence reduce he disposable income of many in the western world. The economics is simply and it meant that the western nations became a dog that can bark loudly but cannot bite. If you disagree, I will like to remind you about the soft gloves with which the United States is handling the brutal murder of Khashoggi where all unrefuted evidence shows the complicity of the Saudi government in his death but the United States has refused to take action! And we know the reason behind this being the turmoil that Saudi’s disruption to world oil supply will cause the United States.
So, back to our story, Abiola was detained and killed in detention. Not a single shot was fired by the west nor any noticeable action taken against the government of Abacha by all the nations that had promised support for Abiola. In fact, rumours are rife that Abiola was murdered with the active connivance of the United States as his death was within hours of meeting with a delegation including Susan Rice, the American Ambassador to the UN!
If Abiola’s experience is anything to go by, Guaido YOU CAN’T TRUST THE WEST. As your unofficial adviser, please take their words with a pinch of salt except you want to be like Abiola and become the best president Venezuela never had. Am I suggesting that you abandon enforcing the constitutional provisions of Venezuela making you the President of the National Assembly? No, not at all. I am just advising that in all your political calculations, please discount massively any anticipated support from the West, no help will come from these nations.
History is, it’s never was. As William Faulkner reminds us, “The past is not dead; it’s not even past.”
The Texas Massacre
There was a country, so wrote Chinua Achebe. He was writing about Nigeria but the same description can aptly be applied to the United States of America. It is a great nation, this is not in dispute but it amazes the casual observer that the US portends to always be different. In most cases, this difference makes the US uniquely what it is and, no doubt, has worked in its favour. However, in some other situations, it easily come off as an exercise in foolishness.
Take the case of the spate of death happening in modern America today. We all have gotten used to the violence in Chicago which makes the city notorious as the murder capital of the world. What we are getting used to is the fact that American life has become so cheap that more gets killed within America itself than outside it! Lets pause a little and give a thought to this. If the same level of violence and death from gun totting psychopaths that is happening in America today were to be happening in a backwater third world country, all the foreign ministries of the highly developed countries would be heads over their heels to issue statements to their nationals and the world that it is highly unsafe to travel to those countries. I guess different standards for different people! We will come to this another time.
Back to the gun capital of the world. The whole world, or majority of it I suppose, mourns with those who have been impacted by one shooting or another. It will be inhuman not to do so, being unfortunate recipient of unplanned sorrows and miseries. More so we are encouraged to mourn with those who are mourning and rejoice with those who are rejoicing, isn’t that so? However, where is the place of common sense in America today? Must there be another death before the nation and its leaders wear the common sense caps? I am no American but that country has been good to me. The more reason why I am outraged that what seems so simple to do, and have been done by others, has become the most difficult thing to be accomplished by a nation that had sent men to the moon. I am no prophet but I can stake a bet on this, a couple of weeks from now. The Texas massacre, for sure, won’t be the last of these deaths, I predict more to come with more casualties as well. Hey, don’t shout at me, shout at your leaders! Common sense and evidence from other nations suggest that mass killing will continue to be the norm in America until America comes to its senses about guns. Let it be shouted at the Capitol Hill, America, the second amendment is killing you! Do something SMART about it.
Just this weekend, I was at the gun range for target practice. Every time I handled the weapon, I got terrified. Terrified of the power, the speed and ease at which the bullets discharged…. and kills. A millisecond is all that separates “He is” from “He was”. Now, I wouldn’t want a psychopath to have access to this weapon, no not in a million years. However, this is exactly what the American forefathers have done through the second amendment. Well, we can’t blame them for being short sighted about the rise of a set of racists, bigoted, religious and ideological fanatic that will be committing mass murder, contrary to the intent of the amendment, can we? The reality, however, is that this is now the case. I am positive that were the writers of the second amendment to be in our midst right now, they would have quickly put pen on paper to make an amendment to the amendment. It sickens me that the nation does so much to make access to prescription medicines difficult for people who can abuse its usage but would not extend same process to gun possession. Having these guns in the hands of psychopaths, for which the US has an abundance, to me is a certain recipe for more deaths. Barack Obama wept, just as Jesus did at the tomb of Lazarus. While Jesus was able to raise Lazarus, the tears of Barack availed nothing…they didn’t stop the killings and neither have they woken up the dead. They will never accomplish any of these two., no, never. Our tears and our sympathies will not avail much either. The one and only thing that will sop this madness? Get the guns out of em’s hands.
Leadership is about boldness to take the right decisions, even if unpopular. Will our man Friday in the Whitehouse be bold enough to lead so that Americans weep no more?
If Nigeria Fails?
With all the clamor for restructuring and separating the current entity called Nigeria into its separate ethnic nationality, I reached out into the archive to bring out this note of caution. It was the sincere message of Lyman to Nigerians to pull together to build rather than allow the nation to continue on its downward spiral into a failed state.
As with all prophesies, the prophet has sounded the alarm, i is now left for the people to heed the warnings or not. Years back, Christine Lagarde was in Nigeria. As the Managing Director of the IMF, she warned Nigerians of the impending recession if efforts were no taken to address the structural imbalances and fragility in the Nigerian economy. Her warnings went unheeded and the nation paid for it, big time. Let this warning of Lyman not suffer similar fate.
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If Nigeria Fails?
By Princeton Lyman
Providence, Rhode Island. USA.
December 11, 2009.
