The Ikorodu Mafia
Not Pretty but good enough II
Bodija
A couple of months in Olubi and I had to change school again, the fourth school I would be attending. One fateful day, my paternal uncle arrived in his Corolla, and I was told to pack all my belongings. Off to Bódìjà we went, then a new suburb of Ibadan. The Bódìjà of those days was well laid out comprising only single-family dwellings. The compound edges were neatly adorned with flowers. Anyone who was someone lived there, and it was pretty much the address of choice for the many Nigerians that just relocated back to the country following years of training abroad, infused with national ideologies. My uncle and his wife were one of such. They had returned back from the United Kingdom to take up positions of responsibilities in the Post & Telecommunications Dept (P&T) and the University College Hospital (UCH).
Bódìjà made a great impression on my young mind. Neat, orderly and quiet. To a boy from Oke-Labo, the change was massive. How to use the fork and knife, etiquettes around the dining table, observing siesta, tiding the room and mopping and washing the floors weekly soon became things I had to learn.
At Oke-Labo, I was a free bird, in Bodija I was a bird in a cage. We hardly leave the expansive grounds of the house at Gbenro Ogunbiyi without reason. There was no walking down the street to play with some neighbourhood friends and definitely no invitation for friends to come over and play soccer as I did at Oke-Labo. Our movements were fairly predictable – to school and back, to church or to some families for the occasional birthdays and celebrations for Christmas etc. We were truly ‘ajebota’ kids, protected by solid walls and iron gates.
The house, shared a fence with the major road leading from Secretariat to the University. We were connected to this end by a pedestrian gate while on the other end is Gbenro Ogunbiyi street for vehicular traffic. Once within the compounds, it was a regime of rules and nothing like playtime. You were either studying, cleaning, eating or sleeping. Even, watching the television, of which we had a decent black and white one in the sitting room, was regulated.
As kids, we found a way to release the pent-up energies in us by turning the compound to our field, playing football or hide-and-seek or any other thing we fancied. Our house was the last at the end of the close and given the silence of the neighbourhood we could hear the sound of the engine of any approaching car long before it makes it to our steel gates. While playing and as the time approaches 4pm, we would start listening for the approaching sound of the Brown Toyota Corolla or the Blue Renault 12TL. Once we pick this up, like ghost crabs making for their holes at the sight of danger, we would run inside the house to take positions at the study table.
Of course, we would leave tell-tale signs of what we had been up to either in the form of sweat dripping on our bodies or a play item that we forgot to remove from the drive way. Sometimes we escape punishments but at others we don’t, yet we couldn’t help ourselves. As little kids with pent-up energies to burn., we always found a way to evade the ever watchful eyes of my foster parents. But then there are times when the brown Toyota Corolla would get packed at a distance and father would walk home in a bid to catch us red-handed and seldom that meant serious punishments for us.
My new school was Methodist Primary School. The rail track of the Lagos – Kano train runs a few yards from the back of our neighbourhood and I would follow this to school, joining other children doing the same. At Methodist, I was part of the school band, responsible for instrument accompaniment to the singing of the national anthem and school songs during assembly. The three years at Methodist went by pretty fast that I cannot recollect several of the events that transpired except one that got me into deep trouble.
I had arrived at school very early one morning and on entering the class found empty beer bottles along with some coins, probably not more than five naira. I had picked the money but did not tell anyone. At home, I informed one of my siblings and we agreed it was wise not to tell my foster parent. At an opportune time, we use some of the money to buy Trebor Mints. In those days, the mints come in packs of five and we probably had bought four packs or so. Of course, we were found out by my foster parents and I received a beating of my life for the several atrocities i committed from that singular act – picking up something that wasn’t mine, picking up money without reporting it, escaping from the house without approval, buying candies which were unhealthy.
While in Class 5, typical of students that were considered brilliant, the Common Entrance Examination Forms were procured for me so that I could skip Year 6 and proceed to Secondary School. I had to take exams in Qualitative and Qualitative Aptitudes. Studying and understanding these was not challenging for me and I did pass the entrance examinations to Methodist Secondary School, Bodija.
However, a series of family events resulted in my stay at Bodija being cut short and my uncles and mother have different ideas as to which school I should attend next. Mother wanted me close to her. As she was schooling in Sagamu, she felt attending the Mayfair School, Ikenne would be ideal. I sat for the entrance examination but failed. One Uncle, working in Abeokuta wanted me in Abeokuta as well. I sat the examination for Abeokuta Grammar School and passed. Another uncle in Ibadan, chose Lagelu Grammar School and I passed the entrance examination as well.
A Thousand and One Incisions
Not Pretty but good enough
Had I flinched, when I should have scurried…
APATA GANGA
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
Idlers Have No Room in Lagelu
Alice Olaoti Adufe
The Muda in and around Us
My grandfather’s house stands tall in Oke-Labo, Ibadan, after all it was the house of Chief Samuel Tayo Bakare, the Mogaji of Sodun, the Ba’ale of Olorunda, Council Chairman and Grade C judge in his days. The house faces the main road that runs from Beere to Orita Aperin and shields many things from the commuters on that road. One of the things it shielded was a house behind it where mad men and women were brought for treatment, a mad house of some sort.
In the years that I lived in my grandfather’s house, my room was at the back and opening my wooden windows gave me unobstructed view of all the happenstance in the vicinity, especially the mad house. I was not particularly interested in the mad house but I had to leave my window open for most of the days and only keep them closed at night, despite the heat, to save my blood from being the only menu on the feast of the mosquitoes.
In those days, the house was the treatment centre for one middle-aged man that we came to know as Muda. How and when he was brought there, I can’t recollect. The “Doctor-in-charge” was one Alfa, who was mostly seen going around with a cane in hand, wearing a dull coloured Jalabiya, which started its earthly journey as a white piece of cloth.
The agonising cry of Muda was a constant feature that cuts through and above all other noise in the neighbourhood, and trust me there was a high level of noise pollution in those days. Yet, Muda’s could be heard well above all others, There were not that many days that I didn’t hear his cry. It was a given that once you see Alfa sauntering around in the premises, Muda’s cry would follow. As a child, I frequently used that relationship to understand the abstract that I was being taught in Economics on c”ause and effect.”
Of course there were other inmates receiving unorthodox treatment for madness from the Alfa. There were a couple of women too and I can recall an event where one of them gave birth leading to questions in the gossip community as to who did the implantation works and how. However, Muda stood out from all the inmates. For most days,Muda sat idly in front of the house, chained. On some occasions, where he was allowed to wander around, probably under the belief that his sickness was being cured, he did so with an iron rod linking two iron bracelets that were firmly locked to his legs. It was a pathetic sight to look at Muda as he walked, aimlessly for most part, around the neighbourhood. The sadness in his looks was perturbing but, as kids, we had the impression that the cure for madness was by caning. I could almost say this was evidence based, in that we saw the caning though we couldn’t ascertain that any was cured. It became written in our subconscious through what we saw, what we heard and the songs we sang. One of the song goes like this:
Ki l’ògùn wèrè
Ẹgba ni.
