Authorsoundsbetterthanwriter

Short Story on Radio 3!

2012-03-09T12:00:00.000Z

My reading of my short story Easter Sunday will be on Radio 3's Verb tonight at 10 pm. To listen live online click here or do it the old fashioned way and tune in on your radio.

N.E.P.A

2012-03-07T11:00:00.000Z

Growing up, many evenings and nights were spent in darkness. I did not mind too much when the power was cut off in the afternoon. Though the house became dim, there was still enough light to read and play Ludo and hopscotch. It was around 6pm when N.E.P.A had still not brought light that the absence of electricity became annoying. There were candles but reading by candle light had been embargoed by my mother for fear we would be partially blind before we reached our teenage years. So between 7pm when we ate and 9- 10pm when we slept, there was a lot of time to kill.

Sometimes we played with fire. This could take up a good half hour. We started by running our fingers through the candle flame. There was no winner in this game but the slower you passed your finger through the flame, the more of a pro you were. If you ran your finger through very quickly, you didn't feel anything and chicken that I was, I always took this option. Also, there was the two finger candle game where you tried to put out the flame by pinching it between your thumb and your index finger. I never attempted this round but some of the maids would show off by putting out the flame in this fashion. Then of course there was the candle wax game, which entailed spilling the molten wax on your hands and then scraping it off when it cooled.

However, my personal favourite was the matches game. You took a match, held it to the flame and let it catch fire. You then held it for as long as you possibly could. The further down the match the flame burned, the more proficient you were at this game. One of my proudest moments was when I managed to burn the whole match stick, right from its sulfuric head to its wooden stump. Usually, I could only burn the match for a few seconds before the heat got too close to my fingers and I dropped it. Then one day, I realised that if I held the charred end, I could burn the whole match with ease. After I'd beaten the system, I grew tired of the match game.

I tell this story because over the weekend I went to a seafood restaurant which was mostly lit by candle light. And it wasn't any of those fancy scented candles but the thick, white wax ones that I grew up with it. Of course, we began playing with the flame. I would break off pieces of wax and liquidize them in the blue part of the flame. I would spill the melted wax down the side of the candle. My friend opposite me even ran her finger through, a feat I found I no longer had the liver for. I don't know how but at some point, I tipped the candle too far and the molten wax that builds up under the flame spilled onto the back of my hand. I flinched but to my surprise I was able to chest the pain and even enjoyed scraping the wax off when it hardened.

After we got tired of playing with the flames, we made shadow puppets. I wasn't very good at this, my fingers are quite clumsy, but my cousins could do some wonderful shapes. I never progressed past the perfunctory butterfly but others could act out complete dramas on the walls. When we tired off puppets, we moved to singing. I played the piano, my sister would drum on our much bruised dining table and we would all sing, soprano, alto and tenor. I can still play with my eyes closed because of this training in the half light of the candles.

Sometimes we would go to bed without them having brought light. Other times the light would come suddenly, mid-song. The electricity would startle us, our eyes would squint at the artificial brightness of it and the flame would suddenly lose its magic. "Up NEPA!" we would shout but we didn't mean it entirely. We had been enjoying the camaraderie of the candle. With electricity there was no excuse for sitting together and singing. To switch off all the lights and continue making shadow puppets would be foolish when work clothes had to be ironed. And why play with wax when you could watch TV. So we would disperse until the next time NEPA had not brought light by evening and there was not enough diesel to power the generator.

A few months ago I was in America during a storm and the power was cut off. In the evening, candles were lit all over the house that only a day before had consumed an entire village's supply of electricity. It was my favourite night of the trip. This is how things should be sometimes, I thought as I played my uncle's piano with my eyes closed. This is how it should be.

An Evening with Chika Unigwe

2012-02-29T01:54:00.005Z

Photo Courtesy Ike Anya

The reading was in a swanky South Kensignton hotel called The Gore. The event was organised by the Dutch Embassy and was billed to start at 7pm. At 7:15 I rushed breathless into the hotel lobby and was pleased to discover that the Dutch are as flexible with their time as their Nigerian counterparts. There was a nice, dim waiting area and the main event was downstairs.

It was an informal space, with a few sofas against the walls and a wide floor space in the middle. Nigerian that I am, I sharply found a sofa arm to perch on. Sitting on the floor outside your house is just not done. Before the reading began, Chika mingled with her fans. She was gracious, greeting people like me who she's only met once, very warmly. By the time we were ready to start the room had filled up.

She read from a short story called The Love of a Fat Woman. It was about a Nigeriam man who'd married a woman he found unattractively and nauseatingly fat, in order to get immigration papers in the Netherlands. It's a common story that most Africans are familiar with. Interesting, however, was the manner in which this story was told. Chika neither condemned nor condoned the practice but rather wished to humanise it and did so in a very humorous way. The anti-hero prefers his fiance's svelte and attractive friend but she doesn't not notice him. So he settles for the papers that unfortunately come with a corpulent bride attached to them. When he takes her home he promises his mother that he will marry a 'real wife' later on.

We felt for the main character's over weight and insecure fiancé who believed that their love was genuine. But we also understood why the main character felt that this deception was the only way. We were moved by his close relationship with his family and because of that, it wasn't so easy to write him off as a cruel and unfeeling paper hunter.

The next story she read was told from the perspective of his relatives at home and their reaction to the Agaracha's new wife. I found this different outlook on events hilarious. His brother's wife, speaking of the Dutch bride's size, described her as a 'room and parlour.' Her earrings which were wooden had to be African because they did not look like they came from anywhere else and there was a lot of wood in Africa. They tried to offer her Western food but she refused insisting on eating pounded yam and even worse, insisting on eating it with her hands. Her in-laws rather uncharitably concluded that she was trying too hard.

Chika and her fans. :) Photo courtesy Tokunboh @toksy27

Too soon the reading segment ended and we had reached the QandA. In the second short story she read, she had written in English, Dutch and Igbo and one member of the audience asked how she found the process of moving through those languages in her writing. She spoke of how and why she learnt Dutch. She used to suffer panic attacks because after she moved to Belgium with her husband, she couldn't go anywhere by herself because she didn't understand a word of the language. And when she met her in-laws, she couldn't understand them either. So she had to pick up the language quickly.

She spoke about Belgium and why she had felt compelled to write 'On Black Sisters Street', her novel about Nigerian prostitutes working in the red light district. She described the Catholic home she had grown up as one where sex was rarely talked about. One of her favourite songs in her childhood was 'Let's Talk About Sex' by Salt and Pepper. However, the word sex was such a taboo that she substituted it with 'bread.' So whenever she sang it, the song became, "Let's talk about bread baby." I can imagine that the next line would be, "Let's talk about yeast and dough."
Dry.
I know.

So anyway, coming from this background, to get to Belgium and see sex everywhere was certainly a different experience. She described women in their lingerie, posing in glass windows waiting for their customers and she discovered that many of the girls were Nigerian and in particular from Benin. So at first, she tried to write the story without meeting the girls and on showing it to someone, they advised her to meet the women if she wanted an authentic story. So she put on her mini-skirt and took her husband with her to the red light district to meet them. The stories she heard were harrowing. One girl had been invited to Germany by her estranged father who had then sent her to live with a 'friend' in another European country. This 'friend' had run a brothel and the proceeds of her work had been sent to her father in Germany. She told of women without papers arrested by police and allowed to leave on the condition that they slept with the police men first.

She also, very excitingly, said that her next book was coming out in June. It's set in Nigeria and is about a relationship between a mother and a daughter. And her next-next book is going to be a work historical fiction set in the eighteenth century. I'm very, very excited about that one, being a history student et al. It's just been delivered to her agent so hopefully, we'll see that on the shelves soon as well.

And then just like that the evening was over and it was time to go and face the more mundane things of life like grocery shopping and dissertation writing. Chika closed to applause and flowers, which was exactly what you would expect.

Black Book Swap

2012-02-27T13:48:00.000Z

So this Saturday I'm going to be reading at the first ever Black Book Swap. It's free, so do come along if you're not busy this weekend between 1 and 5pm. There's a great line up, including Colin Grant, Sonja Lewis and Bim Adewunmi of Diane Abbott twitter fame among other things. It's going to be in the fabulous Jamaican restaurant Cottons, (70 Exmouth Market, London EC1R 4QP) so come if only for the jerk chicken. To reserve a place email blackbookswap@gmail.com. I've updated the events page on the blog to show all my upcoming events so even if you can't make this Saturday, there'll be other readings. Hope to see you at one of them.

Full details here.

Awoof Tales

2012-02-23T22:07:00.014Z

I do not intend that this post serve as an analysis of the Nigerian behavioural pattern known as 'awoof'.' Neither do I want to discover the etymology of this word, interesting though such a process might be. What I am concerned in documenting, is three instances where this behaviour has risen to the surface of the cultivated exterior that I and my close ones often try to exhibit. I leave analysis and explanation for another more appropriate forum.

1. A few weeks ago, whilst perambulating down my university corridors, I noticed a rather large crowd gathered in a rather large room appropriately called the Great Hall.
"What's going on?" I asked the lady making sure that only those who attended King's were admitted access into the usually unmanned Great Hall.
"It's a law careers fair."

I was on my way somewhere but hearing that a careers fair was in town, my plans for the day were suspended. This of course would make sense if I was interested in pursuing a career in the law. But I am not. I rescheduled my plans for the day because I knew that wherever a careers fair is, freebies must also be there. So I presented my student ID and was let into the hall.

And what a hubbub of law firms all welcoming passing students to their stalls. In the corner, I spied some snazzy pens. On the far right were mugs. To my left were water bottles. Where to begin? I took a step forward and stopped. What was my strategy? After all, I couldn't just walk up to a stall, grab its free goods and run off to the next one, only to do the same. A pattern would soon be observed. A girl of African descent, sidling up to a desk, snatching a highlighter and then making a dash to the next table two feet away. I realised that I would have to strike up conversation at every law firm whose freebies caught my eye in order not to give my people back home a bad name.

What a boring task it was. These lawyers can talk. And talk. And talk. At first I just made mmmm sounds, waiting for their monologues to be over so I could ask,"Please may I have a five-headed highlighter?"

Quite by accident, I struck on a way to make these talks more interesting. One lady, who intended to make me work for my gel pen, asked at the end of her speech, 'Do you have any questions?"
"Umm. Do you have-- Umm, do you guys do any human rights law?"
"Umm. No. Not really. We have some clients in Africa though."

Each law firm rep, took a different approach to this question. Some, like the first lady were embarrassed by their firm's lack of altruism. Others looked at me like I was stupid before replying, "Of course not." And one lady said to me, when I had walked through the halls and by this time was laden with my loot and a little weary, "To be honest, you won't find anyone who does human rights law here. I wanted to go into that for a while and the best thing to do is to look online." Ah, honesty from a lawyer. How refreshing.

Eventually, I struggled my way through the doors, carrying almost half my weight in freebies and law brochures. I left the brochures on a College Bench for anyone who was interested and went on my merry way, eating my giant lollipop.

2. My sister was fortunate enough to get to the final stages of an interview with a large multinational. Lucky for her, the interview was in luxury hotel in the country. She gushed about how beautiful the place was. The large rooms, the excellent breakfast and of course, the bathroom. For some reason, of all rooms in the house, Nigerians are most enamoured with the bathroom. Perhaps it is because our heavy diets ensure that we spend large portions of our time in there. Anyway, my sister oohed and aahed over the wide mirrors, the deep tub, the towels and then she spotted the soap. It was the same colour as cognac: dark liquid orange and it was kept in a glass carafe.

Needless to say, my sister came back with one. Now before you start shouting and saying, "We knew it! Awoof runs in their family!" let me explain how my sister returned with this rather weighty souvenir. At the end of her stay, she had considered taking the carafe. It was beautiful, stylish, just the right thing to improve the tone of our bathroom at home. But then she thought better about it. This was not like taking a plastic bottle of shampoo or a face flannel, this was more akin to stealing. So she left the hotel as she came, awoof free.

On the train journey back however, she sat with her Nigerian friend from primary school who had also incidentally been called for the interview. Of course, they spent ten minutes gushing about the room. Then the breakfast, those scrambled ehn, freshly laid by a chicken that morning.Then they got to the bathroom. Oh the bathroom. That wonderful place. My sister expressed regret at the morals that stopped her from permanently borrowing the hotel's beautifully packaged shower gel.

Her friend laughed long and hard and then opened her bag. Inside were not one but two glass bottles. One with shampoo, one with shower gel. This friend was generous however, and gave one bottle to my sister. It still sits on our bathroom rim till this day and we refill it and ooh and ahh over the lovely way the glass displays the different colours of shower gel we have poured into it.

3. I have an aunt who was on extended stay in America. We visited her and at some point, went shopping at a well-heeled supermarket. When we got to the till, she declined the woman's offer of bagging and said that we would do it ourselves. Meaning I would do the bagging. As the goods were passed to me, I began to put them in a single bag.
"Double bag them," she said. Some of the goods were quite heavy, so her request was understandable.
I double bagged, and moved on to the next items.
"You're putting too many things in one bag."
I thought the amount of around five items per bag was quite reasonable but clearly my aunt didn't think so. She shoved me aside and I watched as she put a tin of sweetcorn in a plastic bag and then double bagged that. A cabbage was triple bagged, a pack of chewing disappeared into four plastic bags.

The till lady was staring at us but my aunt did not seem to notice. When all the items had been scanned she paid. I went behind the trolley, ready to go when she grabbed a handful of about twenty plastic bags and shoved them into a double-bagged bag of peanuts.
"For good measure," she said as we walked back to her black, SUV.

Now that ladies and gentlemen is how you do awoof.

N.B
Awoof does not directly translate to freebie but nothing reasonable came up when I google imaged 'awoof Nigeria'.

Black Humour in South Africa

2012-02-18T21:51:00.000Z

These two comedians are using comedy to address South Africa's racist past and the issues arising today from it.

Here are the first lines of the Reconciliation Song
"Make a white friend, don't be afraid of them,
I know that their great-great-great grandparents....
Probably killed yours
But that was back then."

Too controversial or just the right tone to confront the problems about race in South Africa today.

Opening a Bank Account in Nigeria

2012-02-08T01:15:00.001Z

Last summer, I got a writing gig in Nigeria and it was a paying gig. The problem was I didn't have a bank account to cash the cheque. I asked around and the majority of people I spoke to said I should bank with a certain new generation bank.

"They're the best."

"Most modern."
"Most efficient."
I don't know how comparatively onerous opening a bank account in Nigeria is but as I find all form filling challenging, I knew the experience was not going to be fun. I went to my aunt's office on the fateful day. She was opening a company account so she asked the two men handling that account to bring forms for a current account.

One of the men was dressed in a normal suit and tie get up, the recognisable uniform of most Nigerians who work in the higher end industries of banking, telecoms and petroleum marketing. The other, who would prove the more obnoxious, was wearing a dark blue sweater over his shirt and tie. I don't know why but this really annoyed me. In this heat, somebody was walking around Lagos in such a thick sweater? Rationally, I knew why most office workers in Nigeria dressed for an English autumn day. Often, the air conditioning in their offices was turned down to such goose bumpingly cold temperatures that most carried jumpers, pashminas and extra blazers to work. Why someone didn't just increase the air conditioning temperature has always been beyond me?

Thus, I understood why this man might have felt the need to wear a sweater in his office. But he was out of that office and the room we were in had only one fan. "Aren't you hot?" I wanted to ask.

I was handed the form. Name: Chibundu Onuzo. DOB: easy enough. Then I got to state of origin and things began to get a little complicated. First of all, why does a bank want to know my state of origin?

"Aunty S," I said, "Is it ok if I put Lagos?" I had consulted her before I filled most of the preceding lines.

"No, I don't think so."

"You can't," the sweatered man said. "I've never heard of a Chibundu from Lagos."

I tried to explain to them that I had once heard Governor Fashola say that everyone born in Lagos was from Lagos. They were having none of it. I tried to point out that my Grandfather who hailed from Ijebu Ode originally, collected a National Honour as a Lagosian because he had lived there for so long. They were having none of it. I am sad to say that between my aunt and sweater man, I was cowed into putting Imo as my state of origin. In a way, it is my state of origin because it is where my father is from but then so is Ogun State because that is where my mother is from and so is Lagos state because that is where I was born. Surely I should be allowed to choose which I put on my bank form without interference?

At some point, sweater man said to me, "You know you need a minimum of 50k to open a current account with us."

"50K are you serious? Isn't that expensive?" I had enough money, just with the skin of my teeth, but I was wondering how the average Nigerian could have such an account when the opening fee was so high.

"Some banks charge more," sweater man said as if to suggest that an opening fee almost triple the minimum wage was generous.

"But how can people who aren't rich afford it? That's too much surely?"

"Well it used to be free to open a current account. Then all these market women came and started opening accounts."

"What's wrong with that?"

"They'll just come to the banks and be making the place smell. They have their own co-operative banks they can use if they want to put their money somewhere."