Thank you very much Prof. Keller and thanks to the organizers of this conference. It is such a privilege to be here in a conference in honor of Prof. Achebe, an inspiration and teacher to all of us.
I have a long connection to Nigeria. Not only was I Ambassador there, I have travelled to and from Nigeria for a number of years and have a deep and abiding vital emotional attachment to the Nigerian people, their magnificence, their courage, artistic brilliance, their irony, sense of humor in the face of challenges etc.
And I hope that we keep that in mind when I say some things that I think are counter to what we normally say about Nigeria. And I say that with all due respect to Eric [SILLA, SEE NOTE 3] who is doing a magnificent work at State Department and to our good friend from the legislature, because I have a feeling that we both Nigerians and Americans may be doing Nigeria and Nigerians no favor by stressing Nigeria’s strategic importance.
I know all the arguments: it is a major oil producer, it is the most populous country in Africa, it has made major contributions to Africa in peacekeeping, and of course negatively if Nigeria were to fall apart the ripple effects would be tremendous, etc.. But I wonder if all this emphasis on Nigeria’s importance creates a tendency of inflate Nigeria’s opinion of its own invulnerability.
Among much of the elite today, I have the feeling that there is a belief that Nigeria is too big to fail, too important to be ignored, and that Nigerians can go on ignoring some of the most fundamental challenges they have many of which we have talked about: disgraceful lack of infrastructure, the growing problems of unemployment, the failure to deal with the underlying problems in the Niger-Delta, the failure to consolidate democracy and somehow feel will remain important to everybody because of all those reasons that are strategically important.
And I am not sure that that is helpful.
Let me sort of deconstruct those elements of Nigeria’s importance, and ask whether they are as relevant as they have been.
We often hear that one in five Africans is a Nigerian. What does it mean? Do we ever say one in five Asians is a Chinese? Chinese power comes not just for the fact that it has a lot of people but it has harnessed the entrepreneurial talent and economic capacity and all the other talents of China to make her a major economic force and political force.
What does it mean that one in five Africans is Nigeria? It does not mean anything to a Namibian or a South African. It is a kind of conceit. What makes it important is what is happening to the people of Nigerian. Are their talents being tapped? Are they becoming an economic force? Is all that potential being used?
And the answer is “Not really.”
And oil, yes, Nigeria is a major oil producer, but Brazil is now launching a 10-year program that is going to make it one of the major oil producers in the world. And every other country in Africa is now beginning to produce oil.
And Angola is rivalling Nigeria in oil production, and the United States has just discovered a huge gas reserve which is going to replace some of our dependence on imported energy.
So if you look ahead ten years, is Nigeria really going to be that relevant as a major oil producer, or just another of another of the many oil producers while the world moves on to alternative sources of energy and other sources of supply.
And what about its influence, its contributions to the continent? As our representative from the parliament talked about, there is a great history of those contributions. But that is history.
Is Nigeria really playing a major role today in the crisis in Niger on its border, or in Guinea, or in Darfur, or after many many promises making any contributions to Somalia?
The answer is no, Nigeria is today NOT making a major impact, on its region, or on the African Union or on the big problems of Africa that it was making before.
What about its economic influence?
Well, as we have talked about earlier, there is a de-industrialization going on in Nigeria a lack of infrastructure, a lack of power means that with imported goods under globalization, Nigerian factories are closing, more and more people are becoming unemployed and Nigeria is becoming a kind of society that imports and exports and lives off the oil, which does not make it a significant economic entity.
Now, of course, on the negative side, the collapse of Nigeria would be enormous, but is that a point to make Nigeria strategically important?
Years ago, I worked for an Assistant Secretary of State who had the longest tenure in that job in the 1980s and I remember in one meeting a minister from a country not very friendly to the United States came in and was berating the Assistant Secretary on all the evils of the United States and all its dire plots and in things in Africa and was going on and on and finally the Assistant Secretary cut him off and said: “You know, the biggest danger for your relationship with the United States is not our opposition but that we will find you irrelevant.”
The point is that Nigeria can become much less relevant to the United States. We have already seen evidence of it. When President Obama went to Ghana and not to Nigeria, he was sending a message, that Ghana symbolized more of the significant trends, issues and importance that one wants to put on Africa than Nigeria.
And when I was asked by journalists why President Obama did not go to Nigeria, I said “what would he gain from going? Would Nigeria be a good model for democracy, would it be a model for good governance, would he obtain new commitments on Darfur or Somalia or strengthen the African Union or in Niger or elsewhere?”
No he would not, so he did not go.
And when Secretary Clinton did go, indeed but she also went to Angola and who would have thought years ago that Angola would be the most stable country in the Gulf of Guinea and establish a binational commission in Angola.
So the handwriting may already be on the wall, and that is a sad commentary.
Because what it means is that Nigeria’s most important strategic importance in the end could be that it has failed.
And that is a sad sad conclusion. It does not have to happen, but I think that we ought to stop talking about what a great country it is, and how terribly important it is to us and talk about what it would take for Nigeria to be that important and great.
And that takes an enormous amount of commitment. And you don’t need saints, you don’t need leaders like Nelson Mandela in every state, because you are not going to get them.