Years went by and I moved on from our house but Muda never moved on, he continued receiving the treatment at the house, though I can’t tell what eventually became of Muda. I forgot about him and in the years thereafter when I had made visits to our house, all I noticed was that the mad house had fallen into ruins following the death of the Alfa. Not a soul is there any longer.
Then my wife became a mental health nurse. She comes home at the end of each working period to give me snippets of the cases that she handled and educates me on the prevalence of mental health challenges in Australia. Suddenly, everywhere I looked, I started becoming conscious of the challenges as well. Folks of different ages and background are having to cope with different levels of this illness. It is prevalent in the society as just any other health challenge like hypertension is.
Earlier this year, I attended an Health Consumer workshop in the beautiful city of Nedlands. Gathered in the big hall were different folks from the public whose intent was to listen to representatives of the Graylands Hospital Management team talk about their plans for the future and provide responses to these plans.
Seated next to me in the high ceiling hall within this sprawling mental institution complex was a middle-aged man, probably nearing 60. He introduced himself and added that he is a mental health patient and has come to ensure that the hospital plans were broad enough to address the salient needs of other patients like him. I introduced myself as a Community Advisory Committee member and my interest is to ensure that my community’s voice was also heard.
There, next to me, was a Muda. Everything about this Muda was normal, normal just like me. He took active part in the workshop and did everything everyone else did. I thought about it, why was this Grayland’s Muda different from the Oke-Labo Muda?
Less than 2 months later, a high flying ex-colleague of mine found his “mojo” and declared on Facebook that he was and had been battling mental illness all his life, I was taken aback. I thought I knew him well, he was primus inter pares, how could he have been a Muda? For years he had kept silent about it and has only recently become very vocal probably because of concerns about how he probably would have been castigated at work. He wrote that his episode developed from just an incident at work that he had insufficient ability to cope with. Despite this challenge, he still went ahead to have a very successful career lasting 26 years because he had the needed medical care.
It was in his response that we see why there are differences in Muda outcomes for different individuals. Imagine if he had ended up in Oke-Labo under Alfa? He could have ended up living his life in tattered clothes with deep sunken eyes begging for help. This is the image of Muda that I have. One that hunts me these days, thinking I could have raised a voice had I known what I know now.
The point here is a need for us all to embrace our mental wellness. And, if out of ill-luck, we end up being psychotic, we need to speak out and realise that help abounds. Of course, I am not suggesting the kind of help from Oke-Labo. Though each case is different but there has been significant developments in this sphere of healthcare that every case can be managed in a way that each person will live life to the fullest.
The RED LADA
Our Light affliction
In the shadows of death
This is a collection of poetical works, developed from my teenage years till early adulthood.
These poems are cherished by me as they reflect the challenges of growing up as well as the topical issues during these times. I have not had time to transcribe them as such they remain in a pdf format for now.
Immortality for sale
Adam and Eve lost it when they ate the forbidden fruit. Now the tree of life, in the garden of Eden, is being guided by a Cherubim with a flaming sword. I guess, getting to eat of this tree is now an impossibility. So we can all forget about becoming immortal this way.
It was on the Island of Patmos that John saw God and was commanded to write the book of Revelation. It was here in Den Haag that I saw Andrew Carnegie and he taught me how to buy immortality, though he didn’t ask me to share the lesson.
I had arrived here not by planning but by destiny, my itinerary has nothing in it concerning the city of peace and justice. Growing up, I had always fancied Prince Bola Ajibola. Remember him? He made putting on a bow tie cool and a fashion statement. I admire him for a different reason, his brilliance. It was this that earned him a seat as a Judge of the International Court of Justice. So on noting that the city, where he dispensed justice, was a mere stone throw away from me, I altered my travel plans to visit it.
Early this morning, I set out for the Peace Palace. This is the most important building in the world perhaps, but definitely it is in this city. The amiable lady at the reception desk had handed me the audio guide and I made my way through the exhibits on display. I took a seat, directly opposite the replica of the $1.5m cheque issued by Andrew Carnegie for the building of the palace. Somehow I felt a need to wipe my face and it was on doing so that I saw Carnegie. Our conversation?
Andrew: Hey young fella, you made it here at last. I have been waiting for you ever since your Dad made mention of you to me?
Me: You know my Dad? How come?
Andrew: Long story but let me just say he is so proud of you. He told me of your ambitions and sought my help to guide you.
Me: Really? He never stayed long enough to know my ambitions and isn’t it now a bit late for you to guide me?
Andrew: Nothing in life is too late, you will understand with time but I guess you are on a quest here, yeah?
Me: True sir. I am mesmerized by your acts of generosity. Wao, what moved you to donate that huge…..
Andrew: [Cutting in] No, no, no young man. Don’t join them in making the same mistake. It was an investment. I am an investor. That was what I lived and died doing.
Me: Now you are confusing me the more, you gave them $1.5m as donation to build this place.
Andrew: I invested $1.5m in people. It was my way of buying the future cheaply.
Me: Cheaply? You call $1.5m in 1904 cheap? That is like giving away $400m today!
Andrew: O boy, by making that meagre payment, I have my name resounded to every soul that steps here. If not for that token, I would have long been forgotten but I bought immortality for $1 5m. Do you remember what Christ said about the woman with the Alabaster oil? Expensive right? She bought immortality with that action. She is long dead but because of that deed, Jesus said wherever the gospel is preached she will be remembered.
In my case, I also got more. Dividends. When the world talks peace they have to mention me forever. Why? Because I was also smart in my generosity. As a condition for the money, I asked them to maintain a library here. Think about it, why didn’t I ask for my statue to be mailed and placed at the entrance?
You see, because of this library millions of legal luminaries and brilliant statesmen, like your friend Bola Ajibola, have had to write or say my name in their works when referencing materials that are made available for their use here. It’s the cheapest amount anyone can spend on advertising mate. Tell me, isn’t that why you stepped in here today?
Me: But you are long dead, how are you then here?
Andrew: [Laughing uncontrollably] How can I be dead? I can’t even get to sleep! My spirit is constantly being aroused each time my name gets mentioned. I had intended to be somewhere else but right there in your room yesterday when you made an appointment to be here, you called me up by writing my name next to the Peace Palace. Before you leave, let me tell you something more. The man who dies rich, dies disgraced. Take some tine to think about this but now, wipe your eyes again.
Me: [I wiped my eyes only to find myself sitting alone on the bench in the information centre with the copy of the cheque still in front of me ]
It’s all been a trance, one in which I learnt that immortality is available for sale.
Are you interested in buying?
Humiliated again!
Back in 2013, I had complained about the targeted discriminatory practices of the Singaporean Authorities to Nigerians arriving Changi Airport. I had written a piece, titled – Blaming Singapore Immigration. I also wrote to the Nigerian Embassy in Canbera and Singapore to complain. The then Ambassador Olukoni, a gentleman per excellence was humble enough to give me a call and promised to take it up with the Singaporean authorities. Whether he did, I can’t tell but I received a response to my complaint from the Singaporean authority. It was a very bland response saying Singapore does randomly subject visitors to further inspection and my experience was exactly this, random! I knew it was a lie but how was I to prove it?