I could not believe what I was hearing. Really and truly I was speechless. To disregard the informal economy of market women when in its entirety it was worth billions of Naira. It's the kind of thing you suspect bankers are always thinking about the little fry that deposit small amounts but to here one actually say: we don't want their custom; they're not our kind of customer. He was unperturbed by the shocked look on my face so I went on filling my form in silence.

In the end, after all that wahala, the form bounced. I had failed to fill a section correctly and as I was travelling the next day, I never got a chance to alter my mistake. I'm glad. I want to live in Nigeria one day and I will probably need a bank account but I will try and steer clear of this new generation bank which is too proud to take the money of market women.

P.S
Funny video I saw first on Jeremy's naijablog.

Graduate with a CV

2012-02-01T14:00:00.003Z

The Minister for Youth Development in Nigeria, Mr. Bolaji Abdullahi has come again. It seems for the Nigerian corper, one week one trouble is the recurring theme. The government has not effectively addressed how corpers can go to the toilet without having to squat over a hole in the ground. Yet, our Minister for Youth Development has come up with a new plan to completely re-design the NYSC scheme. If he is successful, from next year NYSC will 'post corpers to rural areas only with no provision for redeployment.' Mind you, Mr Abdullahi of course is very sympathetic to the plight of the youths. In his own words, 'Corpers would no longer be posted to banks and other organizations where they are always being rejected.' They will now be posted to villages where their main concern will be 'agriculture, rural health, infra structure and education.' Mr Abdullahi's idea it seems is to turn our graduates into farmers using primitive instruments because I for one, have never seen a tractor in my village.

This talk of reform got me thinking of a conversation I had with my cousin last year about the NYSC. He currently lives and works in America and I asked him when he was going back to serve. Never, he said. He felt the system was useless as it failed to provide students with meaningful work experience. He then continued to detail the direction he wished to see NYSC reforms going in. With a little editing (cutting out the bad bb speak), I'm just going to cut and paste that conversation here. Let me know what you think.

E: NYSC should be incorporated into the university system. That is where it will be beneficial.
Me: Ehen go on. Explain.
E: It is a form of internship (since the job is not guaranteed)
Me: So when should you do it. Over summer or something?
E: It would be beneficial to incorporate it to a student's major so they can get a taste of what they would be doing when they graduate. Over summer for their third and final year.
Me: So twice. Some universities here do a year out type of thing.
E: We have it here, it is not mandatory but people get it in their third year and intern the whole semester. It also counts as college credit. And you get paid as well.
Me: By who, the job or the university?
E: The job.
Me: But university is already so long in Naija what with strikes etc. Some people just want to graduate sam.
E: The job pays them, the student pays the school and gets credit towards the degree.
Me: Ah I see. If it was added to your degree, you wouldn't have to spend an extra year. Then the options could be: do NYSC for a year as credit for university or graduate and do it, thus spending five years.
E: Well it could be mandated.
Me: That's not fair. In America etc its by choice isn't it. Too much by force tings for Naija.
E: It is, but we don't have NYSC. So if you have to mandate something, mandate it when folks can actually apply what they are learning.
Me: It's not a bad idea. And that way people can actually get relevant work experience because sometimes, you are posted to things you don't have a background in.
E: Exactly. You graduate with a 'CV'
Me: That can be the tagline. 'Graduate with a CV.' But wait! What about the foreign graduates. They must suffer too.
E: Why does it have to be considered suffering? The camps are a waste of time. It is another avenue for politicians to chop. It is not needed.
Me: This is true. But that community development part should be there. It's important. How will foreign students get that?
E: How many people utilise the community development?
Me: You'd be surprised. People in rural areas don't have much choice really. It's the people posted to Lagos etc that skive.
E: The money that would be spent on the upkeep of NYSC should be allocated to specific individuals to perform these tasks.
Me: I don't get.
E: It will create more jobs sef. What does community development entail?
Me: One day a week you do CD and the remaining days are for your job/work experience. So for example, M[another cousin] was posted to work in a school and she was an SS2 English teacher in a state school for a year. Also, another thing about NYSC is its supposed to create national unity.
E: Chibundu you have more sense than this nah. What is supposed to happen and what actually happen are totally different. The sad part is that the actual vision of NYSC has been lost and now we hear all the ills that are going on in these camps.
Me: No but people still get posted all over Nigeria. A new scheme has to incorporate the ideals of the old. Maybe your work experience must be found in a state you don't live in and you can then do community development one day a week during your stay in that state.

That's how far we got before the conversation petered out and moved on to more trivial things. But what do you think about my cousin's 'Graduate with a CV' idea? I think it's excellent. There are still some holes. How does one incorporate foreign graduates into such a system for example? But for the bulk of students who take part in this scheme and are Nigerian graduates, I think such a plan would be a massive improvement. What say ye?

An Evening With Lamido Sanusi

2012-01-24T00:26:00.001Z

He was crisp, the kind of man you can imagine refused to wear rumpled clothes to school when he was a child. Slight of frame, he walked in with a shrinking gait, head down but once he stood behind the podium he grew more comfortable. His speech was clipped, almost British in cadence. He started off with a self deprecating joke. "I've been told that this is the closest I will ever get to a Nobel lecture," he said, clutching the podium. So this is the Sanusi Lamido Sanusi, I thought as I settled down in my seat.

His talk was titled 'The Global Banking Crisis: an African Banker's Response' and even though at times he retreated into an obscure financial lexis of mutual funds, recapitalisation and long term financing, I could generally follow the gist of what he was saying.

In 2007-2008 when the first round of the global crisis hit, Nigeria was spared the impact because in many ways, our financial market is isolated from the big deals. In the second wave of 2009, Nigeria took a hit. Oil prices crashed from $147 a barrel in 2007 to $47 a barrel in 2009 and our crude oil based economy took a plunge. According to Sanusi, in 2007 the Nigerian stock exchange was one of the best performing in the world. By 2009 we were one of the worst performing. It was in this same year that Sanusi became Central Bank Governor. He was too modest to say that since his advent the banking industry in Nigeria has changed for the better but this can be inferred from what he told us next.

With banks about to collapse, the Central Bank stepped in. The industry was a mess. Banks were lending people's savings to speculators and petroleum marketers who rarely repaid their loans. Some banks owned 25% of themselves and traded in their own stock. Sanusi spoke of the 'biggest fool theory' where someone who bought a share for $10, sold it off to a bigger fool for $12 who sold it off to an even bigger fool for $15 who after some wrangling sold it to the biggest fool for $20. At which point the biggest fool realised nobody would buy it from him for higher than $20 and the value of his stock plummeted.

Sanusi spoke of a culture of failing banks in Nigeria where C.E.Os would run their banks aground with poor management, the government would take over and these C.E.Os would go and build houses abroad, come back to Nigeria and become senators and governors. In Sanusi's words, "Banks don't fail. They are cured. We were going to save the banks and find the people who killed the banks." On further inspection, after the Central government had taken over some of these banks on the verge of extinction, it was discovered that it wasn't just poor management that had killed these banks but blatant fraud. Lenders and borrowers were the same people. Money had been taken out of the bank to buy real estate abroad. In one case, 200 pieces of Dubai real estate were found to be owned by a C.E.O.

What followed was a process of carrot and bulala from the C.B.N. Every bank CEO who had been in office for ten years was forced to leave. Most had become entrenched, too powerful for their boards or workers to resist their schemes, whether legitimate or illegitimate. Non-executive directors who had been sitting on a board for over twelve years had to leave. And on the part of the executive, no C.B.N governor could take an appointment in the private financial sector for 5 years after leaving office to get rid of allegations that the C.B.N governor had made policies that would benefit him in his retirement from office. As a result of these new measures and investigation, Sanusi stated that 'we have so far jailed one bank C.E.O and are looking to jail two more.'

On the carrot side, Sanusi organised a weekend away with the C.E.Os of all the banks in Nigeria to find out what went wrong. It was the first meeting of its kind where the C.B.N and the private banking sector had a chance to talk in an informal setting. As Sanusi surmised, there was a 'complete disconnect between the balance sheets of banks and the real economy.' In a country where 42% of the work force was connected to agriculture, why was only 3% of bank lending devoted to this sector? To put it simply the banks were afraid. To lend large amounts to any sectors outside telecommunications and oil and gas seemed too huge a risk in a country like Nigeria.

A country that grew tomatoes locally but was the world's biggest importer of tomato puree; a country whose highest UK import was refined petroleum, a country that exported imported petrol to other West African countries, a country that imported 5 year old rice from grain reserves, Sanusi even quipped, a country where "General Abacha conducted free and fair elections in Liberia when we didn't have elections in Nigeria. We actually exported democracy." In such a topsy turvy place, you can see why banks were afraid to invest in anything other than the proven cash cows: petroleum and telecommunications.

Of course, the subsidy issue came up. Early on in the evening he joked, 'If there are any Nigerians with shoes, please warn before you throw them.' He added before the QandA session began, 'I've read all the facebook comments. I know half of the people in this room are not happy with me over subsidy.' And in true form, once given the opportunity, many in the audience zeroed in on this issue of subsidy removal.

Sanusi taking questions

Just as an aside, our people can be very funny. Some stood up and listed all their qualifications before they finally got to their question. Really, do we all have to know what your Common Entrance score was before you ask your question? Others didn't ask questions but made impassioned speeches about the unfairness of subsidy removal. One audience member asked in what I assume was a rhetorical question, "If the UK government catches people claiming welfare benefits they are not entitled to, will they decide to scrap welfare altogether?" I'll leave you to draw the link between his question and the removal of the petrol subsidy.

We've all heard the economic pros and cons of subsidy removal. For perhaps the millionth time in the last 23 days, Lamido said, 'I don't have any ideological opposition to subsidy but subsidise production." He added that the subsidy was a hedge because there was no arrangement for rising oil prices so sometimes the government in paying a subsidy, paid more than the consumers 65N. He explained that subsidy payments were made on the basis of documents. 'If you bring me documents saying you brought in 10 million litres of fuel, I will pay you 7.5 billion. If you're a Nigerian, you will bring me those documents." On the matter of policing smuggling of subsidised petrol to West Africa, he pointed out that 22 out of 36 states in Nigeria shared land borders with other countries. He painted a grim picture of the furlongs of barbed wire that would be needed to secure such borders. Even in his adamant defense of subsidy removal, he was at least gracious enough to admit that government had failed in communicating the policy to the people.

What I enjoyed more than this subsidy rhetoric, was Sanusi's poking fun at Nigerians. He spoke of how at a meeting of bankers he had said, "The Nigerian stock exchange has a total capitalisation of $40 billion." Those assembled had applauded. Next he said to them, "This makes ours the third largest stock exchange in Africa." Again, more applause. He concluded, "Yet that is only equivalent of half of the total value of Goldman Sachs...after the financial crisis." The room went silent.

And of course there is the characteristic irreverence he shows to those in power, making you forget for a moment that he is one of them. He joked that the people who complained most about the C.B.N cashless economy initiative, were those who needed to carry Ghana must go bags of cash around in the night. He added that whenever he goes abroad and people ask, 'how come oil prices are going up and foreign reserves in Nigeria are going down?" he would very much like to answer, "Because people are stealing the money."

I found myself warming to Sanusi. It was unfortunate that nobody asked what austerity measures government members were applying to their pay cheques now that they were making the country swallow the bitter pill of subsidy removal. It would have been even better to find out what measures Sanusi himself was taking to make sure his expenses sheet tallied with this mood of austerity. Perhaps such a question would have made him squirm and his effortless delivery may have stuttered. But I doubt it. The man is a cool fish.

He ended his talk by saying that 2012 is the year of the woman. The C.B.N will allow loans taken by women at single digit rates of interest. It is well known that women are the driven force in small and medium scale enterprises. I will clink my glass to such a policy any day.

The First Time I Was Corrupt

2012-01-19T16:17:00.002Z

It was in secondary school. I was thirteen. We were going for a state wide basketball competition. Ten girls and ten boys were chosen but each team would be made up of only five. Five would play, five would be subs. I wanted to play, badly. Every Tuesday and Thursday for the past month or so, I had woken up at 5am to jog round the school compound. I had run sprints and shot hoops in the half morning light. Every time I missed a shot, I complained about the poor light. I would have made it in the afternoon, I protested when the ball left my hand and bounced off the rim. I made the ten. I was on the bus, going for the tournament. But would I make the five?

We got to the venue: a large but shabby state school. The hoops were sparse metal rims. No netting hung down from them, like in the NBA. Our first match was scheduled. We went to our court. Our P.E teacher, Mrs O, read out five names. None were mine. She must have seen the fallen faces of the rejected five because she said to us,
"Don't worry. There are many matches today."

The match began. The rival team scored early. Mrs O began to grow agitated on the sidelines.
"Amaka shoot!"
"Deola pass the ball!"
"Shoot! Shoot!"
We were losing, time was passing. Mrs. O called a halftime.
"Deola come and sit down. Chibundu go on."

Me. I was going to play. Me!

The referee brought the sheet that had to be filled whenever a player stepped on the court. Standard questions, Name, School, Age.
Name. Mrs O wrote Chibundu Onuzo.
School. Mrs O wrote Atlantic Hall, Poka-Epe.
Age.
"How old are you?" Mrs O asked, her pen poised above the page, impatient to write. Time was going.
"Thirteen."
"Ah this tournament is for twelve and under."
"But I'm thirteen."
"It doesn't matter. I'll just put twelve."
"Wait," I said, my heart beginning to pound.

It's not that I hadn't lied before. Lies a plenty filled my past. Who drank my Fanta? Who wore my skirt? Who moved my cheese? All questions, I had lied to. But to lie on an official document. To lie about something as fundamental as my age. To tell such a lie, though sanctioned by my teachers, went against everything my parents had ever taught me.

"If I don't put twelve, you can't play."

And I'm afraid to say that sealed the deal for me. Not play, after waking up so many mornings. Not play, after driving two hours to reach this venue. Not play and let one of the other subs take my place. Tofia.

So with my heart pounding, I walked onto the field. Needless to say, I was rubbish. I missed the ball when it was thrown to me. When I caught it, I lost it immediately. I couldn't concentrate. My lie hung too heavily on me. I could hear Mrs. O screaming on the sidelines but it did nothing to spur me on. When a pass I intended for a team mate, ended up in the hands of an opponent who scored a few seconds later, Mrs O shouted, "Time out. Chibundu come and sit down. Deola, you're going back on."

I walked back to the side benches. The other subs made room for me as they offered their condolences.
"You did ok."
"You'll do better in the next match."
"Don't worry."
But I wasn't sad. I was relieved. For the rest of the day, I watched my mostly thirteen and fourteen year old team mates cruise to the silver medal position. When the medals came, even the subs got them. I wore mine proudly around school but secretly, inside, I was glad I had nothing to do with the winning of it.

It was my first taste of corruption and it left a funny feeling in my mouth, like the taste of fruity lip balm, sweet but toxic nonetheless. Hitherto, I had never been directly complicit in anything corrupt. True, bribes had been given on my behalf. I had sat in the car and watched the driver pass money to the low ranking officials whenever we were flagged down for no reason at a police checkpoint.
"Give us something," the bluntest of the police men would say as we pulled over. I was relieved when the drivers paid. I was afraid of the guns but every time money changed hands, I was also angry.
"When I'm older," I would say to the driver after we had driven off, "When I'm older and I have my own car, I won't give those people money."
"If you don't give them," the most pragmatic of the drivers once explained to me, "they will make your life hell for nothing. Better to just give them the twenty Naira and go your way."
I would be different, I thought. I would be the one who would stand by the roadside and refuse to compromise my integrity for the sake of my convenience. Yet, how easily my moral defenses had crumbled when I had to choose between them and something I wanted.

I imagine it is the same for many of our bloated politicians. It is true, some have always been thieves but enough were scrupulous enough in their private careers, for one to wonder how such volte faces took place. We have watched honest enough doctors become thieves. We have watched cabinet members who were highly ranked in the private sector and relatively honest there, become treasury robbers over night. We have watched speakers of the house come from abroad, where they never had criminal records, and begin to dream up the most inventive acts of fraud.

I had never had the opportunity to lie about my age and I had never had the motivation to do so. I imagine it is the same for many of our politicians. Opportunities to steal abound. Motivations to steal can always be found. School fees are due, new house is needed in the village, wife wants diamond earrings for anniversary and of course, chances of getting caught are slim. If I knew that someone would check my passport after Mrs. O wrote that I was twelve, I would have snatched that pen from her.

I want to live in Nigeria one day. And if this happens in the near future it is likely that the opportunities for corruption will still abound. I hope that I will not look for motivation and will dismiss the fact that the chances of my getting caught are slim. I want to be different. I pray I will be different.

P.S
It was my birthday yesterday. I'm now 21. We thank God.