I served in South Korea in the middle of the 1960s and it was time when South Korea was poor and considered hopeless, but it was becoming to turn around, later to become to every person’s amazement then the eleventh largest economy in the world. And I remember the economist in my mission saying, you know it did not bother him that the leading elites in the government of South Korea were taking 15 – 20 percent off the top of every project, as long as every project was a good one, and that was the difference. The leadership at the time was determined to solve the fundamental economic issues of South Korea economy and turn its economy around.
It has not happened in Nigeria today. You don’t need saints. It needs leaders who say “You know we could be becoming irrelevant, and we got to do something about it.”
Thank you.
Princeton N. Lyman,
Adjunct Senior Fellow for Africa Policy Studies, Council on Foreign Relations, Former U.S. ambassador to South Africa and Nigeria, made these remarks at the Achebe Foundation Colloquium on Nigerian Election at Providence, Rhode Island, USA, on December 11, 2009.
It’s okay to vote NO….It’s natural, not inequality
A few months ago, I made the conscious decision of joining a political party. Of the two predominant parties, Labour and Liberals, I chose Labour. First and maybe subtly, I don’t like the name liberal. It connotes to me a view that is fluid. It’s going to always be a little to the right and a little to the left, no firm stand on any issue. It connotes anything from “generous” to “loose” to “broad-minded.” Importantly, I chose Labor because I believe in its two objectives of “maintenance of and support for a competitive non-monopolistic private sector” and “the right to own private property”. At the time, I was not unaware that Labour’s leadership was actively supporting equality in marriage. It was supporting equality in all forms. All things considered, I do not support this objective but this did not deter me from joining the party. I knew that there will always be “issues of the day” in which the party and I will hold opposing views. That will happen, no matter which political party anyone joins.
For those who may be unaware, Marriage Equality is a movement that aims at legalizing marriages between people of the LGBT orientation. Simply put, it makes gay marriage legal and changes the definition of marriage being the union between a man and a woman.
Last week, the two law suits standing in the way of the Australian Postal Plebiscite on marriage were ruled out as lacking merit by the High Court. Consequently, the surveys will be landing in the postal boxes this week. The Australian Prime Minister, Malcolm Turnbull, has been very vocal on where he stands on this plebiscite. He is all over the news urging that people vote YES and has expressed that he and his wife will be doing the same. Bill Shorten, the leader of the Opposition and of the Australian Labour Party, is not singing a different tune. He is also campaigning for a Yes Vote. Their arguments? It’s the fair thing to do as the current marriage definition promotes inequality. The cacophony of voices, all drumming into the public ears, is to vote YES. The argument is unconvincing and I really struggle to understand it.
On this issue, the opposition and the government are unusually united. United not because the change being requested is right, but because they are afraid. Afraid of standing affirmatively with the truth. It is for this that I commend Barnaby Joyce, the Deputy Prime Minister. He stands affirmatively with voting NO because to him, that is the right thing to do and unlike the rest, he isn’t campaigning that the populace change their minds but they should vote according to their conscience.
A few weeks earlier, the accomplished Margaret Court, sounded a note to differ with the cacophony of voices saying yes. She seemed to be the only loud voice opposing this impending doom to society, as we currently see it. Following Qantas Airline’s promotion of same-sex marriage, she wrote the airline and stated:
“I am disappointed that Qantas has become an active promoter for same-sex marriage…..I believe in marriage as a union between a man and a woman as stated in the Bible….Your statement leaves me no option but to use other airlines where possible for my extensive travelling.”
All hell broke loose, when the content of this letter became public and got published in the West Australian. Kill her! Crucify her! Remove her name from the “Margaret Court” Arena! Erase her history from the Australian Open!. These were the shouts and screams coming from the lobbyist. The bullying from the LGBT community was without bound. It was a repeat of what had been experienced in a certain Australian business where a Director was summoned to resign from the board of a Christian Charity if he wants to continue to hold his office. His membership of the charity was said to be a cause of concern to certain employees in the company. Pastor Margaret, as she is called by many of us, her church members at Victory Life Bible Church in Perth, was perturbed but gladly would not give up. The way the argument for the YES vote has been conducted, any dissenting view is killed and cursed, striking fear and terror in the heart of the populace from speaking and expressing their views.
In fact, the whole premise of Bill Shorten’s request that the plebiscite should not take place but be voted on by parliament was to assure that the very few vocal voices in Parliament were the ones that would vote on this and hence assure the result they wanted – a redefinition of marriage.
So one would ask, why is this important? It is important because it hits at the very foundation of family. For a reason, God created us male and female. Many reasons could be adduced for this but it is not farfetched to know that both sexes are required for procreation. Marriage is simply the union between a man and a woman and this institution has been established, from the foundation of the earth, when God saw that Adam needed help. He could have created another man for Adam but he did not. In his wisdom, he went into Adam’s bones and brought out a woman, an help sufficient to complement the man.
Taking the Bible out of it, this vote strikes at the freedom of millions of other Australians were the Yes team to have their way. The freedom of speech and religious freedom would soon be thrown out of the window. We have seen what is happening all around the world. In Sweden, the PM is threatening that Christian Pastors should get ready to celebrate gay weddings or get another job. That isn’t a helpful statement to anyone or is it?
On another front, it is frightening to think of what will happen in schools. Currently under the Australian Safe Schools programme, the Gender Fairy book is being read to students as young as 4 years old and are being told no one can tell you whether you are a boy or girl, only you can. In essence, identity is becoming very fluid. You can be a boy today and tomorrow become a girl. The reconditioning in the classroom will be so swift and massive and yet as a parent, one would not have the right to pull his children out from such wrong education.