The opportunity came this year and as our plan to visit Singapore was being developed, I complained to high heavens, to all who were patient enough to listen to me. It wasn’t my choice and I abhor the idea of being humiliated again but I really can’t deny others the opportunity they had anxiously been waiting for, all year long. I conceded and so started my adventure at being demeaned as a human being. To be candid, I think my humiliation started much earlier, earlier at the Ikeja Passport Office where I had gone to apply for a new passport. You asked why? Well on home soil in Ikeja, the Nigerian government did not consider me worthy enough of a decent treatment. My experience is well documented in the open letter that I had to write to the minister of interior. The Singaporean authorities only built on the foundation that my government has laid.
First to get a Singapore Visa, unlike in 2013, I had to show up at VFS office for an interview, fingerprinting and the works. You can guess how that went. Why? In the few years that had passed, Nigeria is now been categorized by Singapore as an Assessment Level 2 country along with Somalia, Sudan, Yemen, Iraq and a few others. I just couldn’t fathom it that we still call ourselves Giants of Africa? There are 54 countries in the African continent, 9 of which are subjected to extra rigors in issuance of Singapore Visa and Nigeria is one of the 9! If we are a giant, what should the other 45 countries call themselves? I won’t be surprised to know that the Nigerian External Affairs ministry might not have protested this. Since Singapore excludes holders of diplomatic, official and service passports from the added scrutiny, why would they care? You know what I mean, why should they be perturbed if the citizens that they represent get treated shabbily? More so, they don’t treat us better at home so on what basis will they protest our shabby treatment by others?
I wasn’t much annoyed as per the interview but for the daylight robbery that was associated with it. VFS charged me a ridiculous amount for doing nothing! Nothing that I couldn’t have done otherwise by myself. Even the return envelope, for the passport to be mailed back to me, I had to pay for it. The passport, with the visa label on it, got mailed to me a few days later.
Well, fast-track to my arrival at Changi, I was in a party of four Nigerians – three traveling on non-Nigerian passports and my patriotic self, clinging to the green booklet. In order to demonstrate that the humiliation in 2013 wasn’t random, I decided to carry out a social science experiment. I requested 2 of the 3 Nigerians traveling with non-Nigerian passports to go ahead and get to Immigration first. I came a distant third and then to be followed, with some gap by the last Nigerian, also holding a non-Nigerian passport. My hypothesis, yes I know you would want to know, was that the other 3 people will be allowed entry without any fuss while I would be pulled aside.
It didn’t take long when Nigerian 1 and 2 got through the counter and I, Nigerian 3, followed suit. I knew something was fishy, when the Immigration & Checkpoints Authority (ICA) Officer had to reach for a paper on his left side. He gave it a quick look, made some entries on the computer and then gently told me that my entry would need to be approved at another point. I was taken to a different counter, a door was opened and was asked to take a seat inside. The glass door got closed and there I was, waiting. Minutes later, a man showed up and asked me all sorts of questions, some that I considered mundane. I coolly and calmly answered them all. For him to leave the room where I was, he had to knock twice on the door before it got opened for him from the outside. It was only then that I realized that I was in a locked room, a bird in a cage! Minutes later, another ICA official called me to the outside counter and I had to go through another barrage of questioning, finally my passport was stamped and I was asked to proceed on my journey into Singapore through an open door.
Trust me, I wasn’t going to leave without a fight, even if a very feeble one it would be. I was like Ijapa, the tortoise, that had to scatter his dwelling place on being arrested. When asked why, he responded so that people will at least see evidence that he did not give in to being arrested easily. I asked to see the ICA officer’s supervisor and was shown another gentlemen who had been standing there all along, by the counter. His demeanor doesn’t show he cares and I knew he wasn’t going to own up to this institutionalized targeting of Nigerians. I explained my grievance at being targeted just because of my green passport and he responded that it was a random check, remember it was also random in 2013. I told him of my social science experiment and that the A330-300 SQ224 that brought me to Changi is a 285 seater plane and no other person was randomly selected apart from me. I narrated my prior experience and the fact that the 3 other Nigerians who were subjected to the same embarrassing random evaluation in 2013 were let go this time because they traveled on non-Nigerian passports. He still insisted that all they did was random. I noticed that a Malaysian woman was also at the counter earlier but was given a seat at the VIP section in the open. I brought his attention to the inhuman and discriminatory treatment of getting me locked behind a closed door while the other lady was given a seat in an open space. At this time, I could see his face turning red and he said they have their procedures and he was just following them. I was annoyed, but again, at no time did they beg me to come to their country. I asked him to consider how he would feel if the table were to be turned and he is at the receiving end as I just did, I left thereafter.
As we were driven to the hotel, we noticed the beautiful tree lined roads which were spotlessly clean. The great aesthetic appearance of the city and the apparent order in everything the eyes could see. I gave this a bit of thought and concluded that I have gotten Singapore’s message. Singapore has never hidden its message, it has been there all along, I just failed to comprehend it. It was loud, it was clear – We don’t need Nigerians here. I jokingly mentioned that there were no pure water sachets on the road and that it was a crime for you to chew gums openly in Singapore. I needed no one else to tell me that Singapore has a right to determine whom they allow into their country and defend their culture, traditions and love for an open green environment, things that many of my brothers would willingly destroy.
Singaporeans are 5.61million people in number. Nigerians? we are 190 million and counting. It wasn’t until 1963, 3 years after Nigeria, that Singapore declared its independence from Great Britain and joined Malaya to form the Federation of Malaysia. It took it another 2 years to be thrown out of Malaya and a truly independent republic on August 9, 1965 . In these years, these 5.61million people have achieved enviable heights that the 190million of us in Nigeria are still dreaming of. No wonder they can tell us to go to hell. What this means is that if you are a Nigerian, no matter what you have accomplished in life, to the Singaporean, you are nothing. Given the hundreds of Nigerians being sold as slaves in Libya, I know it that the Singaporean looks at all Nigerians as that worthless. What makes any of us different from those being sold to slavery in the 21st century and our government was dragging its foot to act?
This really got me thinking and I renewed my commitment at entrepreneurship to develop Nigeria into such a state that it will be self-sufficient and the cynosure of eyes like that of Singapore. And to Singapore? Not a dime of my money will be spent in this economy ever more, I guarantee it.
The Man Died….Would have been 77yrs old today
77 years old. That’s right. That is how old he would have been today. We would have gathered round him, along with his grandchildren and great grandchildren to celebrate him. For sure, he may have another lady by his side as his fourth or fifth wife, but that won’t have mattered. He would have been celebrated as a loving father.
If death had not struck on that evil of all days in 1976. He was just 36 years old when he had to answer the call that we all mortals will answer, one day. More than four decades after, I still do have my glimpses of him, now and then. He was caring, loving and would tolerate no nonsense from any of his children. We were not rich but were comfortable and he provided all that we did ask for such that we were the envy of many, amongst whom we grew up.
Father started me up on the path of life. From him I learnt the great education that travels bring. We didn’t travel by flights, it was all on the roads. My early recollection was with his Suzuki Motorbike. That was years ago in Oyo. I can’t forget the night that the Suzuki packed up on us, in the middle of nowhere. Three of us, miles away from the nearest abode. I remember, Daddy leaving mum and I to sleep, next by the Suzuki, while he trekked to seek help from the nearest settlement. Those were the good old days. We had no fear of attack from anyone. No, not even the casttle rustlers. I dare say we slept soundly that night, by the road side and it wasn’t until the next day that Daddy showed up and got the Suzuki repaired.