Me on the BBC World Service

2012-01-14T15:20:00.001Z

Short clip where I talk about what's going on in Nigeria, re Boko Haram and subsidy removal.
Chibundu Onuzo (mp3)

Ask for Something More Meaningful than a Reversion to 65N

2012-01-12T14:58:00.002Z

As I watch the Labour leaders dialogue with the Federal Government as arranged by the National Assembly, I am saddened. The NLC leaders main and only demand for the calling off of this strike is that the pump price of petrol be returned to 65N. What a waste of a movement.The masses are angered, they have stood up and the only thing you demand is 65N petrol. Was Nigeria that great when petrol was 65N? Was there light? Was there infrastructure? Wasn't there still a political elite that was robbing us blind. This is the time to make real and lasting demands because no matter what we protest today, as long as we don't have working refineries in Nigeria, the price of petrol is going to go up in Nigeria, whether under Jonathan or under his successor or the President after that.

Why doesn't Labour ask that National Assembly expenses be cut by 50% before dialogue will take place? How can Abdulwahed Omar, President of the NLC ask such? He's too busy praising the National Assembly. In his own words, he's 'impressed by the intervention of the National Assembly.' The intervention of a dubious group of people. Why doesn't he ask that the prosecution of the so called 'cabal' members should start before dialogue begins to take place? Why doesn't he ask that the President stop eating for 1 Billion Naira in a year? He also said on Channels, 'we are also going to continue a meeting at a different venue with them and some expanded meeting at 5.' Perhaps the deals behind closed doors have begun.

I'm very sad. A protest of the people has been hijacked by the NLC and no real gains for the people will be made. Someone else needs to grab the mic and start making some real demands before a golden opportunity is lost. If petrol doesn't return to 65N but some of the above demands are met, I think Nigeria will be better off. Even if the demands I've listed are useless, brighter people than myself should come up with better suggestions. Just add something other than this dogmatic repetition of '65 Naira or nothing!" At 65 Naira we basically had nothing. Should petrol return to its former price tomorrow, the movement will dissipate. People will go back to living under a corrupt elite. Nothing, nothing, nothing has changed.

I don tire for Occupy Nigeria.

Occupy Nigeria London Branch

2012-01-06T19:38:00.005Z

As you may know, the cost of petrol has more than doubled in Nigeria overnight due to the removal of the fuel subsidy. With little organisation, spontaneous protests have broken out all over the country. These protests have been dubbed OccupyNigeria by the twitterati and the name seems to have stuck. In solidarity with their brothers and sisters in Nigeria, today, Nigerians in the UK came to protest in front of the Nigerian High Commission on Northumberland Avenue.

Personally, I think there is some very sound, economical, common sensical thinking behind the removal of the fuel subsidy. However, I do support a peaceful protest and I'm always glad to see the Nigerians in diaspora uniting, so I went along to looku looku, take photos and report for you guys.

Protest when I arrived

The event started at 12.30 and sources tell me that for once there was no African time. At 12.30, a sizeable crowd gathered to express their disapproval of Jonathan's policy. The atmosphere was festive but somewhat intimidating when I arrived at 1.30. I stood opposite the crowd, wondering whether to join them or pretend I was just a casual passerby. People were pushed right up to the barricades and I worried there would be a crush. Then I heard a trumpeter toot a line of, "Winner Ooo, Winner!" Nah my people nah. I crossed the road to join them.

Between the Barricades

When I got between the barricades, I was relieved to see the crowd was not at dense as I had feared. Still the numbers were sizeable. A petition was going around which I declined to sign. A group to the left was chanting, "We no go gree o! We no go gree!" Everyone's phonetics was dropped for the day and to the left and right of me, I could hear heated conversations going on in Nigerian accented English. I saw people from my Church between the barricades. I saw my Muslim friend from Kings. I hung out with an Igbo journalist. It was Wazobia and all the languages in between.

Dele Momodu at Protest. Image Sourced from @DoubleEph

Prior to my arrival, a former presidential aspirant showed up to speechify. Apparently his name had not been on the list of those to make speeches but once he arrived, he was given immediate priority. One disgruntled protester complained to me, "Now photos are going to go round and people will think Dele Momodu is pulling crowd in London." In his view, it would work to Mr. Momodu's political advantage to be shown speaking to a crowd he had done nothing to assemble. In fact, he even went as far as to suggest Mr. Momodu would gain economically from this. "Goodluck will phone him and ask what he should do to calm the people in London and he will now say, bring 50 million pounds." This statement is indicative of the level of distrust Nigerians have come to have for their government. We now see conspiracies and cabals everywhere.

I walked round and took some photos of the placards I saw.

There were camera crews hovering around and I recorded one woman venting her frustration at the government of Nigeria. Because they couldn't get their act together, Nigerians had to come abroad to be 'cleaning yansh' as she bluntly put it. She had come out to protest today because those in Nigeria, she believed, would be killed if they came out to do the same.

My favourite part of the event was wandering around and striking up conversations with strangers. I got accused of being a member of the Jonathan family. My patriotism was called into question. Everywhere discussions were springing up. I say discussion but a passerby might have thought heated argument. It was all in good cheer though. Shouting soon dissolved into laughter, handshaking and back slapping. I love my country people.

A protester making his point vehemently

Camera crew

I left when the protest was dying down. At the time I left, the Nigerian High Commissioner had still refused to receive the petition. His absence was irrelevant. The people had opened their mouths and discovered they could speak. My name is Chibundu Onuzo. God bless and good night.

"If They Want to Kill us, we are Ready to Die"

2012-01-05T22:30:00.003Z

A Wonderful Start To 2012

2012-01-01T23:11:00.001Z

Happy New Year Folks. Plenty grace and favour this year in Jesus name for all of us. The Observer was kind enough to do a short feature on me and two other writers and they put it up on the Guardian website. Check, check, check, check it out, here.

P.S
The afro is not a wig, just in case you were wondering. :)

Driving to the Village

2011-12-21T00:57:00.002Z

Mbaise Imo State

Around this time of the year, Igbo people from all over the world, begin to troop towards their villages. It is a Christmas exodus like no other, befitting of a people who claim to be descendants of the Jews. From America, from Europe, from Hong Kong and of course from Lagos, Amakas, Ifeanyis and ChiChis start to wend their way home. After all, Agaracha must come back and the more style Agaracha returns with, the better.

My father hails from Ubulu in Imo state, a village which he often remarks is not shown on any map of Nigeria he has ever seen. It was thence we returned in December for almost all the Decembers I spent in Nigeria. There is a reason why Ubulu is not on any map of Nigeria. We are not like Nnewi, our bourgeois cousin down the road, whose entrance is marked by an arch decorated with dollar and pound signs. Neither are we notorious like Okija where bodies pile up at a mysterious shrine. Neither are we cannibals nor python worshippers nor any other quirky thing which would draw attention to us.

The journey to Ubulu is pretty straight forward. You leave Lagos, get on the express and go straight until you reach Ihiala junction. Turn left and ask for the village with all the yellow girls. Those were the directions my sister used to give when people asked where Ubulu was. We always planned to leave the house early, sometimes as early as 6am but usually, time would trickle away as we ran around trying to pack the one last convenience that would make the next few days less onerous. Looking back now, they must have sold Nasco cornflakes and powdered milk and Cabin biscuit somewhere close to Ubulu, but we always brought these things from Lagos. My aunt from America, was on another level. She took sweets, chewing gum, cereal, hot chocolate, microwaveable meals, if not for baggage restrictions, she would probably have brought metal canisters labelled Air.

Sometimes, as late as noon we would finally set off. Our mode of travel varied every year. Sometimes it was a bus from my parent's hospital, other times it was a standard four seater car, other times it was a convoy of cars, it depended on how many of us were going. The checkpoints were perhaps the scariest part of the whole drive. They were illegal. Police men with large guns would place wooden planks or barrels across the road and force every car that passed to slow down. Some were waived forward, some were told to park so their papers could be examined. It was entirely random who was stopped. Of course, once stopped, it was expected that you produce a bribe to be let go. I found out that these checkpoints were illegal entirely by accident. One day, we were told to stop when we heard the sounds of a siren convoy behind us. Immediately, the police pushed the barriers away, kicking a plank to the side of the road as if shocked to find it there.

"Who said you should stop?" One shouted at the driver. "Begin dey go."

Once, we were stopped on the byroad that allowed you bypass the traffic through Benin City. It was a quiet slip of a road and not many cars used it. These men came out of nowhere. They were not police men but they wore bright yellow tunics over their clothes, as if to lend themselves a degree of fluorescent officiousness. They threw a plank and a barrel in our way and shouted, "Park here!"

They didn't ask for papers. Instead, there was a sticker we had to have. A sticker worth 7,500 Naira. Without this sticker, we could not pass. They brought a concrete block and placed it in front of one of our tyres. We had been going to the village for several years. We had never needed that sticker before but we were a car full of women. The only man was the driver and he was quite a thin man at that. The road was deserted. My mother took an executive decision and paid the money amidst cries of, no, no from the back seat. Even me, I added mouth. "Mummy don't pay these people." But the money was paid and we were sent on our way.

On that same trip, we were stopped at Onitsha. Again, by a group of touts wearing fluorescent overalls, asking for this same mysterious sticker. Hastily, my mother produced the one we had purchased a few hours ago. Unfortunately, she made the mistake of telling the man that she had already paid seven thousand five hundred Naira for it. Once the man heard what she had paid for that worthless piece of paper and glue, he was determined to get his own share.

"Let me see that sticker," he said. My mother handed it to him and he pocketed it. "It's not the current one. You need to pay again."

I think that's when the people on that Onitsha road knew that Agaracha was not stupid. My mother is a Yoruba woman. She does not understand Igbo. But she came down from the car that day and began to demand that her sticker be returned. My aunty who is also Yoruba and was the most vocal critic when my mother paid for the sticker the first time, jumped down from the bus and went to look for a police man. My cousins and I remained in the car, wondering what to do. As we wondered, one of the bystanders who had gathered, slid open the bus door which we had forgotten to lock after my aunt came down.

He looked at our stunned faces and remarked, "Nah only woman for this bus." Then he saw the portable DVD player we had strapped to the front seat. "Dem even get TV for inside here."

For some reason, it was this comment that roused my cousins, who speak Igbo fluently and also grew up in the East.

"Get away from there."

"Who said you should open that door?"

"Anuofia."

"Bush man."

"Idiot."

The man retreated and we slammed the door and locked it and continued to wait. A few minutes later, we saw my aunt returning with a police man behind her and a crowd following them.

"We must have our sticker."

" Give us back our sticker."

"Today today."

Eventually the tout had to acquiesce. The sticker was returned and we continued on our way. Agarachas triumphant.

The kinsmen the Agarachas must impress

Once we had driven over the Niger Bridge that was bombed during the Civil War and rebuilt not long after, we began to feel that the journey was almost over. In truth, distance wise, Ubulu and Onitsha are not very far from each other. But the Onitsha traffic, can make them hours apart. After Onitsha, the roads deteriorated rapidly. Sometimes they were not even tarred. They had been cleared for construction, but someone had forgotten to lay the bitumen on top so the cars drove on the red, clayey earth. The tyres would raise so much dust that the bush that lined the roads would be stained ochre for most of the dry season.

After we turned left at Ihiala, we began to drive through villages proper. It was then you had the opportunity to see, if daylight permitted, the monstrosities some Agarachas had built to impress their kinsmen. Even then, I wondered at the stupidity of it. Why would people build such enormous houses and spend no more than 4 weeks of a year in them. There was one property I remember. The owner had built a respectable Georgian style house of about two stories. It was grand enough but perhaps, this particular Agaracha had struck it even richer and wished everyone in his village to know. Beside this Georgian villa, he began to build a gargantuan thing, that was six stories high and twelve stories wide and made the first house look like a boys quarters. Such waste.

Finally, we would reach Ubulu. No matter how often we went, we could never find our village if my father was not with us. It was as if it shifted its position every year. Without fail, we would ask for Ubulu and sometimes, when it was dark, we would have to ask for the Onuzo compound. Eventually we would reach the house that my father and his brothers and their children shared. Then we would tumble out, our legs cramped. Then we would run to the toilet to release our much distressed bladders.

The Agarachas had returned.

Spain and Turkey

2011-12-13T01:01:00.000Z

Are not playing a football match. But a publisher in each country has offered to buy the rights of my novel. I'm really looking forward to seeing my book in another language. One of my cousins said, on hearing the news, "So you'll get to read your book in Spanish." As I know neither Spanish nor Turkish, I will just look at the letters and smile. We really thank God. It makes me so grateful to think that my book will go to places I have never been.

Know Your Rights

2011-12-08T00:32:00.004Z

When Paul was arrested and flogged for preaching the gospel in Philippi, on his release the next day, he refused to leave the jail cell. He said to the officer sent to free him and Silas, 'They beat us publicly without a trial, even though we are Roman citizens, and threw us into prison. And now do they want to get rid of us quietly? No! Let them come themselves and escort us out.' (Acts 16:37) The magistrates who had ordered that they be flogged, had no choice but to agree to Paul's demand. You couldn't flog a Roman citizen without trial and get away with it. They were lucky Paul didn't ask for more.

Again, the bond servant Paul stood up for his rights in Jerusalem. Again he was flogged for preaching the gospel. The Bible says, 'As they stretched him out to flog him, Paul said to the centurion standing there, "is it legal for you to flog a Roman citizen who hasn't even been found guilty?" I love that he phrased this as a question, I love the calm brazenness of it, even as they were about to flog him, Paul was cool and questioning the centurion on a point of law. The commander who was superior to the centurion 'was alarmed when he realised that he had put Paul, a Roman citizen in chains." (Acts 23:25b,29b)

These two passages got me thinking. The only reason why Paul could claim his rights as a Roman citizen was because he knew them. As a Christian, I claim my spiritual rights when I pray. God has not given me a spirit of fear but a spirit of sound mind, God will not forsake the righteous and I am righteous by the blood of Jesus, God will bless me exceedingly, abundantly and above all that I can ask. But I could not tell you a single right that I have as a Nigerian citizen. I cannot tell you the rights I have as a Nigerian citizen living in the U.K. I have special rights that others do not have because I am a citizen of a Commonwealth country yet I do not know what these are. I cannot even tell you the rights that I have as a University of London student. The other day, I just discovered that I can order restricted documents from LSE because I go to Kings.

We Nigerians, we complain a lot but how many of us have ever sat down to read the constitution. I know I certainly haven't. So from today, I'm going to start trying to find out what I am entitled to and what my government owes me. If you want to join me, click here for the link to the Nigerian constitution. The website is not particularly attractive but the information is necessary. We can demand more effectively when we know our rights.

Me Papa

2011-12-01T00:01:00.004Z

When I was younger, I used to wish my father was a richer man. I went to a very middle class primary school and repeated the process for my secondary education. As early as primary four, I had begun fabricating stories for why we did not have a nicer car. I was too ashamed to tell these stories out loud but every once in a while, I would recount to myself the story of the S-class that got stolen to be replaced by the old, square Merc. In primary school, it wasn't so bad. My longer throat was only fuelled by seeing others climbing into the backseats of air conditioned cars while I sweated all the way home.

However, in secondary school, the car you went home with was a matter that was openly discussed and commented on. I got a lot of grief for that Merc. Things got so bad, that I much preferred to be dropped a few minutes from the school gates and walk to school. Our house was close enough that the illusion of my having walked all the way, was cooler than my being seen in that blue Merc. I remember once my mother came to pick me up from school in that car. Imagine my horror when I saw her driving into the school compound. Who had let her in?

"Chibundu," she said, beeping at me. "Can't you see me? Enter the car."

I could not disown my own mother. Head down, I crawled into the front seat. I could hear my class mates laughing in the class room. My mother is not the most skillful of drivers and the Merc is not the most skillful of cars. As she reversed, the car stalled, the laughter doubled. It looked like I was going to have to push start the car. It looked like I would have to change schools. Thank God, the car started and I was saved the inconvenience of resuming at another school half way through the term.

That day perhaps, I wished most fervently that my father was a richer man. After all he was Igbo. He could have become a trader and been a tycoon in no time. He could have sold electronics. Alaba was just down the road. Anything but this respectable medicine which left us with a very unrespectable car.

I have grown older and have come to realise that there are more important traits for a father to exhibit than stupendous wealth. My father is an honest man and he is a man of integrity. The opportunities for being crooked in medicine abound, as I have learnt over years of eavesdropping at doors. Time and time again, my father has lost business rather than pay bribes to get patients referred to his hospital. Perhaps it a foolishly scrupulous piece of integrity in an industry awash with corruption. But he has taken his stand. Patients with kidney problems should be referred to the hospital that will provide them with the best care. Not to the highest bidder.

My father is a generous man. I never had a room of my own when I was growing up and it was not often that I slept on a bed by myself. My cousins from the East when looking for a place to stay in Lagos, flocked to our house and my father turned not a single one away.

Lastly and most important to my development as a human being, my father taught me about God. Every morning, for the first fourteen years of my life we had morning prayers in my parent's room. Sometimes, I resented these intrusions into my sleep time. There were mornings I just didn't feel like singing, "Morning has broken," but I look back on those years with so much love. The whole house would gather in his room, domestic staff, cousins, siblings sometimes up to ten of us would be in that room. We would start by singing hymns from Mission Praise. Each person was allowed to pick one, a fundamental human right my mother defended against my father's attempts to sneak in a second choice. After singing, we would read a passage from the Bible, each person reading a few verses. Then my father would teach. Not in an authoritarian way, we were always allowed to ask questions and give opinions, perhaps this is why to this day, I am at ease discussing with people a lot older than myself. Then we would pray. My father would always start his prayer with,

"We give You praise,
Ancient of Days
The Author, the Ruler and Possessor of our faith."