Nature will have the last laugh, it always does. We have seen experiments where male plants have been grafted on female trees. No matter what you do to them, they still retain their genes, male genes. Scientist can go ahead and pump men up with female hormones and give ladies testosterone and muscle building injections, the original nature of the being cannot be erased.
Now, peradventure you are asking where I stand. I do not support LGBT as a life choice. I love them as fellow humans but I detest the choices they have made. Some have argued that homosexuality is natural, I say no. it is not natural in animals, not in plants and of course not in man. A group of baboons have been pointed at as evidence of homosexuality in animals. My position is that these are the exceptions and not the norm. Homosexuality is a choice. A choice like any other and is not a creation of nature.
Asking for equality in marriage for homosexual is an abuse of the English term “equality”. If you are still both men or women, there is no way you can be said to have become equal to a man-woman relationship. So what equality are we talking about? The freedom for a man to marry a man or the freedom for a woman to marry a woman? If this is the equality, by the very definition of the word marriage, that cannot exist. And this is why if the LGBT decide to choose another word to refer to their relationship, perhaps there would be a cause for less concern with many. You can’t fain marriage
For those who are undecided and too afraid to take a stand. Please be assured that you are not a bigot, not homophobic, not irrational if you choose to say No. It is marriage equality today, what will the LGBT be asking for tomorrow? We simply don’t know and neither can we see where the line will be drawn and this ends. Simply put, where does the frontier stop?
Toodyay, what a place, what a name?
Well, it starts with an interesting story, strange but true! It is said that the original name of the town was Newcastle. Given that Australia itself was a penal colony, it isn’t difficult to see why such a name was settled on by the early British Settlers. So how did Newcastle become Toodyay?
It is said that a certain William Demmason of the then Newcastle around 1908 ordered a beautiful French Ormolu Clock (don’t worry much about the adjective Ormolu, assume it means electroplated) from London and asked same to be delivered to his address in Western Australia. He was a prosperous carpenter and wheelwright that had a most important influence on the civic life in Newcastle, this was how he made his money. This was mistakenly delivered to Newcastle, New South Wales ( a tale of two Newcastles) – as were many items around that time. The clock sat unclaimed in New South Wales for a few years. Sir John Forrest (then serving in Federal Parliament), was passing through Newcastle, New South Wales when his attention was drawn to the clock and by chance happened to know Demasson. He realised that the clock had been sent to the wrong Newcastle and made arrangements for the clock to be sent to Demmasson in Newcastle, Western Australia, the originally intended address. This incident is known to have significantly contributed to the request for a change in the town’s name.
The new name, Toodyay, is believed to be derived from an Aboriginal word ‘Duidgee’ which means ‘Place of Plenty’, referring to the richness and fertility of the area and the reliability of the Avon River. As I was made to learn, it is pronounced “two gee” as in 2G.
So why should anyone visit Toodyay?
First, it is a very short drive from Perth and within a day’s trip. It is a leisurely 90kms drive North East of Perth following the Reid Highway and Toodyay Road. Second, it happened to have been adjudged and won the cleanliest town title in Australia in 2015. Thirdly, it is an exciting location with unspoilt beauty nestled within the Avon River Valley and a host of the 2 day annual Avon Descent race where paddles and powerboats compete over a course spanning 124 gruelling kilometres. Of course, it also hosts the International Food Festival. Lastly, for the history buffs, it has its dark side as well. It happened to be the town where, in 1861, Western Australia’s notorious bushranger Moondyne Joe was imprisoned for stealing a horse, but escaped.
As I was planning for the weekend, I came across a trip suggestion that will take me from Perth, North Eastwards to Toodyay, to Northam and back to Perth. This was recommended as a worthwhile day trip to visit these towns, located in the Avon Valley showing the splendour of the beautiful Avon Basin. Without much ado, I looked up the towns on my Hema Map and made up my mind on visiting these places.
I woke up a bit late on Saturday and did not set out of Perth till about 11:30am. The Explorer, my favourite companion on adventure trips like this, shows the fuel gauge at half tank and the journey started. I headed out on the Reid Highway before diverting north eastwards on the Toodyay Road.
Always knowing that the journey is more important than the destination, as I made my way towards Toodyay, I came across a sign that says “Scenic Lookout”. I took the turn to the left on O’Brien road and immediately was on a beautiful tree lined road. It was a well paved road but a lonely drive on which I met not more than 6 other vehicles for the 16km stretch leading to the Walyunga National Park and passing through some beautiful agricultural farmlands on both sides of the road. It is a typical Australian countryside look, most recommended for those looking for a bit of solitude away from the hustle and bustle of Perth. On reaching Walyunga, I pulled the Explorer into a parking spot and met a family coming up the hill from the park. Two lovely kids, below 7years of age, leading their father and mother up the hill and pulling all the tantrums kids of that age are known for. The kids approached me and we chatted a bit, while I pulled out my cameras from the vehicle. I soon headed downwards from the parking spot only for the rains to say “thou shall move no further”. I dared the rain to stop me and walked a little while enjoying the breath taking sights of the distant hills and that of the Avon River flowing joyfully in the valley below, next to the train lines. I wished the rain would stop, and it did. I hurried back into the Explorer and soon started crawling downhills in this beast of a machine and out of nowhere hopped a grey Kangaroo across the path the Explorer was taking. As I had been told numerously, if you a Kangaroo, another is close on its tail. This held true as the other came and hopped after the first one. Their movement was too fast for me to pull out my camera and record the video. I continued the descent down the hill and soon found out that the trail leads nowhere. Disappointed, I turned the Explorer uphill and left the park, turning left to join Clenton Road and continued the trip to Toodyay.