It wasn’t in Ode-Ekiti that I first became aware that I have a Dad, it was in Oyo. The day he came to pick me up on a trip to “who knows where”. Whether the trip started in Oyo or Ibadan, I cannot accurately recall. However, I do know we travelled in a Lorry. An open back one, the sort used in the north for carrying grains and agricultural produce to the south. Dad was seated comfortably in the front cabin and mum must have been nestled between him and the driver. My siblings and I, along with all our worldly possessions,occupied the open back of the lorry. The journey was bumpy and long, it seemed never ending. The sun shone and the cold taught us the importance of dressing warm. There were stops here and there and after what seemed an eternity, we finally arrived at a remote town. This I later came to realise was Daura. This was to be our home for the next few years.
Mother returned back to Oyo and I was left to be raised up by my step-mother, my other mother. His youngest wife became a mother to me. Of course, there were conflicts. I remember, it was always either with my half-sister or half-brother. We fought, we laughed and we learned. At no time was I made to feel that I was without my natural mother. I actually came to forget that I had one. Such was the love that prevailed in the house that he headed.
We had a decent accommodation, right in the middle of the town. Daura had no electricity but we were well served by kerosene lamps and candles for illumination. Then things got better and he bought a marvel of a fridge. One that runs on kerosene. That became our watering hole. We now had access to refreshing cold water, to cool ourselves from the dry humid and hot conditions of the almost desert landscape that Daura is. We got enrolled in the public school. I am pretty sure there was nothing like private schools in Daura then. Even ifthere were,I am sure that Daddy would not have enrolled us there as well. I remember running back from school, in those early days, complaining that the boys were abusing me. A Yoruba boy in the midst of mainly Hausa kids. I learnt Hausa words like “Sege Bansa”, Barao, and a few others that I easily can’t remember now. I would cry home only to be scolded, beaten with lashes and sent back to school by him. I soon developed good friendship the boys and was no longer an outcast. We walked to school and back with other boys from the community. There was no distinction. I was the son of a man of high repute in the society but treated no differently from the boy next door. It didn’t matter to anyone that I wasn’t Hausa. Eating Fura De Nunu (aged milk and millet blend) and other Hausa foods became the norm.
We were free in the neighbourhood. I remember the Durbar at the Emir’s Palace. He always encouraged us to go and watch it. I had a faint recollection of a man spitting fire during one of the durbars. There were also the snake charmers and, of course, the horses dressed in royal splendour with their riders paying tribute to the Emir of Daura. Such was the beauty of the Annual Durbar.
When prosperity shined on us, he bought The Red Lada. It was the subject of discussion for a long while. The Lada Car, not many would remember, was a piece of Russian Engineering and was second to none. I always describe it as the car with no luxury built in. The design must have had the philosophy that if something doesn’t contribute to making the car work, it shouldn’t be in the Lada. There was always this discussion, which was a better car – the Lada or the Fiat? His other friend had a Fiat.
On the few occasions that he had to drive us to school, I was always proud to alight from that shining car. There was no Air Conditioning and you could guess what the experience was to ride in this car under the heat of the northern Nigerian sun. We didn’t see anything wrong, we loved the car.
We took many trips in this car. I remember the many trips across the northern border of Nigeria just to buy fresh cow milk. Not that the milk was that dear to him but it was an opportunity for him to bond with us, his kids. On one occasion, as we were returning from the trip, we came across an Eagle on he road. As the Eagle spread its wing to take off, it ran into the car and got the windscreen cracked. It fell to the road side. I can vividly see daddy open the booth, bringing out the jack and using this to snuff the life out of the poor bird. We had our dinner made for us. It was warm milk with roasted Eagle that night. It was through these, that early in life, he imparted some very important pieces of wisdom into my then tender mind. I soaked them all. Did someone say something about discipline? He was a stern concerning this. I spent countless hours confined to my seat by the dining table, forced to study. I dared not leave the table until late into the evenings.
When he was jolly, he would bring out his cherished turn table. Yes, you got it. It looked like a briefcase, but when opened up, reveals its little secret. He would ask me to operate it, having carefully selected from his collections either a 33 1/3 or 45 rpm disc. The soothing music of any of I.K. Dairo, Ebenezer Obey, Sunny Ade or Emperor Pick Peters will fill the air. Far in that northern corner of Nigeria, he will gently sway to the music. As kids, we consider this the best of times to ask him for anything. Anything at all.
I must have gotten infested with the travel bug from him. He was everywhere and there was nowhere in this God blessed piece of earth called Nigeria that he did not foray into. In a manner similar to that of Mr. Bako, he took us round the country. In the Red Lada. You dare not say you don’t know whom Mr. Bako, his wife Mrs. Bako and their two children Alade and Biola were, except you had not read the Universal Primary English Textbooks for Years 5 and 6. We drove from North to South. The South-West and then North again. It was in this car that I got to visit Lokoja, on our way to Ibadan. We got educated as to what a confluence was and the historic significance of Lokoja to Nigeria. I recollect that Samuel Ajayi Crowder (that gentleman that interpreted the English Bible to Yoruba) lived there. Going back through Jebba, we marvelled at the bridge over the Niger. It was a brilliant piece of engineeting, with the train on its tracks soaring ahead of us. Somewhere here, my recollection is faint now, the road was very narrow and we were navigating through this road next to the river when the rear end of the car scraped the side roads. We were saved from falling into the Niger by inches. I can’t forget the ensuing altercation between our driver and Daddy. The Driver threw the car keys to Daddy in annoyance and left us stranded. Not being an expert driver, Daddy took over the control of the car and drove us all the way back to Daura.
It was that same car that traversed the south west and we got to spend time in Ode-Ekiti. How can I forget our late night arrival in Ode-Ekiti with Daddy? We were welcomed with a steaming bowl of pounded yam and Egusi soup. The next morning, a repeat of the same delicious meal followed. Well, our host clearly made a mistake when, with a lot of sweat, the women pounded yam again and presented it to us as our lunch. I was fed up and couldn’t hide my distaste of it. The Red Lada took us to Lagos, not the same Lagos as we now know it. We stayed in Agege visiting his father-in-law, my maternal father. He was a Muslim, a devoted one for that matter. We are Christians. This did not matter to anyone. We ate “sari” with him and I enjoyed it as I didn’t have to fast to enjoy this extra meal at the break of dawn.
On one of our trips to see an Uncle living a bit away from us, we had an accident with the car. The tyre busted. The car rolled over and landed on its roof, all the four tyres faced up. We were given for dead by other road users. Miraculously, we didn’t have any injury. No, not even a scratch. We all crawled out through the front windscreen that had shattered. It was in Saminaka, in Kaduna State, if I remember correctly. For some reasons, Death was not permitted to take any of us then but it started lurking at the corner. Waiting to strike, where it pained most.