So I will close with this.

We give You praise,
Ancient of Days,
That Okey Onuzo is a year older today.

A Cover

2011-11-25T01:28:00.007Z

I had absolutely no input in this. I cannot take any credit at all, at all. My idea was very obvious and cliché. I imagined a photograph of a girl sitting in a back seat looking out of a window and in the distance a hawker would be running after her. I know. Terrible. I'm very thankful that they didn't take me up.

The Faber design team did such an excellent job. I spent a very long time screaming when I saw the final version. Look at the blurry Lagos in the background and the leaves at the top of the page. It's so pretty. It makes me wish I could draw. Having a cover makes the book much more real. We thank God.

P.S

The top of my blog template also has leaves like the cover. Complete coincidence.

NYSC Chronicles

2011-11-19T21:19:00.005Z

This is where the graduates in Iseyin Oyo State NYSC camp go when they wish to 'ease themselves.' It is difficult to imagine anyone being at ease in such a place. First class holders, second class uppers, third degree takers, they all come here. Aje botas, aje pakos, aje in between, they all squat here. Toilet is a leveler. The logistics of doing your business here are complicated. Do you take tissue? If so, the whole roll or just what you need? Where do you wash your hands? Hand sanitiser or avoid touching anything until you find soap and water? Toilet is a real leveler.

This is where the graduates sleep. So close together and so cramped so dingy so old. Your neighbour's softest snores will still be audible. From here, the graduates wake up in the early hours of the morning to fetch water from their baths. Water is fetched not received from a bathroom tap. The graduates, engineers, lawyers, political scientists, they hang their clothes inside because they fear that other graduates, engineers, lawyers political scientists will steal their clothes.

It is not all a waste. There is an Igbo in this photo, a Muslim, a Christian, a returnee from England, a graduate from a Nigerian university. Perhaps none would have met if not for Iseyin. Perhaps, even if they had met, they may not have related as equal if not for that toilet that levels all.

The Nigerian Youth Minister, Bolaji Abdullahi, is on twitter. Once a month, he convenes what he describes as a 'town meeting.' People are invited to ask questions about youth issues for an hour and in that time, he will try to answer as many as possible. On Sept 8th I asked, "@BolajiAbdulahi NYSC camps are in a terrible state. Graduates don't have access to toilets in most. Are there plans to rebuild them?" The Minister replied, "@ChibunduOnuzo We are engaging governors in our plans to reform the NYSC and address specific issues including infrastructure, yes."

This got me thinking and a little annoyed. Like unity schools such as Queen's College which educated students from all over Nigeria,The National Youth Service Corps was designed to promote national unity. In conception, it is a nationwide scheme so why should it's execution be passed on to state governments? It is a scheme that has been backed by the current regime despite widespread calls for it to be scrapped after atrocities were committed against corpers during the last elections. Yet it seems this regime is only willing to back the NYSC with words and not with cash. University educated folk are not a priority you see.

If you ever wonder why all the graduates are streaming out of Nigeria, looking for opportunities from an abroad as close as Ghana to the far overseas of America, then scroll up and look at the first picture again.

I will close with this photo. It was sent to me by a friend on her first night in the NYSC Lagos camp. She did not describe what this photo shows. I do not know if some graduates spent their first night outside. All she said to my question, "Did u go to camp,' was:

'Yes oh I'm at camp.

Chibundu it's terrible

As in....... Hot damn! '

Phone Swap

2011-11-15T22:42:00.001Z

This trailer is so funny. I want to see this movie.

That extra though, smh.

Fernando Ortiz and Nigeria

2011-11-03T21:16:00.006Z

Fernando Ortiz was a Cuban intellectual who began writing about black urban culture in 1906. However, it was in 1940 that his seminal work, Cuban Counterpoint: Tobacco and Sugar was published. In this work, Ortiz coins the term transculturation, a process that occurs when cultures collide. None remain the same. Instead, they all rub off on each other and produce a hybrid that incorporates aspects of all participants. However, before this hybrid can be produced, all the cultures involved must undergo what Ortiz calls a deculturation. In this process, which can happen under extremely harsh conditions, distinct identities will be lost as the cultures are ground into each other.

Ortiz speaks of the transculturation of the African slaves transported to Cuba in the nineteenth century.

'The Negroes brought with their bodies their souls, but not their institutions nor their implements. They were of different regions, races, languages, cultures, classes, ages, sexes thrown promiscuously into the slave ships and socially equalized by the same system of slavery.'

Under the slave whip, they would lose their Wolof, Hausa and Mandinga distinctness and become African. Their descendants would not see themselves as belonging to one tribe but to all. Years after slavery was abolished in Cuba, the poet Nicolas Guillen would write in his Son Number 6,

I'm Yoruba,

singing,

weeping,

and when I'm not Yoruba,

I'm Congo, Mandingo, Carabali.

The first time we read this poem in my seminar group, I said to the class, "This man is very confused. He does not know where he is from." My teacher replied something along the lines of, "It's not that he doesn't know where he's from. It's that he's from all of them."

Nigeria has been a country since 1914 when Lord Lugard united the Northern and Southern Protectorate to simply administrative work. Igbo, Yoruba, Hausa, Efik, Ibibio, we have been thrown together, cheek by jowl for almost a century and still, we continue to cling to our separate identities. We refuse to let the inevitable process of transculturation take its course. I say inevitable because we can not live together without rubbing off on each other. We cannot rub off on each other without changing. We can choose to accept the change or we can fight it and call the transcultured hybrid a degenerate creature, hearkenening back to the days of 'racial purity. We can either and accept our multitribal reality or we can fight the integration of our cultures every step of the way. The Rwandans fought transculturation. Thousands of lives later, they have abandoned all forms of ethnic identification and abolished the terms Hutu and Tutsi from public discourse. Surely we don't have to wait until such drastic measures become necessary.Why not be wise like Guillen and decide,

I'm Igbo,

singing,

weeping,

and when I'm not Igbo,

I'm Yoruba, Hausa, Kanuri

Efik, Ibibio, Calabari, Ijaw,

I am Nigerian.

The historian Nancy Morejón wrote in an article,

"The history of the African continent has been plagued by thousands of tribal conflicts. Only in America [both North and South America] could Africa become a unity, due to the diaspora its descendants interwove in search of their liberation."

Why must we Efiks, Ijaws and Hausa's wait until we are in the diaspora before we know we are Nigerian? Why must we wait until we have fled a country ruined by tribal politics before we realise that being Nigerian is the most valuable of all identities.

There is no doubt that as transculturaion occurs, we will all lose a little of our 'Igboness' and 'Hausaness' and 'Efikness' and 'Kanuriness' but in doing so, we will gain our Nigerianess. Jesus said to his disciples in Matthew 10:39: If you cling to your life, you will lose it; but if you give up your life for me, you will find it. There is a corollary for nation building in Africa. If you cling to your tribe, you will lose your nation but if you give up your tribe, you will gain a nation of many tribes.

Commonwealth Short Story Prize and A Cool Video

2011-10-26T13:44:00.004+01:00

It's that time of the year people. To all writers out there, young and old, brush up your best short story and submit it. You have nothing to lose. It's free to enter. Click here for details.

And just because I saw this video and liked it. The great Jimi Solanke, reminding us why Nigeria is wonderful. In your spare time, check out www.419positive.org

Reading

2011-10-24T21:50:00.012+01:00

I know. I know. This gist is so stale that mould is growing on it but better late than never. Abi, no be so? So my university was kind enough to organise a reading for me. It was in the nicest hall in Kings in my opinion. We usually have exams and lectures in the Great Hall, so it was pleasant to see this more sociable mien of this room. Here are photos kindly provided by Kal Kohli who works in the Governance and Legal Affairs Support Office at Kings. A few are mine as well. I'll put the pictures up, then give you a few thoughts.

The audience before the reading began. The back rows got a few late comers as the reading progressed.

Darren Robinson, who was the host for the night. He really gave the reading structure.

If you look closely, you can see me clutching the podium.

Afterwards. Big smiles. These were the main organisers of the event.

My grandma and I. Three generations of my family showed up to support me. Much appreciated.

So basically, giving a reading was a really weird experience. I now know that I am capable of speaking clearly in a Nigerian accent. I do not have to resort to phonetics to be understood by people who are not from my part of the world. However, I must confess it took quite a bit of practice, especially in the areas where I had to speak pidgin. My favourite part of the evening was the Q and A session. I found the actual reading disconcerting. I'm more used to singing in front of people and getting some sort of audible reaction from the crowd. To look up and see upwards of 50 pairs of eyes just watching you silently is very odd. Hence the podium clutching.

I really liked answering people's questions. There were some I'd vaguely been expecting, so I had rough answers for them, e.g how long did it take you to write the book? How do you balance writing with school work? Others though, I hadn't even thought about. One lady asked me to list three books that had influenced me. It's one many writers can reel off but I was momentarily stumped. A Ghanaian woman made a comment about how much she liked Nigerian pidgin and how Ghanaian pidgin was less expressive. One asked about what advice I would give to other young writers like myself.

Afterwards, I mingled with a very kind audience. Many people came to say well done. To be honest I was a little surprised by the diversity of people there. There was a lady from the Czech republic who told me that my reflections of growing up in Nigeria and moving over here, really touched her. Which touched me. In the absence of a book, I even signed a sheet of paper for one lady. It was a great first reading. I was speaking to my editor who attended and we both agreed that it was unusual to have such a nice first outing. We thank God. Obviously, I can't show you guys what I read from my book, copyright etc, but I can put up the introduction I read. Enjoy.

I grew up with a slight sense of distaste for my country. I was fortunate enough to spend some of my holidays in England and America. As a result, I became like one of those badly behaved children who loves to go to other people’s houses but hates to go home. England, in particular, was the cool friend. I remember when the summer was over and it was time to return to Lagos, the back to school adverts would start popping up. And how I wished I was going back to school with the British children. O to buy WHSmith stationery all year round. I got my wish. I came to school in England when I was fourteen. The reality was worse and better than I imagined.

My first few years in England, I felt very homesick for the country I never wanted to return to whenever I holidayed abroad. For the first time, my country, Nigeria, Lagos, was attractive enough and interesting enough for me to want to write about it. Prior to my coming here, I set all my fiction in England and America. Yet I soon found that I did not want to write about England when I finally lived here. The longer I stayed away from Nigeria, the more interesting, and exotic, and readable my country became.

So 4,ooo miles away, sitting in my cold room in school, I began to type away at the nucleus of what would eventually become my novel. For the first time, it would be set in Nigeria, with Nigerian characters, with Nigerian accents. For the first time the hero would be Nigerian, the villain Nigerian, the clown Nigerian, the battered, bruised, humoured, abused, loved, hated, laughed at, all would be Nigerian. It took me four thousand miles to believe that my country was interesting and complex enough to be read about at home and read about on a world stage. It was a while but I am glad I made it in the end.

An Evening at Parliament

2011-10-19T06:47:00.001+01:00

First of all, let me confess my ignorance in the midst of dear friends who won't hurl abuse at me. I got to Westminster station about twenty minutes before the event was due to start. Exit 3 said House of Parliament. My invite said House of Commons. Dear blog readers, I had a serious moment of panic. With not long to go before the meeting began, I became worried that the House of Commons and the House of Parliament were different places. Such are the gaps in my general knowledge. Thankfully they are the same place.

Before I found the meeting room, I walked and walked and walked. Every time I reach another desk with a police man I would ask, where is X room? They would reply, "Just straight down miss." Just straight down, straight down, up a few flights of stairs, straight down before I finally got to where I was going. I passed some busts of former Prime Ministers: Lord Palmerston, Gladstone, faces from my history books. As I walked to the room, my boots clicking on the stone floors, I kind of understood why people want to be powerful. There is something that feels good about striding down a long corridor, hearing your shoes click on the floor and feeling you are going somewhere important, you're rushing to a major decision that lives will hang on.

Now to the reason I was in the House of Commons in the first place. It was a meeting of The All Party Parliamentary Group on Nigeria and it was organised by Chatham House. No, I had never heard of this group of MPs from all parties who "aim to create a better understanding of issues relating to Nigeria; to promote links between Britain and Nigeria and to support development and democracy in Nigeria." Members of the group include Dianne Abott and Chuka Umunna.

There were three speakers. A Researcher on Nigeria from the Humans Rights Watch. The Detective Chief Inspector Economic and Specialist Crime Command, Metropolitan Police and Oba Nsugbe QC, SAN, Head of Chambers, Pump Court Chambers.

The researcher just didn't do it for me. Perhaps because he had limited time, he could only give an overview but unfortunately, a lot of what he mentioned could have been read on the Nigerian online newspaper, 234Next. The nadir for me though, was when he stated that in the past few weeks, the EFCC had arrested 3 governors. Immediately my ears pricked up. Three governors? No. They were EX-governors because the Nigerian constitution does not allow a sitting governor to be prosecuted. If the EFCC could prosecute current governors, then they could catch the criminals early instead of waiting for 8 years and billions of stolen Naira later. That a whole researcher on Nigeria could make this seemingly trivial error, didn't inspire confidence. Maybe the Human Rights Watch should hire some Nigerians to research about Nigeria. They might be able to get more inside gist.

The next speaker was from the Metropolitan Police. Immediately, I felt on this man's side. When he spoke of the trials of catching Nigerian crooked politicians, I really felt for him. He spoke of the case of Alamesiegha. They caught him at Heathrow with a suitcase full of hundreds of thousands of pounds in cash. They arrested him. He asked for bail. He wanted to return to Nigeria to sort out a few things. He said he would be back. They were not stupid. They knew he wanted to disappear. He said he would come back. At his hearing, the whole Attorney General of Nigeria left his duties to come and plead that Alamesiegha be allowed bail. Eventually, bail was posted at 500,000 pounds. It was paid without a blink. Alamesiegha has not been heard of since. The Met is doing better than EFCC. They have secured 15 convictions in 5 years whereas the EFCC has only secured 4 convictions of major political figures since its inception. Which is kinda pitiful. I was on the Met's side.

Then Mr. Nsugbe spoke. First of all, most of the money recouped from the Ibori cases and others of that ilk, isn't returned to Nigeria. I almost had a fit. I could not believe what I was hearing. Most of the money wasn't returned?! Where did it go? It first went to the Home Office, then to the Treasury, then the Met was reimbursed for the time they spent tracking down the criminal, then finally, at the discretion of Treasury, some, SOME of it, MAY go back to Nigeria. Of the 400 million dollars of looted Nigerian money that has been recovered abroad, most of it has not returned. Ladies and gentlemen, there is no charity in this world.

The man from the Met made his rejoinder. After all, sometimes they returned to money to Nigeria and nobody even bothered to cash the cheques. He told one story of how expired cheques were found in the Attorney General's top drawer. And of course, there was the worry that the returned money would just go back into corruption. No point chasing down laundered money, to chase down the same laundered money a few years later. But still, these arguments don't really hold water. If I leave my laptop lying around and it gets stolen, no-one has a right to tell me they won't give it back because they are worried I might be careless and it might get stolen again.

After this revelation, the audience was less than kind. One woman asked why the Metropolitan department that handled corruption was not expanded? After all, it was a profit making organisation (oooh low blow.) In the end, I agree with Mr. Nsugbe. There has to be a balance. The money should be returned but it should be monitored by a credible organisation. When 600 million dollars of Abacha's loot was returned to Nigeria, it's expenditure was monitored by the World Bank and thus, a lot of it was actually put to good use. But sha sha, these people should give us back our money, that's my own.

All in all, I enjoyed my 1 hour in parliament. All I had to do was register online. I didn't know anybody. I didn't need any connections. I wondered when I was leaving, if I could get into a meeting in the House of Senate with such ease in my own country. I doubt it.

My First Review

2011-10-17T23:54:00.002+01:00

Tricia at Black Book news was kind enough to do a review of my reading on her blog. More about the reading later. But for now, read someone else's very glowing and kind opinion of it. Click here.

This Song is too Powerful

2011-10-16T22:35:00.001+01:00

Happy Sunday. Be blessed.

iRemember

2011-10-09T23:10:00.004+01:00

I remember the hundreds that were trampled in the canal almost ten years ago. They were running from the bombs. Bombs that were exploding in the Ikeja cantonment. Nigeria was not at war, unless you count the criminal negligence of our politicians as a special, more subtle kind of war. A war of attrition where each side tries to wear the other down slowly and steadily. We will win. We outnumber them. Yet, how many more will die before they give in?

The bombs exploded because they overheated. They overheated because they were not cooled properly.They were not cooled properly because there had been no running water in the military barracks for years. There had been no running water because someone had pocketed the money for the piping system. One day a petrol tanker caught fire close to where the bombs were stored. The heat spread. The bombs began to explode.

GBOSA.