Time was running against me and I put my foot down on the gas pedal, joyfully cruising towards Toodyay while I had Ebenezer Obey’s music playing softly. I came across another attraction sign pointing left with the words “Scenic Drive”. The allure was in the name of the drive – Lovers Lane. I was captivated by the need to know why this name for the lane and pulled the Explorer into the lane. My enthusiasm was pleasantly rewarded.
At the intersection with Cobblers Pool Road, Lovers Lane changed to River Road and here it runs parallel with the Avon River. It was a lovely sight and soon I started picking up the sounds of water crafts on the river. My attention was transfixed to where the sound was coming from and I saw not one, but four boats, each with two occupants, speeding down the river. The occupants were with head helmets and the boats were brightly painted. It sort of raised my curiosity, did I miss something or what was this about? Another boat soon followed. This time, the engine stopped suddenly. I could see the two occupants working frantically to get the engine going again, and they did. I pulled the Explorer into a shade, and went to explore the neighbourhood. I crossed the road, headed across the rail line into the surrounding bushes around the Avon River. There were barbwires preventing access, not being sure of private property rights in Australia, I backtracked to the Explorer. This was not until I had taken some lovely pictures of the surrounding hills and vegetation.
The cruise towards Toodyay continues and had to drive through a flooded part of the road. 
A roadside marker, by the rushing water, shows the depth of the flood and nothing looked unsafe here. With the shocks of the Explorer having been raised, giving the already rugged Landcruiser extra-ordinary clearance, this was not a threat. I got the vehicle through the water slowly and as I did this, my mind quickly flashed to a similar experience that I encountered on the Ore-Ondo Road in South Western Nigeria. The attention to safety here in Australia, was not lost to me. The marker provides enough information to passing motorist on the depth of the raging water across the road. This wasn’t there on the Ore-Ondo Road and we had to wade through the deep waters, all at our own risk. I recalled having written his in my write up about the experience in Idanre:
“the rainwater has washed onto the road and for those unfamiliar with the road, we had to wait to be sure it was motorable. It was just brownish water all over!”
The road was lonely and meanders here and there. On the sides of the road are cropped farmlands with their lush green vegetation with a couple of homesteads. It was a beautiful sight to behold. A hill, in front, requires the engine of the Explorer to roar to live to mount the undulating hill without qualms and quickly following was a steep descents that required me to put pressure on the brakes. Soon, I got into Toodyay, entering the quiet town from the side of the old court house. A turn to the left, another to the right and then right again brought me directly in front of the Connors Mill Museum. A little further ahead was the Visitor’s Centre, which in actual fact is connected to the Connors Mill.
I pulled the Explorer into a vacant park spot and made my way into the visitors’ centre. A notice at the entrance to the centre, warning of the preponderance of snakes around the Avon Valley caught my attention. I was attended to by a lovely mid-age lady along with another man. Both were friendly. When I was told that my arrival was a week too early, I felt disappointed. The annual Avon Descent and the Toodyay International Food Festival would be taken place just the next week. I didn’t know of this when I set out from Perth. I was encouraged to take a walk around the river bed and not to leave town until I see the Church of Saint Steven, the Cola Museum, the Victoria Hotel as well as the Memorial Hall, all within walking distance from the Visitors Centre. I said my thanks and headed towards the river. This was not without asking how safe I would be from the snakes and getting assured that, given the coldness of the winter months, I am most unlikely to have any encounter with these warm blooded reptiles.
As I crossed the road and walked through the premises of Saint Steven Church, I was captivated by the simplicity in the design of the church and yet its iconic character. The church opened its doors for worship on 9 May 1862. Acting like an Angel guarding the church is a lone flooded gum tree that some said is over 400 years old. The tree had stood the test of time and you don’t talk of the church without mentioning this lone gum tree.
I took a left turn and came directly to the Newcastle Bridge upon the Avon River. The clear waters of the Avon here was alluring and I couldn’t resist the temptation to dip my feet in the river while watching the water gently flowing down on its course through the Walyunga National Park to join the Swan River. My attention was soon captured by stubs of woods in rows of two that crossed the river at nearly the exact point where the current Newcastle Bridge is. It didn’t’ take long for me to realise that these were the stubbles of the old bridge pillars. It was a case of the old haven given way to the new so that refreshing times could come. My thoughts lingered on these for a while as I deeply reflect on my own journey on this side of eternity and how we, as humans, constantly struggle against giving up the old to allow the new to take root. The stubs look ancient but without them, there would not have been a Newcastle Bridge and all the glory and splendour showered on the new bridge is because it has an antecedent that it replaced. A few more speed boats came running down the river. Being more enlightened now from the conversation that I had at the visitors centre, I did understand that all these were in preparation for the big race the following Saturday.
I moved on and took a leisurely stroll through Stirling Terrace, the major street where commercial activities abound in the city. I walked past a few restaurant and then the Memorial Hall. At the Federation Square, I came across the inscription by the town acknowledging the traditional Noongar people as the owners of the Toodyay area. I sighed, Australia, finally came to terms with its wild and chequered history and is valuing Aboriginal heritage.