Not that I resemble him, no. The credit for that goes to another of my sibling who happens to be his duplicate copy, in all terms of the word. He was short, I am not. He carried a goatee, I hate beards. He was polygamous with a love of women, not in the way I do. However, all things, said, I am his offspring and remain very proud to have had him as my father.
In his 36 years on earth, he got the education he could afford and craved that we kids should follow his path. He attended Ibadan Grammar School and then proceeded to Adeyemi College of Education, Ondo. He was an itinerant teacher and had left his mark on many schools and students. He was at Awe Grammar School, Awe. St Andrews Teacher Training College Oyo, Ijomu-Oro Grammar School and Ode-Ekiti High School were some of the schools where he tutored.
He loved his job, he loved his students. It was the love for impacting young minds that took him to Daura. Then, and even now, Daura seemed to be at the end of the world, a far far away place. He wasn’t bothered about that. He was known at the Teacher’s College and loved. Years after he was gone, I was pleasantly surprised when mother handed over to me a plaque that had been delivered to her by the Old Boys Association of Ode-Ekiti High School. I wept and my joy was rekindled in him as my father. It was to remember him for his significant impact on the lives of these men, who were his boys in those years at the school. The plaque was presented by the then Managing Director of Wema Bank, Segun Oloketuyi. Such was the impact he had on those whom he was privileged to teach.
His quest for the Golden Fleece was insatiable. He gained admission to a college in the UK and was preparing to leave the shores of the country. In preparation, he sent us all packing from Daura to Ibadan, to await his arrival. That was the last I ever saw him, alive.
And the man died. The unfortunate day was the 22nd October 1976. He was alone in his Red Lada. That same car, he loved so much. A send forth party had been arranged for him by his fellow teachers at the College. They must have partied and were probably tipsy as well. He was making his way back to Daura on the Katsina-Daura Road when, whatever happened, he and his beloved car ended up in the river. The end came for the man I am proud to have called Daddy. The rest is history, his corpse was brought down to Ibadan and got buried at the Church’s Cemetery close to Orita Aperin.
Years ago, I could pin-point with precision where his grave was. While we were not watching, busy with other affairs of life, some other folks turned the resting place of our dear beloved into the land upon which they have built their houses. The Cemetery, a sacred ground of those days, have been taken over by land grabbers and developed. As I write this, it’s been a struggle to locate his grave. The Bible records that when the Israelites left Egypt, they left with Joseph’s bones to the promised land. That was 400 years after Joseph’s death. The Israelites were able to locate his bones and took them along. 41 years after my father’s death, we can’t locate his grave not to talk of his bones. So sad. He is dead, true. We can’t show his grave to his grandchildren but he lives on in our hearts, in our deeds and the lineage we have established through him.
Exodus…Embracing the future with wide open hands.
It’s a been a very warm summer morning in Lagos and having successfully maneuvered through the early morning Lagos traffic, we made it to Ikeja Airport. With check-in completed, we took our seats at the waiting lounge. The calls were soon made to board and we took our seats. Soon, the plane completed its taxing and increased speed with its nose tilted upwards. It’s take off time. As the sights of Lagos recedes from my window, I took a look at the passenger next to me and let out a long sigh. It was a sigh of relieve. The mission begins.
It’s really now that I can give greater thoughts to the new life that I was about to begin. It’s been a wonderful journey these past two decades and my complaints about the nature of my job were not much. Now I have left all these behind and am commencing on a journey. These are untested waters for me. I have fared well within the protective shelter of others. For the whole period of my working life, I have had others at the helm of the boat and was just paddling along, at the commands of the different captains. Now, I have decided to Captain my own boat, I mean ship. Sink or float, I am totally responsible.
In the almost two decades that I spent with the Company, I have grown from a young man to a matured one, with hairs almost completely grey. I have managed to remain healthy. Reasonably. I have managed to keep out of the hospital bed by the grace of God. A couple of well-meaning friends have looked at the decision that I took to exit the Company and called it wide ranging names from it being insane to utterly sacrilegious. We all see differently, depending on the lens we are looking from. From their perspective, they are right. I saw differently. I saw an opportunity.
It wasn’t a decision I arrived at lightly, it was a monumental one and the impacts are wide reaching. I started toying with this decision half a decade ago and kept on laying this before the one that has the whole world in his hands. As the years passed by, I was almost aborting the revelation but either side I turned, there seemed to be no way out of this. I am foremost a family man, before anything else. The decision was soon made easier, when the choice that faced me was between the job and the family. The past few years have not been the best for my closely knit family, we got separated across the wide divide of the oceans. Something needed to give – either the family or the job. I chose the job. This was counter-intuitive to many as they had chosen the family, in similar circumstance.
Everyone else can afford to fail, I can’t. There is too much at stake. As with all great opportunities, there are great risks. As a Christian, I have read the story of the Exodus of the Israelites from Egypt. I am going over this story again and it is now making new meanings to me. Previously, I felt the Israelite were so damned stupid in desiring to return to Egypt as the LORD led them on a journey to a promised land – a land that flow of milk and honey. Well, now that the story lies closer home I can feel their pains. The assurance of good food, sheltered accommodation and opportunities that Egypt provided were more alluring than the uncertainties that the promised land offered. Simply, the old age wisdom that a bird in hand was worth more than a thousand in the bush lies in the head of the Israelites. I now fully understand the challenges with the choice that God asked these folks to make, don’t ask me how. Making it much tougher was God’s decision of revealing only in bits that part of the future glory as they needed it and not entirely at once.
But herein is the glory, if we have the revelation power to understand it. We work by faith and not by sight! If HE has said it, HE would do it. Since faith without works is dead, each day we need to take steps moving us closer to HIS will. We must work as well. No major achievement of our human specie has been accomplished in a comfort zone. While the comfort zone is always attractive and a very comfortable place to stay, there is a need to disturb the status quo, to give birth to fresh ideas. I am constantly nudged by the need to create a different future, a future for my family and I that provides financial freedom and economic security.
It is the burden of this onerous responsibility that overwhelmed me as I fly out of the city of Lagos, a city that I had called home all the years of my adulthood and is now no longer one. I am going ahead to conquer new territories and take a few hostages along. As I bid Lagos bye for now and for some season, I look forward to being warmly received at our new home. It’s a little city located on the eastern shores of the Indian Ocean, South East of Lagos. Some have described it as the most remote capital city in the world. Whatever you call it, it doesn’t matter much to me. I now call it home.
I hope in five years from now, when I hope to write a follow up to this article, I would hopefully say, it’s a worthwhile decision and well rewarding. As for Lagos, I am still deeply knitted to her fabrics, she won’t let go and neither will I. She is a vibrant African beauty with all her allures. I have made a lot of memories and friends in this city.
I plan to visit frequently and will never forget you.
Time Heals ALL Wounds – An Easter Sunday visit to Daura, Katsina State
It would be forty (40) years, later this year, when death came calling and struck thrice. Stealing from me three very important people. He started with my maternal grandfather, that fine gentleman. I can remember “Baba” clearly. He comes back home each evening on his precious Suzuki motorcycle. As I rushed to welcome him home, he would bring out a piece of boiled egg from the pocket of his “Buba” and give me while carefully parking the Suzuki in the corridor of the house. It never stays outside and the unwritten rule was “never touch the Suzuki”, he cared for it as one would take care of a precious wife. We buried him in a white porcelain ladded grave. I still see the grave now, each time I visit Sita Street.