All over Lagos, people heard the noise and began to run. Those that were close to the bombs, those that were far from the bombs, they panicked and ran. They ran with their children. They ran with their merchandise. Some ran into the canal. A dirty brown waterway. Perhaps, those leading the charge stepped into the muddy waters and wanted to turn back. Once their feet touched the sludge, perhaps they came to their senses. What are we doing? Where are we running to? Why do we think that safety lies on the other side of this water?

But it was too late. Those behind were convinced that the bombs were right behind them. If they did not flee, they would die. And so they pushed them on, and others behind them pushed them on until people were stepping on bodies to cross the canal. A bridge of bodies. If you lost your footing, if you slipped on someones synthetic weavon, if you dared trip, you were clawed down and trampled. Those behind could not wait for you to find your feet again. Death was chasing them.

Over three hundred Nigerians died on that January 27th 2011. I saw the bombs flash red over the Ikeja night sky. I was there. iRemember.

P.S

Rest in peace Steve Jobs. You inspired us all.

P.P.S

Any comments on the new look for the blog?

7 Questions for Ayodele Olofintuade

2011-10-03T23:39:00.014+01:00

Ms Olofintuade has just been shortlisted for the Nigerian Prize for Literature for her children's book, ENO'S STORY. Before I go on, I must state that the prize money runs into the hefty sum of $100,000. Children's fiction is often overlooked by the bigger prizes so I'm glad the the NLNG decided to pick a shortlist of only books from this field.

The last time I read a work of children's literature was over five years ago. I thought I had outgrown the genre. I thought wrong. I thoroughly enjoyed Eno's Story. The main character Eno, is a plucky kid who reacts to being accused of child witchcraft with courage and a sense of humour. The first thing Eno says in the novel is, "So I'm a witch! That means I can fly and turn into a cat or even a fierce lion." When her Uncle takes her for 'deliverance' she says to herself, "I am a princess not a witch. Uncle Etim and the pastor are ignoramuses."

The subject of the book is timely. I heard about the child witches scandal in Nigeria but I couldn't bring myself to watch the documentary. It's rare to see children's literature tackle such a tough issue but the most memorable pieces of child fiction often deal with difficult themes. The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas by John Boyne comes to mind. Also, The Book Thief by Markus Zusak.

The illustrations in this book are beautiful. I don't think I've ever seen black people depicted in children's literature, except you count Enid Blyton's golliwogs as black, which I don't. Eno looks like a Nigerian girl. Her hair is threaded. Her evil Uncle looks like a middle aged Nigerian man. He appears in a white singlet and sports a pot belly. The houses in the village look like houses in my village.

Ayodele was kind enough to answer some questions that I posed to her. Here is the full interview. If you live in Nigeria, head over to book stores and get a copy of this book. If you live abroad, get someone to send it to you. I wish Ayodele all the best in her writing. She certainly fully deserves a place on the shortlist and I'm looking forward to reading what she produces next.

1. Before I read the book, I knew that it dealt with the theme of so called child witches and I felt that this was a topic too gruesome to be explored in children's fiction. I was glad that you found a balance between the darker and lighter elements of the story. How did you manage to achieve this?

In order to write successfully for children you need the ability to see through their eyes and I don’t mean that in a derogatory way because I was shocked when someone who purportedly writes for children told an audience that she had to ‘go down to the children’s level’ implying that children are inferior and thus one has to ‘lower’ oneself in order to talk to them, that was a cringe-worthy moment.

All I did was channel the story through a child and completely lose myself in the character, I allowed her to tell the story in her own way, luckily for me it worked!

2. How long does it take you to craft a piece of fiction such as Eno's Story and what are the difficulties you find along the way?

Crafting a story sometimes takes months and sometimes the story will come to you whole. So really one can’t predict how long it will take. For Eno’s Story I had the first draft out in three months, it’s as if the story were hiding behind my back and it just revealed itself to me gradually. I can’t say I encountered a lot of difficulties, at least nothing that couldn’t be solved with a bit of research.

3. The illustrations in Eno's Story were excellent. They really brought the characters and narrative to life. How involved were you in this aspect of the process?

Frankly I had little or no input as the illustrations that were sent to me for approval had undergone thorough scrutiny.

4. What are you currently working on?

The Terrible Twins series, the adventurous stories of a pair of twins, Tounye and Kela, who got into scrapes as a matter of course and their friends: a boy called Khalid and a magical creature called Iwin. The draft for the first four books are ready. Hopefully it will be out by mid 2012.

5. What advice would you give to writers who wish to write for children?

Get to know your audience ... children. Play with them, fight with them, listen to them and don’t ever condescend to them. Once you get that part right you will find it easy to write for them.

6.What was your reaction when you found out that you had been shortlisted for the Nigerian Literature Prize?

Frankly I was happy and sad at the same time. It is very anxiety inducing and I’m already an excitable person so I knew I was going on an emotional roller coaster ride. But thus far I’ve handled it even better that I thought I would. I have really surprised myself.

7. I know this last is a little cheeky and I'll understand if you choose not to answer but if you did win, what would you do with the prize money?

SPEND IT!

First Reading

2011-09-25T23:04:00.005+01:00

So yours truly is going to sit down or stand and read some passages from my novel to an audience that will consist of at least my editor, her friend, my mum and my dad. I didn't put it up earlier because I couldn't find an internet link. There was only had a PDF document that I had to send via email. But now I have the link, so anyone interested may register and drop in. It's free. There will be light refreshment before I proceed. All details are here. Shout out to Kings College for being so kind. I'm glad I go to a uni where they support students in all their extra curricular endeavours.

I See Lagos

2011-09-24T14:16:00.005+01:00

I saw my first dead body in Lagos. I think I was 6. It was a man. If he had been alive, people would probably have called him a mad man. He had dreadlocks, matted and reddish brown from the sun. He was dressed in a long, grey, shirt rag. His body was beginning to swell on the side of the road. His mouth was open; a white paste spilled out of his lips.

We were on the way to school. My car zoomed past the sight, barely slowing down. I asked the driver what happened? He said the man had probably been run over while trying to cross the express at night. It was the military that had done it. He was certain. I could believe it.I always saw the soldiers zooming at fatal speeds in their black vans. If you got in their way, they could come down and flog you with their whips. Or if it was night and they were drunk, they would just run you over. I could imagine that they had not bothered to stop when they saw the man they had hit was just a mad man.

That was the Lagos I saw when I was growing up. Now Babatunde Raji Fashola (Senior Advocate of Nigeria) and Governor of the state I call home, is asking us to see a new Lagos. Like a pastor in church, he is asking us to speak what we want to see. O ye of little faith, speak what you want to see. The voice in the first clip says, "I see a Lagos where I can wake up by 7am after a good night's rest. Get to my train station by 7.30am, travel in comfort enjoying the beautiful scenery."

Like Sarah, I laughed when I heard what the man in this clip was seeing. The thought of someone in Lagos who lives on the mainland waking up at 7am and being on time for work seemed so preposterous that all I could do was laugh. O me of little faith. I had sat too long in third mainland bridge traffic to believe. Yet I am not so cynical that I cannot join my fellow Lagosians in this act of seeing a new Lagos. So here are the things I see in Lagos in the next few years. It may be a dream but the dreamers are often the most realistic of us all.

I see a Lagos where there are no children swilling dirty soapy water over my car windscreen because they are all in school and the facilities provided for them there are world class.

I see a Lagos where former agberos have acquired skills and gained employment . They are now pillars of their community, stressing the importance of education.

I see a Lagos where affordable housing is made available for the millions living in shanty town conditions.

I see a Lagos where graduates come out of university and face reasonable competition when looking for work.

That's the Lagos I see.

To find out more about the I see Lagos project, click here.

An Evening With Ms Adichie, Mr. Ellams and Many More @ BookSlam

2011-09-21T22:27:00.013+01:00

I got there on time. 6.30pm. I didn't have a ticket and I was worried that I might be gated. I didn't know the size of the venue. It would have been a shame to go all the way to Clapham only to return to North London. The queue was long when I got there. Too long for an event that started at 7.30. I saw some of my friends. We had randomly come to the same event. They all had tickets. I wanted to run to the front and tell the guys to save one for me o. I came from North London. You will pay my transport here.

In the end there were tickets for everyone. The venue was quite large. When we were all inside it was full but more people could have fitted inside. If it was an event in Nigeria, I would have shown the organisers how to arrange the chairs to increase capacity. As it was, the Okoro Lagosian in me tried to calculate how much Bookslam made.

First poem of the night went to the host, a poet whose name I do not recall, though some of his lyrics have stuck in my head. The poem was called Invisible Kisses. I won't try and reproduce his wraps here but they were good sha.

Next up was a poet called Inua Ellams. I've seen him perform before. He came to my Uni for a performance. I went because the poster said he'd done a show at the National and I'm into brand names like that. He was good at Kings but better yesterday. Lighting really makes a difference. When the crowd is dark, I think performers have more liver. He had an excellent poem about about domestic violence. There was a particularly graphic image. A drop of blood fell into the victim's cup of coffee. There's a tinge of bathos when I paraphrase it but it was very powerful in his words.

And then we had Ms. Adichie. She's loomed large in my mind since I was a child. I was 0 years of age when Ben Okri won the Booker with the Famished Road. Between that and Purple Hibiscus there were no Nigerian writers people all over the world were making noise about, except the usual suspects: Achebe, Soyinka, Achebe, Soyinka. So of course when Chimamanda stepped on the scene, how could you say you were a Nigerian and an aspiring writer and not know of her. And have an opinion on which novel was better, Purple Hibiscus or Half of a Yellow Sun. And have family members ask, ''So you want to be the next Chimamanda?" when you said you wanted to be a writer.

The short story she read was excellent. It was called Quality Street. I was able to follow every word she said. Don't underestimate the skill required to speak in a Nigerian accent and still convey your words with clarity to an audience that is not solely African. I have my first reading next month.

I went to speak to her afterwards. She was cool. It's an oft used adjective but its the most apt I can think of. She chatted to people normally, like a naija. You know how my people like to hear our people keeping it real. There was no authorial distance. She signed everyone's book, heard a hundred people say how much they loved her books and took each compliment graciously. She was cool. I'm glad I went.

A Nigerian In France

2011-09-07T22:09:00.008+01:00

So my friend moved to France to do a Masters. Only one day in, her blackberry status had changed at least five times. I asked her to send me an email. What I got was so funny I've decided to post it here. The next voice you hear will be hers.

France is funny!!! I'm loving it...so far. Grenoble is really pretty- very different to what I expected, but a good kind of different ;-). I like my accommodation and public transport is really good. I haven't met many people yet but uni starts this week....

The people here are very funny. I will need to get used to the bluntness. I think I am too used to forced british politeness.

Even the beggars on the street don't take nonsense. One came up to me the other day while I was waiting for the tram and told me exactly how much she wanted from me.
She said, "Give me €2" , pointing at my bag.

I didn't have that much change and was a bit put off so I shook my head, she would would not leave, she encroached even more into my personal space and brought out a form with a list of signatures of other people who had given her €2 or more! So that she would leave me alone, I counted out €1 in coins and gave her, she was not too happy and after waiting for a few more seconds she eventually moved on. This was my first day here!

And today I went to the transport office to get a transport card. While I was on the very long queue, a woman behind me appointed herself queue jumping monitor and walked all the way from the back to fish out someone who she thought was jumping the queue. It turns out they had only gone to stand beside their friend in front. Then another one bellowed at one lady who was just crossing over to the other side. I thought this was a bit much and stood there staring in disgust until the lady in front of me turned back and supported her, basically saying that she was right to want to defend her position on the queue. Then they looked at me for a sign of agreement. I could only laugh. Then one lady suddenly decided to improve upon the system they had going in the office and started "helping" the cashiers by telling people when it was time to go up to the desks. Then the cashier basically said the equivalent of "Hey woman! Whats your stress!" In my mind I was thinking "Yeee! They are going to fight" but everybody just carried on as normal.

And church yesterday was a similar story. Service was mostly in English and it was very nice but also funny. There was one lady who kept shouting out lines that she thought the pastor omitted in the middle of the sermon! I was so confused. There was also another guy who was told by someone in the audience to hurry up with his speech! Then we all had lunch and after, we were basically ordered, and I'm not joking, "clear your plates and cups!", "put them in the bin!", "drop a donation", "shake off the crumbs off your table cloth!", "sit down", "don't just stand around chatting and drinking, help with moving the chairs!" Then finally, they handed brooms out. Oya sweep!

This is a big change from my London church where they beg us to go and eat cake and drink coffee. I don't know which extreme I prefer.

I can't say I wasn't warned about French bluntness...but I need to get used to it. I'm still at that stage where I'm finding everything very amusing.

N.B

Chibundu speaking again. I have a request for you my readers. I've noticed that some of the people who read this blog come from places as diverse as Thailand. My friend's email has given me an idea for a series. If any of you are foreigners in your country of residence and would be kind enough to send me an email detailing your experiences that would be nice. My email is authorsoundsbetterthanwriter@gmail.com

Spider King's Daughter Available on Amazon to Pre-order!!

2011-09-03T15:50:00.005+01:00

Screaaaaaaaaaaaaaam! Ok, I know there's no cover, but there's a blurb. Oh my gosh! You can now pre-order my book on Amazon. I've been screaming all day.

We thank God. :)

Oh, click here for the link.

We Thank God

2011-09-02T00:16:00.003+01:00

Of late people have been showing me a lot of love. I've gotten some very nice emails, people have said nice things about me, some people who I've never met have read articles about me and come up to me and said well done. It can get to ones head. Prov. 27:21 says, 'The crucible for silver and the furnace for gold, but man is tested by the praise he receives.' My father is someone who gets many compliments. People say nice things about him to his face, people say nice things about him behind his back, people generally say nice things about him. He always responds, 'We thank God.'

"Doctor that sermon you preached was very good."

"We thank God."

"Doctor, congrats on your new car."

"We thank God."

"Daddy, thank you for paying our school fees."

"We really thank God."

It's an attitude that I want to characterize my life. There's nothing good I have that is not from God. There is nothing bad in my life that has not been turned into good because of God. I used to think it was a little naff to say we thank God every time someone paid me a compliment, especially when they weren't a Christian. But now as I'm a little older, I begin to realise, who else will I thank? People email me, asking how I got a publisher like Faber? As if I had anything to do with it. Others have put in more work than me, others are more qualified than I am, others write better than I do but God was the one that gave me favour. Promotion comes neither from the east, nor the west, it comes from Heaven so the thanks must go there.

Meet the Acorns

2011-09-01T01:13:00.022+01:00

Meet Fatima. She is a pupil or an 'acorn' at The Little Acorns Educational Foundation. Her father is a gateman or maiguard as they are called in Nigeria. Fatima comes to school with Blessing (on the right.) They share the same okada.

Blessing used to be able to walk to The Little Acorns school because her mother lived in a shack on a property that was not her own. One day, the owner of the property decided he wanted to use it and so he drove all his tenants away. Blessing now comes to school on an okada which she also shares with, Peace. It looks a little like the lower image when they go home.

The acorns eat well when they are at school.

They often ask for seconds. The proprietress thinks that for many, this is the only square meal they will get.

The foundation is run by sponsorship. It costs 120,000 Naira to sponsor a child for a year. That comes to almost 500 pounds per annum. The sponsors take a real interest in their acorns. They are sent report cards and photographs every half term. Many sponsors ask for children with specific traits.

Meet Aliyah. Her sponsor, being a pretty woman, naturally wanted a pretty girl. I couldn't decide on what photo of Aliyah to put. She's very photogenic, like her sponsor.

Other sponsors have asked for sharp children. A sponsor who used to be a teacher asked for a bright child and was given Moyo.

I wonder what she was thinking when this picture was taken. She's only 3. Sarah, lower image, is another sharp one. Some people choose to sponsor an acorn because they want a different child. One sponsor specifically asked to have a Hausa girl. She was given Fatima. Fatima is not the only child whose father is a maiguard. Peter's father is also a gateman. In fact, Peter's father is my landlord's gateman.

I saw him going to school some mornings while I was in Nigeria. He did not look like his father was a gateman. He looked like his father was the owner of the house he stepped out of. That's the vision behind the Little Acorns School Foundation. To provide these children with a standard and quality of education to rival any private primary school in Lagos. On T.V, they tell you that just 5 pounds a month can educate a child in Africa. Well the proprietor of the acorns wants to give them better than 5 pounds a month because she thinks the future of Nigeria is worth more than that. Just to feed the 20 acorns (10 boys, 10 girls) costs 60,000 Naira a month. Their uniforms were all bought in England. One sponsor has remarked that the children don't look like they are from lower income families.

The acorns really like school. I'm not just saying that because my mother started the foundation. One acorn called Hafiz, used to cry whenever the school day ended and his guardian came to pick him up.

The child on the left is Hafiz. The one on the right is Mr. Boss's acorn.

A birthday at the L.A.E.F.

The boys.

To read the L.A.E.F mission statement, click here.

To contact the L.A.E.F you can email littleacornsfoundation@gmail.com.

Someone Took the Money

2011-08-26T16:50:00.006+01:00

Someone took the money,

That was supposed to buy the tools ,

To build the schools,

That would stop our youths from becoming fools.