A little beyond this, at the intersection between Duke Street and Stirling terrace stood the Victoria Hotel, in all its splendour. You can’t miss it. Despite its age, its beauty remains charming and its unique architectural characteristics will make anyone marvel. It is a testament that the craftsmen of yesteryears were really talented. Of course, weren’t these of the stock that built the great pyramids of Gaza? I felt I had seen enough of the town and headed back towards the Explorer, his time looking for where to have a meal to wade off my hunger. I was attracted by the aroma of grilled steak coming from my right. I walked in and discovered it was an Indian Restaurant. What have Indians got to do with steaks? Isn’t it a taboo to kill a cow? Alas these are no more mainland Indians but Australian Indians. I asked for a burger.
I got back into the Explorer and it dawned on me that I had lost so much time wandering around Toodyay and I still had to get to Northam. The Explorer roared to life and we meandered through Stirling Terrace, next to the railway tracks and headed to Northam. Just near the intersection with Hamersley Street is a giant display, a Visitor Information post, Toodyay is committed to attracting tourist to the town. I was captivated by it and pulled the Explorer into the parking space. The display tells the history of Toodyay and its glory as the tidiest town in Australia in 2015 and being the WA State category winner in 2016 for Heritage and Culture.
As I left Toodyay, I promised myself that I would be back. I would be back the week after to experience the Avon Descent and the International Food Festival.
Gandhi, An autobiography. The story of my experiments with truth.
Gandhi, An autobiography. The story of my experiments with truth.
A reflection on the book – Gandhi An Autobiography, The story of my experiments with truth written by M.K. Gandhi published in 1957 by Beacon Press.
I have had a few books read to me, a few more narrated to me by others who have read them but the large majority I have read myself. It was in Benin City, Nigeria, while waiting for my bus to Lagos that I scanned through the books displayed at the bus station and came across Gandhi’s book. Suffice it to say that for many years I have been attracted to the man Gandhi of whom I knew little but just enough to conclude that he really deserve his title Mahatma.
I had been a Student Activist, a Union Leader and generally have held positions where I have been the voice for the voiceless and the face for those who found it difficult to speak to power. But I am no Gandhi, though I wish I am one. I came to meet Gandhi, for the very first time in London. Though he died in 1948, we did not get to meet till 2002. Our chance meeting in London, in Madame Tussauds, was unplanned and speechless. As I stood next to the man, I was awe struck about his frail stature and his not so impressing height. I wondered how such a simple man, without much of an earthly possession, became the snare of the British in India and ended up creating a movement that has come to be a standard for all freedom fighters all over the world.
As I read through the last page of the autobiography and placed the book on my bedside desk, I was lost in thought trying to put together all that I had read again. No doubt, this was a difficult book. The difficulty was not in the fluency of the English language into which it has been interpreted from the original version in Gujarati by Mahadev Desai, who was until his death in 1942 Mahatma Gandhi’s personal secretary. The difficulty was not even in understanding the political situation in South Africa and India during the Satyagrahas that Mohandas lead. It was not in understanding the Hindu words that dot the book here and there which. As a Yoruba man who is well versed with the Yoruba language, I have come to understand that the English Language is deficient in many respect with providing an exact meaning of words stated in the originating language.
The major difficulty with the book is in accepting that Gandhi actually lived. Extending it a bit more, in acknowledging that he was a man of similar composition of Spirit, Soul and Body like
the rest of us. This was perplexing and difficult to comprehend. Here was a man who graduated from the prestigious
University College London and got called to the bar in June 1891. With this, he had all the needed pieces to become extremely wealthy practising law. Yet he chose, not by compulsion or any accident of fate, the simple life of a peasant, travelling 3rd class on Indian rails to get from one notable event to another. He was international in outlook, studied in the United Kingdom, practised law in South Africa and eventually took domicile in India, his native country. In each of these countries, he left giant footsteps. At great personal risk to himself and his family, he never for once give up his belief in the good of the human being. He was beaten, kicked into a gutter and been thrown a train, yet there is no record that he took to violence to get his views through. A civil right activist, per excellence, he fought to protect the rights of Indians in South Africa and then in India itself.
Being a Gandhi comes with a cost and it takes him that has a pure conscience to bear this price. On the whole, the book left me with an understanding that there is no force yet known to man that can be an impediment to anyone who has purposed in his mind to seek the greater good of mankind in general. Gandhi was the closest that a mere mortal has gotten close to the truth and he preached that love transcends all. While we may have opposing views, this doesn’t make us enemies but rather should promote mutual respect, tolerance and love. In fact, he encourages that we should “love the meanest of creation as oneself.”
Gandhi had said “I have nothing new to teach the world. Truth and non-violence are as old as the hills.” In this I find the sage very wrong. Our lives today are filled with violence of the strangest kind. It’s on the news, nearly every night. The killings on the street of Melbourne, the shootings in Virginia, Orlando and New York. The mass murder in Manchester, in Jerusalem, in Berlin, need I go on? How I wish the world will learn from Gandhi and subject itself to be taught about truth and non-violence.
Some remarkable excerpts from the book:
It has always been a mystery to me how men can feel themselves honoured by the humiliation of their fellow beings.