We were just rounding up with his burial when death struck again! Stretching his grim hands, he took away my paternal grandfather. That was painful, I had fond memories of him too. He was a customary court judge who went about his business with a lot of dignity and respect for people. That fateful day, it was said that he w’s returning from the court home and was about climbing the two steps that lead to the raised balcony of his house when he tripped and fell. He was rushed to the hospital where he was bed ridden for many days. He never made the trip back to the house, alive. It was a long drive from Daura to Ibadan in the Red Lada, for us to attend his burial. It was during this trip that I got to see the then mighty Jebba Bridge of which I have a story to tell, sometimes later.
Death dealt the biggest blow in October, when he hit below the belt. My Dad fell, never to rise again. It all started as a well rehearsed play. We had relocated to the ancient city of Ibadan about a month before this sad event happened. It was not part of the Act, there was no role for death in the play. Through crude mischief, death showed up and snatched my father away. What was in the Act was for Daddy to close up his affairs in Daura, meet the family in Ibadan and continue his journey to Europe, where he planned to pursue some studies of some sort. Rather than receive him with warm hugs and kisses, what we got was his lifeless body from Daura. Life was never the same again. With an ending like this, all the good experiences that we had in Daura during our three (3) year sojourn vanished. They were easily replaced with feelings of resentment, anger and great loss. How could Daura do this to us? No family meeting was held but, written in each of our hearts was the conviction that, Daura was not to be forgiven. It’s the least likely of places to be visited, ever again.
Well that was then. Forty years was what it took God to move the Israelites from Egypt to the promised land. It was long enough for God to touch us as well, especially me. It is long enough to forgive, to let bye-gone be bye-gone and to start a new chapter in life. That of acceptance and reconciliation. My renewed interest in Daura was kindled when the lanky and elderly Muhammadu Buhari (Sai Baba) won the Nigerian Presidential Elections. He is a full blooded Daura son. He had retired to Daura following his earlier incarnation as the military head of state. The adventurous spirit in me, that same spirit that oftentimes make me to wander to unfamiliar territories, craved a need to see where our new President comes from. Added to this was the urge to step again on the grounds of Daura School II, a school that contributed in no small measure to whom I am today. Now I have a potent mix, it becomes difficult to resist a trip to Daura. Daura Teachers College was also on my mind. It was the bill payer, this was where my Dad traded his knowledge for the income that sustained us. Remembering how elegantly my father stepped out each day from the house to drive his Red Lada to this school was enough to put Daura back on my adventure map. It all seemed like yesterday again. I could recollect the seemingly long walk to school and one particular trip where we got caught up in watching a domestic fracas and I ended up fracturing my left arm. The sight of the Emir’s Palace, especially during the Durbar with the elegantly dressed up horses and the riders with flowing robes, came flashing bye. I also could see the “Kasua” with the meat stalls and the endless bags of beans and other legumes being sold. The Aroma was indescribable. And of course, our house. Our Kerosene powered fridge was unique. In the hot, humid and dusty Northern Nigeria’s weather, it brought amazing relieve to us. It was an invaluable treasure that we had. My dad also had a portable vinyl player. No one else in the family, apart from me, was allowed to operate this. How can I forget our scheming as little children, one of which led to our using a razor to cut into the cloth fabrics of the Red Ladas seat. We got the beatings of our life, which was well deserved. As young children, who spoke little Hausa, we wandered free from home yet with little cares and worries. All these memories were all slowly coming back to me. These were the allure of Daura.
There wasn’t much rigor applied to the plan. I got on google.com and searched out the closest airport to the ancient city and settled on a simple plan. I would fly to Kano and take a road
trip to Daura. I thought of having my mum along on the trip, I felt this would help to revitalise her but she had other plans – the Deeper Life Easter retreat comes first, above all other things in her life. I settled on a day – it was to be Easter Friday and I would spend four (4) days in Daura to savour the old charm that the town held for us. The trip was not to be or so it seemed as other commitments soon came clashing with the departure date of Friday. I was resolute, no matter what, I will make the trip. On Saturday, with a lot of courage, I booked the flight, it was to be on the first flight that departs Lagos by 6:40am. This itself was challenging, to be at the Murtala Mohammed 2 Airport before 6am requires a lot of logistic coordination. It was a Sunday, except for the bottleneck on Mobolaji Bank Anthony Way where the riotous fuel seekers had blocked the main road queuing for fuel, the trip was enjoyable and short. Within 35mins, I was at the Airport Car Park.
I entered the Terminal and was amazed to see Technology at work. The automatic ticketing machines, four of them, were staring at me. I am a man of great hope. I approached one of them, followed the on-screen prompt and, “Walla”, had my boarding pass printed out. Amazing, Technology can work also in Nigeria? I first encountered these in South Korea in 2005 and had been wondering when this will make itself to Nigeria. With the boarding pass on me, I took the escalator upstairs, avoiding the queue at the ticketing counter. Well my excitement was soon cut short as I would not be allowed into the departure lounge, I needed to go back downstairs and obtain a little receipt from the counter. Now, this is the Nigerian challenge, we always have to put some bottlenecks to ensure that technology doesn’t work as designed. I went back to the queue that I thought I had avoided. I soon called out to one of the attendants and she graciously obliged me with the missing slip. I went back up to the departure lounge. It wasn’t long that the boarding call for Air AZMAN was called. Another surprise. Given my experiences in the past two years with a few Nigerian carriers, I had come to expect delays as normal part of flying. This wasn’t to be with Air AZMAN this morning. We departed as scheduled and landed in Kano as planned. It was great to be in Kano again, I haven’t stepped on the soils of the ancient city in the past twenty-one years. The Airport looked elegant. It was fit-for-purpose and nothing in it brings the sadness that the Port Harcourt Airport connotes. I made my way out of the Airport and got to “Kofar Ruwa”, where I had been told that I would get a connecting vehicle to Daura. It was a motor park. The choices for my trip were not many, concerns for personal safety was paramount. I thought of taking a chartered vehicle to Daura, I felt it would be risky. I wasn’t going to stand out in the crowd. I chose to join a regularly scheduled commercial bus for the two (2) hour trip to Daura. I made this choice that it was the less risky of every other alternatives as I could easily blend in amongst other commuters. It took forever for the bus to get filled up and then a joker was played on me – four other people will be loaded in the bus as attachments. Now, all comforts were gone and the hope to take in the sights and sounds of the arid landscape of the north, while we made the trip, was lost. In all, there were 15 souls in this bus whose seats were designed for 10 people. It was to be a tortuous two hour trip. I kept
shifting uncomfortably from side to side, yet I neither got an increase in comfort nor a reduction in inconvenience. My feet were crammed and I blamed myself for choosing this “talakawa” mode of transportation for the visit. Mid-way into the trip, somewhere in Jigawa state, the driver pulled away from the road and hurriedly commanded the conductor and three (3) others who were sitting as “attachments” to come down from the vehicle. There were motorcycle operators (“Okadas”) waiting by the roadside. Without understanding any word of the Hausa that was spoken, I felt relieved and really thought these folks have alighted from the vehicle and I would now have some comfort. The Driver drove off and in less than a minute, we were accosted by the Vehicle Inspection Officers (VIOs) who took a look at the vehicle and satisfied themselves that the vehicle was not over-loaded. The driver was allowed to continue his journey and he pulled over again, less than two (2) minutes from the check point. It was then that I realized what was really happening – somehow the message had been passed to him as to the presence of the VIOs and to deceive them he had made four passengers to alight from the vehicle, paid for the Okada to ferry them through the checkpoint and we were now waiting to pick them back. I got convinced that we all, especially all the occupants in the vehicle that did not raise our voices to let the VIO know what has happened, are all part of the corruption that has besieged our nation. If we were to assume that the VIO were oblivious to the scheme that just took place (and I doubt this), shouldn’t we the passengers bring this to their notice so that they can keep our roads safe?