Someone took the money,

That was supposed to pave the roads

To bring the jobs,

That would sate the mobs.

Someone took the money,

That was supposed to light our streets,

And ease the load,

Of investors wishing to turn cash to gold.

Someone took the money,

That was supposed to train the men,

To stop the bombs,

And terrorist guns.

Someone took the money,

Because they were too shortsighted,

To read the sign:

CONSEQUENCES CAN ONLY BE PUT OFF FOR A TIME.

Meet Jason Njoku of Nollywood Love

2011-08-17T20:32:00.004+01:00

A returnee doing big things. How on earth a company can turn over 500,000 dollars from adverts on youtube in 6months baffles me. He saw a gaping chasm in the Nollywood distribution market and he is plugging it and making millions of Naira from it. This guy gets c. 2 million hits a day on youtube. As someone who has sampled his work via Blackberry Babes 1 and 2, [yeah sue me] I must say, more power to his elbows.

Moving Back

2011-08-17T01:15:00.008+01:00

The exodus has begun. One by one, friends have begun to trickle back to the motherland, foreign degree in one hand, green passport in the other, in their back pocket a British or American accent to be pulled out wherever and whenever needed. Some hold dual citizenships. Should things not work out as they planned, should their salaries not be in the millions by their third year at home, they will pack their bags and return to their second motherland. For many though, going back home is burning a bridge. They may have lived in England for four, five, maybe seven years but once they move back to Nigeria, it will be like they never set foot here. The embassies give no special treatment to those who have spent a sizable chunk of their lives abroad. You are either one of them or you're not.

I think one of the bigger shocks for people who have made the move is returning to their old haunts on 'holiday.' For years, Nigeria has been the Christmas, spring break or summer spot. Suddenly it is England that becomes the vacation destination. When the returnees come back to visit, everything is familiar to them. They know exactly what bus will get them from Woodgreen to Clapham Junction. Yet, they look at things that were once familiar with puzzlement. One recent returnee told me during her 'holiday', "Nobody has a life in England. They just go to work and come home. In Lagos, nobody goes home after work. I don't understand how you guys do it."

Like most people, I am sceptical of sweeping statements that begin with 'nobody.' However, you do find that many of the returnees come back with vast judegments like: In Nigeria, people are so impatient. In Lagos, everybody forms. All Nigerian men are cheats. They are too English or American or Austrian not to be shocked by their new lives in Nigeria. Yet, by the time they return on 'holiday', they are too Nigerian not to be shocked by the old lives they once led abroad. It seems the plight of the cosmopolitan is forever to be shocked.

There is a myth that goes round the Nigerian undergraduate circles over here. Legend has it that once you return to the motherland clutching at least a 2.2 degree, a top job in the financial sector, the oil and gas sector or the telecommunications sector will be waiting for you. If you are a girl, added to this is the fact that at least 5 men will want to marry you no matter your age or level of beauty. At least two of these men will propose when you step off the plane at Murtala Mohammed airport.

I was speaking to a friend of mine about the first part of this myth. He did his National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) in Lagos and there were a lot of returnees from America, London, Johannesburg, Accra. According to him, they came expecting the best jobs but many were disappointed, for two reasons. First of all, the market is saturated. There are only so many jobs to go around, no matter how many overseas graduates descend on V.I looking for a start up annual salary of at least 2 million. Secondly, in his opinion, the foreign trained graduates were not such great employees anyway. They were arrogant, they spoke funny and many of them had not gone to first rate universities abroad.Thus, in employer's eyes, their 2.1 from a low ranking university in England, was no more valuable than a 2.1 from the University of Ibadan. My friend saw many of those who had come from abroad in search of Eldorado, returning to where they came from, their dreams dissolved to dust.

However, I hear stories which make me wonder how much of a lie the myth is. I have another friend in England, who has just finished a Masters here. She is currently looking for work but only halfheartedly because she has two job offers waiting for her in Nigeria. The first is from a large bank, one of the so-called 'new-generation' banks. The second is from an oil company. These are the kind of jobs that people fast and pray just to get an interview for. To give you an idea of how prized such jobs are, about a year ago, when a multinational oil company advertised a job opening in a national newspaper, over 90, 000 people applied. 90,000. I can't even get my head round such a number. Even if only a tenth of those that applied were eligible, that still means that whoever got it, would have beaten 9,000 others to get that job. I don't even think my friend had an interview. I know for a fact that she has no background in finance yet she has a banking job waiting for her in Nigeria. Is she an exception? I don't think so. I've heard too many stories like hers. Is she the norm? I don't know.

No-one is quite certain what Nigeria will hold for us returnees when we get back. I've heard amazing success stories. I've seen people who could barely afford to load their Oyster cards, come back to England on 'holiday' with more money than they had in all their years here put together (and no they are not doing 419). I've seen others who go back and make it by Nigerian standards. They have a job that pays well enough for them to afford a car with air conditioning (my humble reckoning of success) but still they are not content. They see their fellow returnees buying houses in Lekki and flying first class and they crave that lifestyle, they feel entitled to it by reason of their foreign education. And of course, there are a few who go back and don't make anything of it at all. Again, they are by no means starving but they always feel that things would have been better if they have stayed in England. No matter if they moved back last year of twenty years ago, they will always mention in conversation, "When I lived in England..." Some will spend their lives, looking for ways both legal and illegal to make a second exodus.

As my friends return, I wish them well. I pray they come back on holiday with more than they have left with. I pray they will be safe. I pray they will be strong. May they go with optimism. May they never stop believing that things can change. May they never say like our parents did, "We are managing." The exodus has begun in my generation. The children are coming home.

Pentecostal 101: Speaking in Tongues

2011-08-14T22:28:00.001+01:00

There is no surer sign that we pentecostals are crazy than the fact that we speak in tongues. Gibberish, madness, delusion, I've heard it all and been offended by none. After all, I can understand why one would feel a bit uncomfortable watching people making unintelligible sounds for hours on end. And the worst part is that most of the people speaking this 'language' don't even understand what they are saying. Odder and odder. Truth of the matter is even Christians are divided on the issue of tongue speaking. Some say its hokey pokey mumbo jumbo and others say, completely legitimate. As a casual bystander, if you're going to fall on any side of the argument, surely it would be with the sane Christians who only pray in languages that everyone else understands. Surely.

The first instance of speaking in tongues that the Bible records is in Acts. Jesus had died, been resurrected, ascended (a class for another day) and now his followers were hanging around, feeling a little lost. Before Jesus ascended he said, "Do not leave Jerusalem until the Father sends you the gift He promised, as I told you before. John baptised with water, but in a few days you will be baptised with the Holy Spirit." [Acts 1:4-5 (NLT) ] Now, no-one had ever been baptised with the Holy Spirit before this. It was a big deal and I'm assuming a scary deal. So while they are waiting for the gift, the disciples prepare for the Holy Spirit by meeting and praying in a language that they all understood: Aramaic. Then one fine day, the gift comes. 'Everyone present was filled with the Holy Spirit and began speaking in other languages, as the Holy Spirit gave them this ability." [Acts 2:4 (NLT)] Or speaking in 'other tongues' as the King James Version puts it, hence the phrase speaking in tongues was coined.

Now, let it be made clear that the languages they were speaking were not unintelligible to the other people around them. "At that time there were devout Jews from every nation living in Jerusalem. When they heard the loud noise, everyone came running, and they were bewildered to hear their own languages beings spoken by the believers. They were completely amazed. "How can this be?" the exclaimed. "These people are all from Galilee and yet we hear them speaking in our native languages!"[Acts 2:5-12 (NLT)]

The disciples didn't understand what they were saying but the foreigners around them could. So how come today when people say they are speaking in tongues, a lot of the time, no-one understands them, foreigner or not? Well, as I said, this was the first instance of people speaking in tongues. After this first time, Paul witnessed many instances and it seems that as more and more people spoke under the influence of the Spirit, increasingly no-one understood what they were saying . "For if you have the ability to speak in tongues, you will be talking only to God, since people won’t be able to understand you. You will be speaking by the power of the Spirit, but it will all be mysterious." [1 Corinthians 14:2 (NLT)]

So what is the point of speaking a language that nobody but God understands, not even you? Well for one, it builds up your spirit man. As Paul puts it, ^'A person who speaks in tongues is strengthened personally.' [1 Corinthians 14:4 (NLT)] But still you don't understand what you're saying. How do you cope with that? Well, the more you speak in tongues, the more you begin to wonder why understanding was so important in the first place. For example, there is a very popular 2face Idibia song called Implication. The only word I have ever understood in that song is implication. The chorus goes, (according to a lyrics website)

Olele, olele

Ole jelapooloo lele!
Ole wua olewua, ole jelu bu lewua

Implication

I have absolutely no idea what these words mean yet when I hear them sung, immediately I think Nigeria, party, dance, 2face. I don't understand them but I know they mean something and that means something to me. I may not understand but it means somethings. It may sound like gibberish but it means something. Yet, it's important not to forget: "Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal." [1 Corinthians 13:1 (KJV)] Sometimes, we pentecostals can get hung up on this speaking in tongues things and begin thinking that if you don't do it, you're not a real Christian. The real test of a Christian is in how much they've grown in love. As Paul would have put it if he'd lived in our times, it's all about the love.

Owambe

2011-08-13T23:15:00.006+01:00

I've been to only one Nigerian wedding this year. It was a lovely, beautiful wedding but it seems the wedding planners in Lagos are overtaking everything we have over here. I remember when I was younger, Lagos weddings used to be church, canopy, jollof rice. Now the business is a much more lavish affair. There is the ceremony, the reception and of course jollof rice. Some things don't change.

This wedding that CNN featured had over 1,000 guests. 1,000! What is even the meaning of that? The gate crashers brought grate crashers and they brought their friends and family. Of course the extra guests were catered for. There is no shame like a Nigerian wedding running out of food kind of shame. I was very impressed with the wedding planner. She did an excellent job. I don't even know where I would start planning a party for 1,500 people. The bride was surprisingly calm, at least on camera. The make up was flawlessly done by a lady called Banke Meshida Lawal. Usually Nigerian wedding makeup can look like it was applied with a mop but this was sufficiently light.

I miss Eko. Anyways, enough of my talking. Enjoy the videos.

P.S
Kudos to Christian Purefoy for his amazing dobale. To think that after all the work Lord Lugard did, one day a British man would still press his face to the floor in front of a Yoruba chief.

Teju Cole and Nostalgia

2011-08-12T03:39:00.004+01:00

I heart this guy. His next work is non fiction, set in Eko, describing my city. He reads from it in this clip. It is such a powerful and evocative extract I want to get on a plane and return to my country. He has made me so homesick.

Me I like my country,

My country very good o,

Everything dey for my country,

So let us join hands and make Nigeria greater.

It was a song we used to sing when I was younger. Do you remember this one?

O eba, O eba,

When shall I see dodo

Ireti give us food o,

When I think of Egusi and Iyan,

I will never forget pomo.

And this one

There are seven rivers in Africa,

Nile, Niger, Senegal, Congo, Orange, Limpopo, Zambezi,

Azikiwe, Mohammed, Tafawa Balewa

White man don take the crown from us.

Anyways, here is the reading that sparked off all this nostalgia.

Boarding School: Contraband Wars 2

2011-08-03T22:07:00.009+01:00

In a previous post, I mentioned that my secondary school in Nigeria did not allow provisions or tuck, as such snacks are called over here. No sweets, no chocolate, no garri, no powdered milk, no Milo, no sugar, no groundnuts, no nothing. The only food we were allowed, was the food served in the dining hall and even that one, you had to hustle for. If you were unfortunate enough to have a greedy senior on your table, you might end up eating half your daily calorie allowance for months at a time.

Of course, we did our best to break this law. Indomie used to enter our dormitories via people's underwear. The house mistresses' soon wised up and pat searches were introduced. Fortunately for me, my mother was a board member and so she visited my school often. On those visits she would bring perishables that had to be stuffed down quickly in the backseat of our car. I spent many a break time, swallowing meat pies, jollof rice and chicken. One time and I do think only once, she brought provisions for us. Perhaps they were not even for us. They were probably in the boot of the car and my sister and I, starved children that we were, jumped on them. A few packs of biscuit, some Caprisonne, some crisps, nothing much but in boarding school terms, we had hammered.

We sneaked our provisions back into our dormitory by an open window. Now we had got them in, the hardest part was stopping ourselves from getting caught. I used to wait till midnight to eat those biscuits and even then, I would crunch them very quietly to myself. This is not to say I was selfish. My close friends knew about my stash, I even gave them a few crumbs but we were very discreet. Every morning I would take my laundry bag and attach it to my dormitory window that overlooked an empty room. Then I would push the laundry bag into the empty room so the only part of it you could see from my room was the coloured strings attaching the bag to my window grill.

I thought I was safe. We all thought we were safe, myself and the others that had stuffed their goodies in their pillows and under their beds and behind wardrobes. But ladies and gentlemen, we did not know we had a spy in our midst. Perhaps, she never fell into any friendship group that had a contraband distributor in its circle. Perhaps she did but was dissatisfied with the few crumbs that were given her. Whatever her motive, she began to expose our hideouts.

The first person the school authorities took out was Ebun. It happened one Monday afternoon. Ebun came back from school, dropped her books in her wardrobe and went to lie on her bed. She did not hear the reassuring crinkle that usually told her that her packets of crisps were safe. She sat up and felt her pillow. She pulled out the foam. The pillow case was empty.

"Who stole my grub?"

Everyone looked up, including the spy.

"Ehn, Ebun your crisps are not there? Check well. Maybe you moved it somewhere else." We all said. She checked her pillow. She checked under her duvet. She checked in her cupboard. Still, no crisps. Ebun cried and we consoled her. The school authorities had struck.

"Don't worry Ebun. I'll give you a crisp when I open my packet."

After we finished commiserating, some of us went to change our hiding places. I left my laundry bag where it was. No-one could possibly look there...without information.

The next victim was Sumbo. She had hidden her contraband behind her locker. Chioma was next, her sweets were in her pant bag. At first, we thought it was a thief. But no thief would be so daring as to strike again and again in such quick succession. Then one day, I came back to my dormitory and found my laundry bag, neatly laid out on my bed, empty. This was the last straw. Something had to be done. Our room prefect, worried she might be next, staged a witch-hunt. We all lined up next to our lockers and she searched each one. No-one had the missing food. Our dormitory was not plagued with a thief but with a spy.

"Whoever casted about our grub will come last in class."

No-one really had the stomach to pronounce a curse any grimmer than that. After all, warped though our values had become due to sugar deprivation, we were not deranged enough to think the loss of a few biscuits were worth a life.

That night, all over the room, the remaining snacks were brought out of their hiding places and consumed. It was better to finish a month's supply of contraband in one night than not to eat it at all. Of course, no-one could finish their stock by themselves so we all enjoyed. Including the spy. We never found out who she was.

Comfortable

2011-08-01T23:54:00.006+01:00

In one sense, no-one can be comfortable in my country. We are all at the mercy of N.E.P.A, fuel crises and long traffic jams.Yet, despite this some are still more comfortable than others. My friend I was discussing with, took the viewpoint that skilled labourers such as plumbers and electricians cannot be described as comfortable in the same way you would describe the person of the same job description in the U.K. Over here, a plumber might not drive the flashiest car but he can pay his rent or mortgage, buy food, clothe his children.

I took the opposite view. In Nigeria, a plumber can also pay his rent, buy food and clothe his children, obviously not in the same style as his Western counterpart. But then how many in Nigeria, even those we would term the middle-classes, can do that? My point was that one could not look from an upper-middle class vantage and say that an average plumber cannot be comfortable.

While I was in Lagos this summer, I was shocked by the amount people were spending on lunch. 7,000 Naira for glorified Indomie and chicken. 7,000 Naira?! Some people can buy school uniforms, household things, throw in some text books and transport money as well. Therefore, for one to say that a plumber is not comfortable because he earns x-times less than you, seemed patronising. After all, if a Nigerian billionaire called my father uncomfortable, I would take offense. That the billionaire uses ten million Naira to buy a watch does not mean my father cannot be comfortable on that amount. Just because one uses 1,000 Naira to eat Kelloggs does not mean the person soaking ogi is uncomfortable with their breakfast.

For the duration of the argument, the minimum requirements for being comfortable were ability to pay rent, provide food, clothe your children and send them to school, university if need be. I knew pepper traders who had succeeded in doing the above. To argue that skilled workers could not do the same didn't make sense. My friend countered that the effort expended by the average plumber to do the above was too great for the result. She knew a plumber who worked as a watchman in the night. She knew that if he could not go to work for two days, it could make the difference between his children eating dinner and going hungry to bed.

Of course, we weren't using statistics. The discussion was based on personal experience. Yet, this last point she made struck me. I have always thought that skilled labour is a large part of the future of Nigeria. I think that everyone should have the opportunity to go to university. However, there are millions of unemployed youth between the ages of 18 and 25. Some are graduates, many are not. The graduate market as it is is saturated. Until the current industries are developed and new ones come in, what are those millions supposed to do? In my eyes, learning a trade seems a better option than armed robbery, prostitution, area boyism.