– Gandhi, An Autobiography p.155
About the same time I came in contact with another Christian family. At their suggestion I attended the Wesleyan church every Sunday….The church did not make a favourable impression on me. The sermon seemed to be uninspiring. The congregation did not strike me to be particularly religious. They were not an assembly of devout souls; they appeared to be worldly-minded people going to church for recreation and in conformity to custom. Here at times, I would involuntarily doze.
– Gandhi, An Autobiography p.160
How was one, accustomed to measure things in gold sovereigns, all at once to make calculations in tiny bits of copper? As the elephant is powerless to think in the terms of the ant, in spite of the best intentions in the world, even so is the Englishman powerless to think in terms of, or legislate for, the Indian.
– Gandhi, An Autobiography p.245
To see the universal and all-pervading Spirit of Truth face to face one must be able to love the meanest of creation as oneself. And a man who aspires after that cannot afford to keep out of any field of life…..I can say without the slightest hesitation, and yet in all humility, that those who say that religion has nothing to do with politics do not know what religion means.
– Gandhi, An Autobiography p.504
I have disregarded the order served upon me not for want of respect for lawful authority, but in obedience to the higher law of our being, the voice of conscience.
– Gandhi, An Autobiography p.414
There was strict untouchability in Bihar. I might not draw water at the well whilst the servants were using it, lest drops of water from my bucket might pollute them, the servants not knowing to what caste I belonged. Rajkumar directed me to the indoor latrine, the servant promptly directed me to the outdoor one. All this was far from surprising or irritating to me, for I was inured to such things. The servants were doing the duty, which they thought Rajendra Babu would wish them to do
– Gandhi, An Autobiography p.406
The brute by nature knows no self-restraint. Man is man, because he is capable of, and only in so far he exercises, self-restraint……..For perfection or freedom from error comes only from grace
– Gandhi, An Autobiography p.317
To save or not to save you is in His hands. As to me you know my way. I can but try to save you by means of confession.
– Gandhi, An Autobiography p.367
Sculpture by the Sea, Cottlesloe
Today, I spent some time at the Rio Tinto’s “Sculpture by the sea” event hosted by the City of Cottlesloe. It is the 13th annual exhibition of the series and runs from 3rd to 20th March 2017.
I came away from the event with more questions than I have answers for. For instance what really is Art? And how do we define a sculpture? The works being exhibited on the beach range from those that are simply stunning and awe inspiring to those that make you feel like puking and asking is this really art? As one walks along the Cottlesloe beach, you get to see these different works carefully placed on the pathways, on the greens with some hung to dangle from the trees dotting the beach side.
Prior years’ experience of many an art lover, with the event, must have resonated well with this year. Despite it being a Friday, the crowd turnout was impressive. It was a mixture of the old, the not so old and the young. Equally impressive was the presence of a few high schools who have come to use the exhibition to generate some excitements and learning opportunity for their students. The weather was at one of its very best, this autumn day in Perth. It was warm but not humid and the sea breeze was refreshing. All these must have been a great lure to the many that came to this year’s exhibition.
The Sculptures themselves are different – made out of woods, clay, iron, glass and recyclable materials. In these, the artists convey a variety of messages to the observers. Some messages are subtle as with Cansumerism by Hayley Bahr / Tim Keevil. In this large piece of crushed soda can, the artists evokes a sympathy for mother earth by the tons of cans and associated waste that we dump on her. Some messages are apolitical and loud. A case in point is the work by Tim Burns titled “The Dogs of War”. It doesn’t take much to decipher that this is a message from the artist regarding the West Australian elections that are taking place this weekend. It depicts a car upon which a huge power pole has fallen. Now, I am not sure how the messages about the privatization of Western Power resonates with West Australians but the various scribblings on the car, the conspicuous placing of a can with a few Australian Dollar notes neatly tucked in it all shows a disaffection for the Liberal government return to power in this election.
So what is Art?
Well, being not intent on starting an academic treatise here, a simple explanation that resonates with the general public will help. Here we will make do with “the art of the Renaissance” definition that says art is the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, typically in a visual form such as painting or sculpture, producing works to be appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power. With this definition, one can forgive my not finding art in some of the works on display as they neither epitomises beauty nor evoke emotional feelings within me. Of course, beauty is in the eyes of the beholder but then what is beautiful needs not much defence for a consensus to be reached regarding its beauty. Ben David’s BIG BOY, lends credence to this. This work, literally and figuratively, stands apart from the rest.
Milan Kuzica has on display a tall green obelisk which she calls the “Green-Life”. To me, this was a replica or a work modelled after the “Opa Oranmiyan”. Yes, I am alleging that her idea for the Green life most probably came from having caught a glimpse of the famous “Opa Oranmiyan” that is currently situated in Ile-Ife, the cradle of Yoruba civilization. Her contribution to art, through the Green-Life will be in the manner that she has increased the height of this sacred obelisk and painted it in green. I think that Milan Kuzica owes the people of Ife a recognition for her sculpture, she definitely got her inspiration from them.
Another work that is featured, prominently by the entrance to the beach, is the “Ago Adie”. Well that’s the Yoruba name for the bamboo woven basket used to keep chickens at night. For whatever reasons Maggie Johns has, she chose to call her work Woven Whispers.
It’s simply an “Ago Adie” that has been pumped up on steroid. Again, it was another missed opportunity to assign copyrights to the Yoruba culture, especially the mothers that have an age long tradition of keeping hens and chickens in their back yards.