As we drove through Jigawa State, I saw “Jaura” and I was frightened. Was it possible that the destination of the bus was Jaura in Jigawa State and not Daura in Katsina? If we were heading to Daura in Katsina what were we doing in Jigawa State? I was confused and my limited understanding of the Hausa language became a problem. I was unable to communicate and ask the needed questions to address my concerns. I soon gave up and made up my mind that whatever happens, it was all part of an adventure.
After what had seemed an eternity of pain in the Nissan commuter bus, we reached Daura and the bus pulled into a “Kofar”. I alighted and made for the main road, the Daura-Kano road. I had earlier seen a signboard showing the way to the Emir’s palace and got convinced that the areas where we lived as little kids were not far from the “Kofar”. At the new Total Petrol Station (I believe it was recently constructed to honour Buhari), I asked for the best hotel in town and was directed to Daura Motel. I flagged down an “Okada” and in less than three (3) minutes, we were at the hotel. It was undergoing renovations but the sight at the reception told me all that I needed to know – you can’t stay here! It was dusty, the windows were left fully open and no air-conditioner was anywhere. I called for the receptionist, no one answered my call. I saw about three middle aged men talking together outside the reception hall but paying no attention to me. I left the reception and walked to the gate. I needed to look for another hotel. I got brought to Takare Inn, which I was told was the second hotel in Daura, none else. I had my many reservations but having been told that there was no other place for me to lodge, I grudgingly made the payment and got assigned a room. I could feel Joseph and Mary’s pains as they arrived Bethlehem and there was no room for them in the Inn. It had its many failings but I could pass the night in it and still wake up alive the next morning. I spent like five (5) minutes in the room, and was soon out, to explore the city which was the main purpose of my trip to Daura.
I asked to be taken to “Bayajidda Well”. As a child, I had listened to and retold the Bayajidda story severally. It was because of Bayajidda that Daura holds a place of prominence amongst the Hausa states. Just as we, the Yorubas have our cradle of civilization as “Ile-Ife”, the Hausas hold Daura ,with respect, as theirs. The valour of Bayajidda in killing “Sarki”, the snake was the foundation of Bayajidda’s marriage to Queen “Magajiya” Daurama, a relationship that produced the Hausa “Bakwai” States. A variant of the story also gives insight to the “Banza Bakwai” states. It took some time for the Okada to understand me but he finally did. We passed by the Emir’s Palace and it looked much nicer than it used to look as per my recollection. We got to the little house, in the midst of Old Daura, where the well is. It is now called Kusugu Well. I talked with the keeper who allowed me access. Just as with most things Nigeria, not much efforts have been expended to make this a tourist attraction. Apart from the Gold Plated inscription on the wall, there wasn’t much that tells the story of this well and that of the Brave Bajayidda, without which there would have been no city called Daura as at date. There were a few pictures of past Emirs of Daura on the wall and if one were not to be told, it’s most likely that the average visitor will pass bye without noting the significance of this place. Truth be told, the house and the internals of the building were kept very clean. I did not spend up to five (5) minutes before a group of about five (5) kids came in with their water cans. I exited the building, paid the fifty naira token demanded by the keeper and started my walk in the Old Quarters. I soon came across the Old Prison Walls. I wanted to get closer only to be told not to by one of the sentries watching the facility. Seriously, it is questionable what an old prison like this is still doing in service and has not been turned into a national monument. No wonder Boko Haram found it an easy target to invade in 2013. I moved on, waded through the area and kept on asking myself whether I would be able to identify our old house, my school and the Teachers’ College. I soon reached the Emir’s Palace and went in through its beautiful gates. At the entrance were a few soldiers who demanded to know my mission. I told them but they won’t let me in. They requested for my Identification Card and I obliged yet they refused me entrance, I turned back and walked towards my hotel passing through the “Kasua”. There were no stalls, of the type that I recollected with the Old Daura. It was hot, and I picked up a few essentials on my way back to the hotel. As I approached the hotel, I saw the “Mai Suya”. I stopped by and noticed this was Guinea Fowl Suya. I requested for one, which he put next to the fire and in few minutes, sliced and packed for me. I got into my room, took a brief shower and settled down to the Guinea Fowl Suya. It was tasty and well prepared. I soon fell asleep and by the time I woke up, it was 5:00pm.
I stepped out of Takare Inn and waved down an Okada. I requested for directions to “Gidan” Muhammadu Buhari. I was told that the house was at the GRA. The idea was to evaluate how modest the house was. Stories have been told that since Muhammadu Buhari’s exit from the military, he had maintained an austere life and had not amassed properties like many of our past rulers did. Some point away from the Kano-Daura Road, the Okada branched left and we came to an open street on which the whole left side of the street consist of sprawling buildings and the right was bare except that it was dotted here and there with military and police presence. We soon got to the second traffic barrier on the street and the sight of the detachment of soldiers watching over the white house told me that it would be trouble for us to go towards the house to take a look. I told the Okada to turn back and it was at this point that we heard a loud voice screamed “Wait There”. We stopped took a turn and went to meet about three (3) Soldiers who had taken to their feet and were coming towards us. They sought to know what our mission on the road was and I explained to them. The leader of the group, in good English Language, expressed concerns with the manner in which we came to the street, turned back without approaching them and advised that in future we should meet with them to express our desires. I wanted to but I was not bold enough to take pictures of the President’s personal house. Somehow, with these soldiers, it would be a suicidal move. Without much ado, we left the place and I was taken to my old School, Daura II.
A lot has changed with the school. It was sporting a new look with better brick constructed buildings. In the middle of its grounds were school desks laid out in the open, for no special reasons. I took in the sight with some nostalgia. I can’t visibly remember which class I was but could recollect how we sat on our bare bottoms on the open grounds of the school and were taught the English Alphabet. I also remember the seemingly long straight walk to the school. I vividly could now recount the incident that led to the first of two fractures on my left arm. It was one school morning, as we were approaching the school that we beheld commotion from one of the houses. There was domestic violence going on and a man was having his moment of madness with one of his wives. As students, we gathered and were watching the scenes, when suddenly someone else brought out a whip to disperse us. It was in the process of running from the whip that I fell and other students stepped on my left arm. I got my first fracture and was in pains for months until it healed up. I walked out of the school grounds towards the street where I thought the event occurred. I could not identify any of the houses, everywhere looked different. I took a left turn and was soon within the old quarters.