Micro-finance, where small amounts are loaned to skilled workers to start up a business, seems like an idea that could work in Nigeria. Yet, here was my friend arguing that being a skilled worker was little guarantee that you could meet our basic criteria for being comfortable without working 20 hours a day. Even with such long hours, comfort was not guaranteed. I have read of graduates who have become hawkers because of the job market in Nigeria.

I don't know who won our argument. I need statistics to decide.

Follow Follow

2011-07-31T23:42:00.002+01:00

This guy is talking sense. The subtitles are hilarious.

Petina Shoutout

2011-07-29T15:59:00.004+01:00

Petina Gappah, (disclaimer: she's also a Faber author) has given me an incredibly nice shout out on her blog. I blush as I give you this link.

P.S

Check out her braids. Next time I go to Nigeria I'm going to do this hair. Unfortunately, it's impossible to do such in England unless you are a millionaire.

Did I Ever Tell You Guys I Sing?

2011-07-27T01:05:00.004+01:00

Probably not. Here's a cover of Carmen's God in America that my sister and I did about a year ago. My sister is on the guitar and I do most of the vocals. It's languishing in the backwaters of Youtube. We filmed the rose instead of our faces because we were in our nighties while we were singing and looking rather ming. We don't want to affect our bride prices.

P.S
Just listening to the song again, I feel it's particularly relevant in relation to what's going on in Northern Nigeria. If people had spent the money they were supposed to on improving security, improving education, improving the standard of living, training our police officers and not turning them into them brutal tit for tat forces, as bad as the criminals, then we wouldn't be having this situation. We don't need leaders who profess religion. We have them ten for one Naira. We need God fearing men and women in Nigeria.

The Barack and Michelle Obama Effect

2011-07-23T00:18:00.007+01:00

The Jonathans as shot by T.Y Bello. Images from onobello.com

Father Matthew Kuka

2011-07-22T23:59:00.003+01:00

An excellent talk from a priest who has known all the Heads of State since General Yakubu Gowon and sat on the Oputa Panel. In my utopia, tribe would play a very minor role in the functioning of Nigeria but he discusses, rather humorously, the reality as it is now.

100th Post and the Case of the Reclining Chair

2011-07-21T01:56:00.013+01:00

One massive deadline has been slain. I feel I can loosen my belt a bit. Incidentally, it is also my 100th post so I've been thinking of something epic and deep and funny to write about. I'll save it for my 1 year blog anniversary. Until then, I thought I should knack you the tory wey happen as I dey come from Nigeria back to obodoyinbo.

The flight was full. Nigerians it seems are becoming more affluent. So affluent that they now travel with their house girls as one woman announced to the whole plane. Her children were sitting together but the house girl had not been put with children. I mean, what is the point of taking a maid to England if she's not going to look after my children. And I can't look after my children because I'm in Upper Class. Did everyone hear that? I am travelling upper class and my maid has been separated from my children. Air hostess please sort this out so I can go back to upper class and stretch out on my fully reclining seat while all of you sit in economy and roast. Of course, no-one wanted to switch seats to let the children be re-united with their nanny. I don't know how that matter ended because I started eavesdropping on the phone conversation taking place next to me.

The woman had just 'flown in and flown out.' It was a 'quick one.' Just 'a few days.' You know how we big girls do. In fact, she wanted to go upper class but the plane was full so she had to settle for an economy ticket because she needed to get back to work. You know how we big girls do. If that's all that happened on the flight, it would have been enough gist for me. A little lighthearted showing off from my fellow Nigerians is always of interest. I settled down in my seat, hoping the six hours would go quickly. I was on my first movie when a woman in the row behind me, tapped my neighbour and said,

"Excuse me. Please move your seat forward. It's disturbing me."

My neighbour replied, "No sorry I cannot. The person in front of me has reclined their chair so I must recline mine."

I thought the matter had ended. I returned to my movie. Next thing, the woman punched my neighbour's chair until it was in an upright position. What followed was the most bizarre sequence of events. My neighbour would recline her chair fully. The woman would punch it upright. Recline. Punch. Recline. Punch. During this sequence phrases like,

"You're making me uncomfortable."

"It is my constitutional right to recline my chair."

"You cannot inconvenience me."

"I should have travelled upper class."

were thrown around. Eventually, air hostesses had to be called in.The uncomfortable lady could not see her screen, her knees were cramped.

"Then recline your own chair madam," one of the hostesses said reasonably.

"I do not want to recline my chair."

And that was the end of that line of persuasion. Another hostess tried a different tack.

"Madam, why don't you swap seats with your husband if you're so uncomfortable."

"I do not want my husband being inconvenienced by this woman."

At this point, my fellow Nigerians began to join the fray.

"Madam raise your chair small."

"No, she is not the one that should raise her chair. It is this woman that should push back her own."

"Why must we Nigerians always embarrass ourselves outside."

My people I laughed ehn. At first, I tried to hide it by covering my mouth but as the confra grew noisier my laughter increased in volume. Eventually a compromise was reached. My neighbour reclined her chair half way and the matter was closed. I returned to my movie with tears still in my eyes.

About an hour later, the inconvenienced passenger's husband decided to try his own luck. He too felt that the lady in front of him (also on my row) had reclined her chair too far back. He had also seen how successful his wife had been. So he tapped the lady and said, "Excuse me, your seat is too far back."

Her response was classic.

"Don't even start that nonsense."

And that ladies and gentlemen is how you shut up the passenger behind you when he/she tries to impinge on your constitutional right to fully recline your plane seat.

Caine Prize Shortlist, Southbank Reading

2011-07-10T22:43:00.013+01:00

Just back from a reading with all the shortlisted authors for the Caine Prize. I was 15 minutes late so I only heard 3.5 stories but all 3.5 were excellent. The winner will be announced tomorrow. I have a favourite but I wouldn't place a bet on it because the standard is so high. You can read the entire short list here.

Lauri Kubuitsile author of 'In the Spirit of McPhineas Lata. Her story was very humorous. It left the audience laughing at loud. Read her blog here.

NoViolet Bulawayo. Author of Hitting Budapest. Particularly loved the fro. Also the name is very unusual. She described herself as a 'literary activist' but unfortunately there was not enough time for her to expand.

Beatrice Lamwaka author of Butterfly Dreams. She had an interesting explanation for why she used the butterfly as a metaphor in her short story. It's because butterflies are difficult to catch, like dreams.

David Medalie, Author of The Mistress' Dog. I really enjoyed his story. It was simple, yet imagined in such detail.

Unfortunately I didn't get a photo of the last author on the shortlist, Tim Keegan. He's a Historian, which is right up my street. Ah well.

Of course the perennial question of whether the writer's considered themselves 'African Writers' came up. Eye roll. Been there. Done that. I liked Tim Keegan's answer. He's a white South African and he likes being called an African Writer because being African is part of his identity, even though his skin is white. Short, sweet and simple. Ok folks. Back to the deadlines.

SAN Class of 2011

2011-07-09T02:32:00.002+01:00

I don't understand why anyone would wear a scratchy wig and a black gown in such heat. The sweat collecting on them could probably irrigate a farm. Someone needs to redesign ASAP. This colonial mentality has gone too far.

My Song

2011-07-06T21:33:00.004+01:00

Everytime I tell people my name is Chibundu, they promptly begin to call me Chibuzo. I have never understood why and I have never seen any benefits to this misnomer. So I was glad to stumble across this song. Now it's my own personal theme song.

Beautiful

2011-07-03T23:23:00.000+01:00

Deadlines

2011-07-02T18:08:00.002+01:00

Hello readers. I'm afraid I have quite a few writerly deadlines looming and breathing down my neck. So I'm going to take a break from this blog for about 3 weeks. Nigeria was fantastic, my flight back was incredibly comic and I'll tell you all about it when I return. Ka chifo nu.

Sirens

2011-06-18T10:26:00.010+01:00

Everyone is a big man in Lagos. Even those you look down on are big men in waiting so be careful how you speak to them. One day, you might be insulting them, the next, they are driving past you in their convoy and splashing rain water on your new clothes. That's how it is in Lagos. Here today, there the next. I love the social mobility of this place. I hate that the most popular way to show that you have arrived is with a siren convoy.

You see, a big man cannot wait in traffic like the rest of us. Even when the most pressing matter on his plate is to go home and cut his finger nails, he still cannot wait in traffic like the rest of us. Come on, can't you see how demeaning that is. A whole big man, sit in his air conditioned car and actually wait to get somewhere. No. Abomination. Switch on that siren now! And it's funny, the Nigerian psyche has been so brutalised by decades of military rule that no-one questions what right this big man has to turn on his siren and force a way through traffic. It's amazing. Once people hear the siren, almost as if by magic, a way begins to be made in the most gridlocked traffic. It is like watching a modern parting of the Red Sea.

Last week, I was sitting on third mainland bridge when one of these big men decided to switch on his siren. The driver taking us home is a rather strong headed individual and he refused to stop or clear to the side for them to pass. That is, until the armed guards in the big man's convoy got out of their vans and began to bang people's cars, telling them to stop and move to the side. Of course the driver stopped after that. Who wan die? As the convoy drove past, I saw the number plate of the main vehicle. It said ADMIRAL 1. If I had a stone on me, I would have hurled it at that car and probably been arrested for attempted murder, like the unfortunate hawker who threw a sachet of Pure Water at a governor's convoy. Thankfully, there was no stone and so I am not typing this from Kiri Kiri maximum security.

As the convoy passed, the driver said, "They didn't born us properly. That's why we must sit in traffic." It's true. We were the one's that were born with one head while they were born with two. That's why a big man cannot queue in this country anymore. For goodness sakes, where are the dividends of democracy, those thieving politicians are always talking about. You mean after a dozen years of having the vote, I still have to clear road because an Admiral is passing? Are we at war with anybody? Is he rushing to command a fleet? If not, he'd better sit in traffic like the rest of us.

The Governor of Lagos State, Babatunde Raji Fashola, is famously known for not using a siren when he moves about Lagos. As I have heard him say in an interview, "Sirens are for emergencies. Using one when I move around implies that we are constantly in a state of emergency in Lagos. Which we are not." Unfortunately, B.R.F is leading by example and we all know how famously bad Nigerian leaders are at following good examples. It's about time someone started legislating against this big man syndrome that expresses itself in the unnecessary use of sirens.

I know out of all the problems that face Nigeria, you may think that sirens are the most insignificant but I beg to differ. They are the most visible sign of the culture of impunity that exists among our big men and leaders. A culture that says I am not subject to the same laws as everybody. That's why they steal, that's why they kill, that's why they inflate contract prices. When sirens start getting silenced, other illegal practices may soon follow the same fate.

Literature is Not Dead

2011-06-12T20:17:00.009+01:00

The prevalent view is that literature is only for the rich in Nigeria. Poor people don't read. If they do, its by accident and its nothing intellectual. Thus when my Aunt, Mrs. Mobolaji Adenubi, invited me to a meeting of the Association of Nigerian Authors (A.N.A), I had a very clear picture of what the meeting would be like. It would be on the island, because as we all know, nothing posh happens on the mainland. There would be a few expatriates.The people at the venue might be simply dressed but there would be many fancy cars in the parking lot. Now I must confess that I've never been to a literary event in Nigeria before but from looking at pictures and reading the news coverage, the vibe I've gotten has been that these events have swung more towards the aje botas.

So I was pleasantly surprised to find that most of the people who attended yesterday's meeting did not belong to the privileged class. Even though it rained terrifically, many of the people present took public transport to make that meeting. You cannot understand the full import of this until you have been caught in Lagos rain. The only umbrella I had was my England one: a sturdy thing that has served me well over there but was no match for the Eko rainy season. I came in a car to the meeting and only had to walk about ten metres to the venue. Yet by the time I reached the entrance, the rain had made a mockery of my umbrella and beaten me well well. Now, imagine coming to such a venue in a danfo or even worse on an okada. Even after sitting under a roof for four hours, there was one lady who still left the venue with damp clothes.

The meeting started about an hour late but that was due to the rain. The roads flood in Nigeria during the rainy season and thus traffic increases exponentially. Again, it wasn't a full house because of the rains but those that came, came with their works, ready to read them. Even I, first timer, was offered a chance at reading to the gathering. There were about five poetry readings and one prose piece. After each, the members would critique and advise. The two poems that caused the most debate were about Africa. One member protested about the blanket use of the 'black' to describe Africans. Another countered that majority of the people in Africa were black and even those in North Africa had dark skin. One member found one poem too optimistic about the state of Africa. In his view, the writer was 'deceiving herself.'

Perhaps it was because he was a man or perhaps because the woman who wrote the poem was a shy, the other women in the group took up her cause and after some close text analysis, dragged the rest of the group to the conclusion that the poem was neither overly optimistic or pessimistic but a good balance. There was one man who read so passionately that he could not remain on his seat. He read his poem twice and each time, he started sitting and by the end he was standing, pacing and declaiming his work.

Even I got my own few minutes. Though I had nothing of my own to read, when my Aunt told Dagga Tolar the Chairman of the Lagos branch that I had a book coming out next year (D.V), he put me next to the guest speaker who had come all the way from Ibadan and did a sort of joint interview with both of us. At the end, a small library of books was brought out for members to peruse. Some of the books were from members who had self published and left a copy of the book with the organisation but quite a few were international works. I spotted a copy of Isabel Allende's House of Spirits. All in all, I enjoyed my first meeting of A.N.A. It has shown me that high culture is for everyone.

Why I'm Not Afraid of Flying Anymore

2011-06-08T06:42:00.006+01:00

When I was younger, I loved flying. In fact, I loved the journey more than the destination. Neither London now could live up to the joys I experienced getting there. I am perhaps the only person I know, who loved the steamed mushiness of plane food, the dry air, the glamorous hostesses. Once, we got a surprise up grade to business class on the Belgian airline Sabena. It was perhaps one of the most beautiful memories of my childhood. Then, individual television screens had not reached economy, so to have a personal entertainment system, where you could rewind, pause, and fast forward at will, with a choice of over 50 films, with seats that reclined almost horizontally, with air hostesses offering you extra without you having to ask! It was the life.

As time progressed, flying began to lose its lustre for me. It must have been a gradual deglamorisation but looking back, the change seems stark. One flight, I was wishing England was more than a paltry six hours away, the next, I was counting down the seconds to landing. One flight, the air hostesses were the most sophisticated men and women who had ever been born, the next I was noticing varicose veins and the layers of make up that cracked in the dry air of the plane. Yet, the most pointed marker that my attitude towards flying had changed was that I began to take note of this thing called turbulence.

Thinking logically, there must have been turbulence when I flew as a child. It cannot be that the air has suddenly gotten rougher in the past six years or so. However, I have no recollection of any plane I entered before c 17 shuddering in the air. Then suddenly, one day, I was sitting in my seat, the plane gave a small heave to the left and my heart was beating at a frequency that was abnormal. Half an hour later, the plane dipped a little and again my heart was beating wildly. I was afraid. In a plane, one of my favourite places to be, I was afraid.

Why this sudden change? The truth is simple. I, Imachibundu Onuzo had discovered that I was going to die. You might say that it took me a rather long time to come to this conclusion so let me explain myself before your jump to derision. At about 5 or 6, I found out that everybody was going to die. This did not concern me to much. At about 10/11, I realised that my parents were going to die. Death had become a little more personal. The thought filled me with terror. I calculated how many years my parents could possibly live. I generously gave them I think 90 years but still that meant I would only be about 50 when they left. My mother came home one day to find me sitting on a bed, very still.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"You're going to die," I said, bursting into tears.

"But I'm not ill," she said, perhaps a little alarmed.

"Not now. But you're going to die one day."

She started laughing. "Is that why you're crying? Everyone is going to die one day."

Everyone is going to die one day, the universal truth I had known since I was six but now at c. 11, it was hitting home that everyone included my parents, daddy, mummy. Then finally the penny dropped. Everyone included me. True, it took about six years for this final penny to drop. In the interim, I got pimples, lost some, made friends, lost some, made more, did my first weavon and then suddenly one day, I realised that I, Chibundu Onuzo was going to die. The thought terrified me and it made things that had hitherto been easy, very difficult. I was afraid of entering the tube because I was scared I would be in the same carriage as a terrorist and he would blow himself up and I would die. I was scared of passing between two buses because the driver of one might not see me and he would crush me and I would die. And of course, I was scared of flying because the pilot might fall asleep, the wind might break the plane, the plane engine might explode, so many things could go wrong, then the plane would crash and I would die.

I was a Christian when I was having these crippling fears and after they had eaten up all of my mental peace and quiet, I prayed. Very simply, I wanted to stop being afraid of death. God answered. Very simply I had to start believing in eternal life. Not in the half hearted, lip service, there's a heaven way, but in a very real, practical, heaven is where God is. If you believe the claims of Jesus and follow His teachings, then you have a taste of heaven inside you. When you die, you get the full experience. Shikenna.