Even those with the faintest knowledge of Aso-Oke that come across Elin & Keino’s work titled Integration/Interruption will be convinced that this is just a replica of the cloth weaving process that had been perfected in the late 18th century predominantly by the women of Iseyin’s (Oyo-State), Ede (Osun State) and Okene (Kogi) in Nigeria.
This brings us to asking what really is sculpture?
Again, google comes to the rescue and gives a populist definition as the art of making two- or three-dimensional representative or abstract forms, especially by carving stone or wood or by casting metal or plaster. Implicit in this definition is the transformation of a media or material by the act of carving or casting. If we hold this definition as a guide, it simply shows that a couple of the so called works on display do not fit into the definition of a sculptor and as such shouldn’t be in an exhibition titled “Sculpture by the Sea”. “Integration/Interruption”, “Yura Yura”, “Fantasia” and not to forget “Drawing on the ground” readily come to mind. What was the basis for chosing to feature these works?
The lack of representation of African Arts at Sculpture by the Sea.
Earlier in the week, I had been engaged in a thought provoking discussion that centred on why men are accountable for there being less books on our shelves that depict women as equal partners. I was still ruminating on my response to that issue when it dawned on me that there was no single African work presented at the Sculpture by the Sea event. I looked and searched for the faintest glimpse of one but the more I looked the less I saw. I became dejected.
I had been a regular visitor to Nike Art Gallery in Nigeria and the multi-storey edifice host the works of many renowned Nigerian artists. I wonder why none of these were submitted and featured in this event. In its 13th year, we had works from the Japanese, Indians, British, Czechs and some other countries but the homeland that produced the pyramids was not represented! It dawned on me that there may be a paucity of information regarding the event and sponsorship may also be an issue.
A similar exhibition at the Bondi beach in Sydney is currently calling for submission from artists. Applications are open until Tuesday 26 April 2016 for the online application or Friday 22 April 2016 if you are posting your application. If you are an African Sculptor, this is your chance to get your work to international limelight.
A couple of prizes are available to be won. The $50,000 Rio Tinto Sculpture Award is the highlight of the competition. This award was won by an Indian in 2016 and the 2017 winner will soon be announced. Also available for grabs is the EY People’s Choice Prize of $5,000. The opportunities to get your artwork sold at top dollars should be exciting to anyone and if you need sponsorship, I am interested in sponsoring such works.
Is this not a Sahara?
Today, I took the Sahara for a spin on the sand dunes at Leschenault. It all started well, then a glitch and we got hooked on the sand.
Having tried all I knew to no avail, I sought for help. A couple of guys in their Nissan Patrol stopped, helped to dig out the sand from under the Sahara and finally gave up. Their assessment, the Sahara was too deeply stuck in the sand – it was resting fully on the sands. I pulled out the snatch strap so that they could help to pull me backwards only to realise that their vehicle doesn’t have the tow power to pull. Sahara. They wished me luck and continued on their way, with a promise to flag down help for me if they find one.
Seated calmly on the passenger seat was Red Pumpkin. While I was fretting and at a loss on what next to do she asked “Is this not a Sahara”? I said it was. A couple of seconds later, she gave me her phone and asked me to watch a YouTube video. “Is your car more deeply embedded in the sand than this”, she asked? I watched the video and sigh “a-ha”!
I got back in the vehicle, looked for the “Crawl Button” and activated crawl. The Sahara came to life, groaned here, shook there, shuddered and presto, we were free.
Unbelievable! After all, there is a reason why it is a Sahara. It’s the King off roads.
The moral of the story, you can have a very capable and top of the pack equipment, if your knowledge is deficient, you have nothing.
Power is nothing, knowledge is everything.
Ibadan, ilu olokiki, ilu oloye!
I come from the ancient city of Ibadan. I am a citizen of the world and wherever I go, whatever I be, I will not forget my origin – the city of Ibadan.
I am proud of my heritage and very appreciative for my upbringing.
Ibadan,
ilu olokiki,
ilu oloye,
ilu onimo, ilu olola, ilu olowo.
Sikiru Ayinde Barrister
Ibadan,
running splash of rust
and gold — flung and scattered
among the seven hills like broken
china in the sun.
J.P Clark-Bekederemo (b.1935)
Each day, a gift to be grateful for
The Bible encourages that we should give thanks, in all things. I have been younger and been through circumstances and situations that I thought was the worst thing to befall a man. Looking back at those situations now, my mouth is filled with laughter knowing that “it always could have been worse”.
Great is thy faithfulness
Lord, God Almighty,
All I have needed, thou has provided
Great is thy faithfulness
Lord unto me.
Think different….Steve Jobs
“The people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world are the ones who do”
Apple’s. “Think Different” commercial, 1997
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What are you Reading… Which voices are shaping your life?….
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Let’s know what you are reading and share your knowledge with others. Ralph Waldo Emerson (US Poet: 1803 – 1882) said “If we encounter a man of rare intellect, we should ask him what books he reads”.
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A group to encourage the reading culture among Nigerians. It is also a forum to share amongst members the thoughts and excerpts from books that members are reading. It is hoped that when we as Nigerians read, such readings will stimulate our thought processes, encouraging us to put pen on paper and create books for generations to come to read as well. A final aim is to translate the knowledge from our reading in transforming our country!
What are you reading?
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