It was evening and around the time for the evening prayers. A lot of people were on the streets. Daura has a thriving population. I could see the cars, the flowing dresses and the differing looks on the faces of the men and the kids. I also could see the “Almanjirins” and I concluded we have problems in this country. I saw the “Mai Ruwa”, the water seller and noticed that not much had changed with this profession, except that they now ply their wares using Plastic containers and not the 50 litres Iron Containers of old. I kept on walking and started seeing the decaying old mud buildings, they have seen the years and as evidence of the harsh weather on these structures, one could see them falling apart in different places and the owners putting up mud structures to support them. All the women, with no exception, had their coverings on. Everywhere I turned, the young girls with their brightly painted lips, “laali” on their feet walked the streets with their heads covered. Daura is fully a Muslim city though I heard that there is the presence of a church somewhere within its boundaries. Nearly every other house has a Mosque and people were gathered all around these. With more mosques than industries, it’s easy to conclude that Daura, like many other Nigerian cities, is extremely religious. What I could not conclude is whether she is Godly! Not far from where I stood, I saw a young man operating a grinding machine for a lady, he was either blending millet, maize or beans for the evening meal. All the streets were tarred and the outside of most houses were swept clean. Life around these places was vibrant. I took a few pictures with some fear – fear that I could be accosted as evading someone’s privacy and it doesn’t take much to excite these teeming youths in this region. I asked around for “Bayajiddah Street” and no one could locate such a street, all I kept being referred to was the “Bayajiddah School”.
I soon got to “Kofar Sarki Bashar” where I saw a few youth that I felt were educated enough to converse in English. I asked for directions to “Daura Teachers’ College” and was gladdened to be told it was just in front of me. What I saw was the Federal Government College, Daura. I showed my confusion and this was cleared when one of the young men told me that it used to be the Teachers’ College but was converted many years ago when the country chose to do away with the Grade II Teachers Qualification. I asked for “Bayajiddah Street” and again no one could provide a direction to the Street. I said my thanks, took a few pictures of the entrance to the Federal Government College and turned right, heading back to my hotel. I saw the “Bayajiddah School” with its modern one storey buildings and clean compound. I took a few pictures and soon came across a woman frying and selling Akara by the road side. I joined a few men waiting to buy the Akara. When it was almost my turn, the woman said “Baa Turenshi” to which I replied “Baa Hausa”. Everyone laughed and I gesticulate to show I wanted to buy fifty naira worth of Akara. She packed these and gave it to me and I handed over the money to her.
As I walked towards my hotel, it was then that I noticed the street lights, they were all on and helped to dissipate the darkness. I soon noticed the Traffic lights at the junction of Kano-Daura Road and that of Mamman Daura Road. I noticed that everyone was obeying them, including the notorious Okadas. There was no policeman at the traffic light junction to control traffic yet everyone moves only when the light is green. Daura works! I was soon at my hotel and I settled down and ate the Akara, with a bottle of water.
I came, I saw, I conquered, goes the famous saying by Napoleon. I have seen nearly everything that I came to look for in Daura, it was time to pass the night. I made sure my doors were firmly locked and settled on the bed and slept off. Tomorrow would be another morning. I kept on thinking, what was the secret behind this thriving remote post in North Central Nigeria? The next town to Daura is in Niger Republic and it was probably, in my understanding, the town that helped the Nigeriens and Nigerians to facilitate trade. There were no other notable resources to support this town. I could see three well- built commercial bank offices located on the main road – First Bank, Access Bank and of course Unity Bank. I still couldn’t fathom what keeps the population here thriving and staying firm in Daura? These were the thoughts on my mind before I dozed off. I woke up on Monday morning to a dusty, dry Harmattan weather. The sun lighted up the room and the tall “Dongoyaro” tree by the window did a brilliant job of shading the room from the full intensity of the sun. I did my morning rituals and was soon out of the motel. Downstairs, I picked a “Sai Buhari” Cap at a princely sum and then headed to the city limits. Having promised myself that my journey out of Daura had to be with much more comfort than the trip in, I was able to get a cab that took me on the one and a half-hour ride back to Kano. I negotiated with the driver not to take on excess passengers and agreed to pay for the seats not filled. Despite this, he still carried two (2) other gentlemen in the booth. I had my comfort and the much needed leg room.
Without much ado, we left Daura and soon passed through the Katsina State’s border into Jigawa. Here I saw an amazing spread of fresh green vegetables being grown at the road side. I saw this as a revelation about the fertility of the soil in the area and what a great food basket the area could be turned to with some significant investment in irrigation. Saudi Arabia did this and so did Egypt around the Nile. Nigeria can do same as well. We were soon faced with the mountain range of Jigawa as we approached Kazaure. The sight was awesome. Looking at the formation, I jumped to the conclusion that this was a limestone rock. We soon approached the Vehicle Inspection Officers and the same scenario that I witnessed during the earlier trip repeated itself out. The two (2) men in the boot alighted and took Okadas while my cab proceeded through the checkpoint without any issue. Once through the checkpoint, at a safe distance, the cab stopped and picked the two (2) men who continued the journey in the boot. I got reminded of Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart where Eneke the bird says that “Since men have learned to shoot without missing, he has learned to fly without perching.” I concluded with a question – Who is fooling who? The Drivers, the passengers or the VIOs. It won’t be surprising to find out that the VIOs are the owners of the bikes that they have rented out to ferry people across the checkpoints!
As the cab continued its journey across Jigawa, I saw the open pit mines dotting the landscape. I had learnt over the years that Jigawa is blessed with Kaolin and this was probably what was being mined, along with sand mining, in the open pits. The dangers of erosions were glaring and concerted government efforts to stop this environmental degradation act would be needed. You can’t ignore the billboard of the National Agency for the Great Green Wall, it stares you right in the face! I saw it earlier as we drove to Daura and I am seeing it again. Do we have an agency for Secret Societies or are we in a sort of clandestine collaboration with China for something around the Great Wall of China? I couldn’t fathom what the Great Green Wall was all about and why there should be a national agency established for this. Well, the little research I did when I got back to Lagos helped to cover the gap in my education – the Agency was all about afforestation and was established in 2015 by an Act of Parliament. As we approached Kano, around Dambata, we came across a River on our right side. It was sprawling with life and vegetation. I concluded that this must be River Kano (I may be wrong) but as I enjoyed the sight of the river, I thought of the economic importance of this river to the area and the need to continually keep the river healthy. We arrived Kano around half past ten in the morning and I made my way to the Airport. My flight to Lagos was to be by 2:40pm in the afternoon and given my previous experience with Air Azman, I was looking forward to a timely departure. This was not to be. We did not board until around 4:00pm and even with this, the flight was routed through Abuja where we spent some time on the tarmac for Abuja passengers to disembark and take on more passengers to Lagos. I arrived Lagos around 6:30pm a weary man. I made my way to the parking lot, picked my car and drove straight home.
As I reflected on the trip, I was thankful that I am alive and well and could revisit moments of my childhood. I can now comfortably strike out Daura from the list of cities that I needed to visit.