Sometime c 18/19 years of age, I started believing this completely again. It's made life a lot easier. I can get on the tube without having palpitations. I can enter a plane. I can eat spicy food. The way I see it, when death comes, however it comes, my spirit will be unzipped from its body suit and fly back to God.

P.S

I went to Houston and Atlanta while I was in America. Now I am back in the motherland. More on that later.

America

2011-05-20T03:48:00.006+01:00

America has given me a virus. Not the human kind. The computer kind. For months, I've been surfing the Internet in England: I've gone on secure connections, unsecure, semi secure, everything. Three days in America and gbosa, I have a virus. Now I have no laptop to divert myself I must turn to the television for amusement. But American TV, it's something else. I can't watch any shows here because I find it difficult to follow the story. The main actor says five lines and it switches to fifteen minutes of Buy Orange Juice. By the time the show comes backs, I've forgotten what it's about.

However, watching adverts can prove to be a diversion in itself. You can learn a lot about a country that way. For example, I have deduced that many Americans are overly concerned with their weight. Every other advert is diet this or gastric band that. Every other show is Biggest Loser, How I lost Weight in One year, Help I'm Too Large. Or, if it's not about shedding weight, it's about suing somebody. I kid you not (to use an Americanism) in just three days, I've seen about fifty adverts calling on people to sue somebody. If you've been hit by a car, or slipped on a floor, or taken X medication and have an ingrown nail then call 1-800 SUE. If you think I'm exaggerating, dial that number and find out.

The adverts don't seem to have affected peoples' nature though. You would expect that with so much incitement to legal activity people would be more querulous. Still, I think I've met the most good natured people in America. I pass people on the corridor and instead of doing that furtive eye contact, look away quickly thing that people do in England, or hissing at you like we do in Nigeria, people smile and say hello. I'm not used to smiling at strangers or friends or even close family members.

However, this their friendliness can sometimes tend towards familiarity. At immigration, there was a nice jokey guy at the booth. How you doing today? How was your flight? He asked a few more questions, the answers to which his job required he know. How long are you staying? Where do you go to school in England? What are you studying? "History," I told him. Mr. Immigration officer replied, "History? Why you studying that? You won't get a job with History." If that wasn't enough he added, "You'll need to do a Masters to get a job unless you want to work in the university." I laughed. It was all meant in jest but really, it was a little unexpected for this immigration officer to be giving me career advice on the basis of a three minute meeting.

In other American news, I think I'm getting a warped view of the world from listening to the news here. It seems like only three things are happening: Maria Shriver, IMF guy and Arnold Schwarzenegger. If you don't know what I'm talking about, maybe you live in the real world. I just don't understand it. Even CNN that bastion and paragon of international news has succumbed to the dissection of Maria and Arnold's private life. How can the news anchor be asking me rhetorically, How would you feel if your husband cheated on you and got another woman pregnant at the same time that he got you pregnant? Is this CNN or Jerry Springer? I'm confused. Elsewhere in the world, revolutions might be happening, planes might be crashing, dictators might be tumbling and I'm stuck watching the nitty gritty of Arnold's affair. He's done a bad thing but for goodness sake, let him and his family deal with it in private. Too many panels of amebos have been convened over this issue.

This is not to say that I don't enjoy being in America. I love the place. I can stretch my hands without touching the ceiling, which is a vast improvement on England. I haven't slept so well in months. The cars are bigger, the roads are bigger. There's really nothing to complain about. I'm going to feel like Gulliver in Lilliput when I return to the U.K.

My exams went alright, we thank God. More on that at a later date... maybe.

Examination

2011-05-02T23:41:00.004+01:00

My people, exam season don come again o. Please make una forgive me. I no go post anything until I don scatter all those papers finish. Make una pray for me, make those papers no scatter me. My exam go finish on the 11th of May. After that, we go continue the enjoyment and jollification for this website address. Until then, make una go well o.

Inspiring Stuff

2011-05-01T22:03:00.000+01:00

Interview in Alumni Magazine

2011-04-29T20:04:00.004+01:00

That's the blurry cover of the alumni magazine at Kings, my university. Click here for the e-version if you are inclined to see a clearer photo/read my interview therein.

Meet Mr. Boss

2011-04-26T18:29:00.015+01:00

Meet Mr. Boss. Mr. Boss, as he is fondly referred to by his employees, is in his late thirties, married, with 2.4 kids and I suspect a dog. He is comfortable enough to provide a bubble for himself and his family. If the government does not bring light, he can switch on his generator. If they don't bring water, he can dig his private bore hole. If they don't bring security, he and his neighbours can hire their own. No matter who is President of Nigeria, no matter if the elections are rigged, no matter if the military returns, Mr. Boss will most likely remain firmly entrenched in the upper middle class.

Every election day, Mr. Boss has arrived at 6:15am to set up his polling unit. Long before the corpers have arrived, long before the voters have even thought of accreditation. The man in red in his maiguard. The person who took the photo is his brother.

Here was what they set up last week Saturday during the presidential elections. The sticks are sourced from trees in his area, the string and chairs are from his private stock.
Here was what Mr. Boss and his friends set up this week. Friends I say because each week, when voters arrived and saw the job he had done, a few joined his band of merry men. When I asked why he felt the need to set up an enclosed area for the corpers and their ballot boxes, Mr. Boss replied that he did not want mayhem. "Nobody had access to the corpers as they sorted and counted," so they could do their jobs in peace.

Remember this from last week:
Voters who were disputing with the corpers got so close to the counting table that they had to be pushed back by a police man. Well none of that happened at Mr. Boss's P.U because the voting area was cordoned of and he and his brother created a "gate" so only a fixed number could vote at a time.
As voters arrived for accreditation, each was given a laminated card with a number on it. Last week, Mr. Boss made 800 of these cards to hand out to voters as they arrived. Voters were accredited according to their card numbers and they voted according to these numbers as well. What was the point of this, I asked? Remember this long queue from last week:

Well, as long as everybody had their card with them, they could be called to vote in batches according to their numbers. There was no need to queue at Mr. Boss's P.U. They voted in groups of twenty, so people sat down on chairs that Mr. Boss and his merry men provided, under a canopy that a voter provided and waited their turn. He says, "My brother and I processed entry into the the area and exit from it...while our two friends processed the line and called up the subsequent batches." Some people had picnics by the side of the road while they waited for their numbers to be called.

Last week, voters sitting comfortably and far from the corpers as they counted the votes.

This week voters sitting even more comfortably as they waited to be called. The man in the white shirt is about to open that red carton and share some drinks with his fellow voters.

At the end of the day, the corpers had smiles on their faces. No one had tried to kill them for doing their jobs. Instead, people like Mr. Boss had made the event peaceful and enjoyable even, there was an air of faaji around this P.U.

When I asked how he was bothered to do all this when as I've said earlier, the outcome of the election would make little difference to his life, Mr. Boss replied, "Well...someone has to sacrifice for the country otherwise all the booths would have been like the one in your parents area abi? If that's the price I had to pay to get it well organised then I'm ok with it..."

God rest the corpers who were killed in the North. The price they paid was too high. God bless Mr. Boss and raise up more like him. My name is Chibundu Onuzo. God Bless and good night.

President Goodluck on CNN

2011-04-20T12:50:00.004+01:00

Photos and Commentary From The Presidential Election

2011-04-16T23:49:00.045+01:00

Let me start by saying that this Polling Unit (PU) should serve as a model for the whole of Nigeria. Despite the increased stakes, my eye witness reports that the INEC officials and Youth Corpers rose to the task. They were punctual, cheerful and willing to take suggestions from the voters. The voters themselves, though doubled from last week (173) managed to retain their sense of camaraderie. There were disputes but none strayed past words nor wandered into the pointless spiral of violence.

Even though the INEC supervisors and Youth Corpers, travelled in inferior style, they arrived bright and early with smiles on their faces.

The requisitioned danfo bus used to transport the officials to their PU.

Here the corpers are ready at 8 am sharp to begin accreditation. Spot the funky corper from last week. Like every correct Lagos babe, her hair has changed. We'll see if she'll be sporting a new weave next week.

The party agents were also there, ready to ensure that their respective party candidates were not cheated of even a single vote.
Each party sends a representative to as many PUs as possible to make sure that no electoral malpractice takes place. The cost of this precaution runs into the millions of dollars I've read. Hopefully, with credible elections, this money can be ploughed into campaigning and forming strategy rather than 'protecting votes' which a functioning system would do.

Accreditation went on in a relaxed manner that lent an informal tinge to the affair. Again between the hours of 8am and 12 noon, voters came with their voting cards to have their thumbs marked.

During accreditation, an elderstateswoman (more on this) pointed out to the INEC supervisor that though a poster urged voters to call HOTLINES with complaints, no numbers had been given.
Note the blank space under HOTLINES. I wonder how the person who pasted this missed the error.
The problem was reported to this INEC supervisor,

And the matter was immediately rectified. Democracy in action.

During accreditation, a car load of women pulled up at the PU. They were driven there by a man in a blue shirt. They too, no matter the stares and insults cast at them, had come to cast their votes and choose who they wanted to be president.

After accreditation the voting process began. Last week at this PU, they had waited till 3pm to start casting votes but this Saturday, voters started queuing from 12.30pm.

The sun was terrifically, stupendously hot. One voter at a Maryland PU said, "who needs a sauna when you have elections." Anti-PDP campaigners sent out texts this morning saying, 'there's no rain today so there's no need to vote for umbrella' (the PDP symbol). In Nigeria however, we use umbrellas not only to shield us from rain but also to protect us from the sun, as demonstrated at this PU.

Negative campaigning proving to be mistaken.

Like last week, the same woman who translated the instructions into Hausa was on hand to do so again.

It seems that the NASS elections and results have given people faith in the electoral process. Not only were last week's voters present, more came to swell their ranks. Kudos to Jega for restoring hope in a broken system.

The international observers came along to watch quietly.
Their name tags stated they were sent by the British High Commission but many believed that the man was in fact an Igbo man (methinks of the name of Chukwudi or Ikenna) and the lady hailed from somwhere in Egba land (a Titi or a Derin).

The name tags that marked them out.

Some soldiers also cruised by to make sure nothing criminal, like the stealing of ballot boxes, was taking place at this PU.

Not all the soldiers however, were interested in the process of peacefully and democratically electing a President.

Spot the sleeping soldier.

While the voters queued, some Lagosians saw their presence as an opportunity for economic advancement. They were looking for a more immediate and tangible change from the election process.

Whilst voting was taking place, the INEC Observers also showed up, in vastly superior style to their subordinate supervisors and corpers.

What the significance of Rolypoly is I cannot guess at. I'm not very good with cars so I don't know what make this is. Any suggestions? I do know however that this car looks expensive. Compare it with the chariot of the lower cadres.

Again, an elderstateswoman (more on this soon) suggested to the INEC supervisor, that instead of going to the polling booth one by one (as had previously been done), two ink pots should be provided so voters could decide on both sides of the booth. The suggestion was taken on board and applied to immediate effect.

Single voting at the booth. Note the sense of awe as the man walks slowly to the private session. One eye witness described this scene as a voter 'approaching the altar of democracy.'

Double voting at the booth. Democracy in action.

What with party agents, INEC supervisors, army officials, international observers and INEC Observers all gluing their eyes to the clear transparent box, there was no chance for hanky panky. Some voters, who lived nearby and could not stand the burning heat decided to go home and return before 4pm when voting would close. After all, they were sure the ballot box would not be missing when they returned.

In a Lekki P.U, residents had, had the foresight to rent a canopy for queuing under.
In all P.U's in Lagos, elderstatespeople and pregnant women were given priority and allowed to vote first. In Nigeria and in most parts of West Africa, there is a culture of respect for elders and we generally don't wait for someone to be in their eighties to accord them the status of elder. Thus voters still in their fifties were granted the status of elederstatespeople. They were physically able to stand under the sun like most of their younger counterparts but culture dictated that they should be given priority. Democracy is a Western process but in its execution, I am glad to see that our culture has not been forgotten. That is the only way this thing will survive, if we graft our own ways and practices into it.

For those who were neither elderstatepeople nor pregnant (though some feigned the latter to escape the queue), if they lived closeby, they went home.

At around 3pm, the first of those who had gone away returned, a poor man. While he had been away, trouble had been brewing. One voter at 2.30pm decided that the ballot should be counted though 15 accredited people had still not cast their votes. In other PUs counting had begun and he was eager to start the process.

Here he is on the phone to an officer superior to the INEC supervisor posted to this PU. The man had connections and he was prepared to use them to get his way. The poor man who had returned before the agreed time of 4pm was sent away and told he could not vote because the votes were ready to be counted. However, a more affluent member of the 15 remaining accredited voters arrived to fight for their cause.

As an eye witness reports, he [the man in the brown pinstripe] 'refused to be disenfranchised.' He had returned before 4pm and he must cast his vote. After a lot of clamouring, it was agreed he would vote and the poor man was recalled to do the same. Democracy in action.

Despite this, 7 accredited voters still had not voted by 4pm when the polls were closed.

The full ballot box.

Voters are shown the ballot with a thumb print on it, before they are arranged into piles.

The trendy corper holding up the ballot is showing signs of fatigue. It had been a long day.

The ballots being divided into party. The small pile closest to the onlookers were votes that were void because voters had not placed their thumb prints correctly. Another pile was given to votes where the question of it they were void or not was more difficult to decide.

A photograph of a successfully cast vote from a Lekki PU.

Problems arose however, when debate sparked over if a vote was successfully cast or not.
Voters arguing that a vote which had been declared void was actually for X party.

They became so vocal in their protests that the trendy corper lost her calm and asked for the police to intervene.
A Nigerian policeman stepping up to the task and warding the voters back from the counting desk. The man in the yellow shirt is our blackberry journalist from last week. He isn't videoing this time but he stayed to watch the counting of the votes and again bought water to encourage others to stay. Enough is Enough.

The ballots were placed into their separate piles and the trendy corper showed the voters that she had not hidden any ballot papers in her pockets.

Clearly those jeans are too fitted for any ballot papers to be stuffed therein but the newly awakened Nigerian voter must be satifisfied. He/she is taking no nonsense.

The votes were then counted. The voters joined in the process counting out loud as each vote was tallied. And finally the day was was done.

The votes being counted under watchful eyes.

The trendy corper packing her belongings into her equally trendy Nigerian flag briefcase.

Behind her, the results are being texted, tweeted, or emailed all around the world.

The results were pasted on the wall behind the PU.

As you can see, each party agent must sign to show that they were happy with the way elections were carried out and they did not feel cheated by the process. Democracy in action.

PDP carried the day at this PU with 82 votes. CPC followed with 57 and ACN trailed behind with 14. Also, note how many parties are listed on this sheet. Who in Nigeria has heard of the FRESH party? Out of 833 voters who registered at this PU, 173 were accredited, and 165 actually voted. Turn out was more than double last weeks pitiful show of 72 but still not as high as I would have liked. Yet those that came out to vote, came out with verve and gusto to see their rights carried out.

And at this small polling unit in Lagos, whether rain or shine, the majority opted for the Umbrella. Join us again next week for reports from the friendliest polling station in the world and other polling booths around Lagos. Many thanks to our eye witness in G.R.A, Maryland and Lekki. My name is Chibundu Onuzo. God bless and goodnight.

Voter Reactions to Last Week's Election

2011-04-13T14:48:00.003+01:00

The average voter is incredibly politically savvy. Listen to the third speaker. Times are changing. My favourite quote is from the fourth guy: "A credible candidate should not need to canvass. He should be able to show what he has done... If you do good, good go follow you. If you no do good, good no go follow you."

Politicians, you have been warned.

The Future

2011-04-13T04:22:00.002+01:00

The Future from Joel Benson on Vimeo.

And here's the actual video.

CNN on the Election

2011-04-11T15:29:00.002+01:00

Photos, Commentary and Results FromTodays Elections

2011-04-09T17:29:00.028+01:00

First of all, let me start by saying that this polling post is perhaps the smallest election centre in the whole of Nigeria. However, the elections were carried out in a orderly manner. If this polling station is a microcosm for the whole electoral procedure, then Nigeria is on its way to having its first free, fair and enjoyable election in Nigeria.

The day kicked off at 8am with a process called accreditation. Voters must go to the polling station they registered at between the hours of 8 and 12. They present their voting card to the corpers who then check that the name and face on the card match the name and face they have on their list. Below is the list with voters' details.

Next, the voter has his thumb marked with special ink to show that he has undergone accreditation.

Commendably, the corpers and INEC officials arrived by 7am and were ready to start the accreditation process at 8am sharp when people started queueing.

During the accreditation period, the voting process was explained by the INEC officials. This explanation had to be done in English, Igbo, Yoruba and Hausa. There were no Hausa speaking officials so one of the voters stepped up and did the translation.

A trendy corper showing voters how to 'pless their thumbs.'

A woman giving the Hausa translation. I wonder how you say pless ya thumb in Hausa.

It was noted that the Labour Party's insignia was listed under the National Assembly Voting papers but was absent in the list for the Senate. This left some wondering if the omission was because there was no Labour Party candidate for the Senate.
I only recognise the umblerra and the broom. How many can you spot?

After accreditation came voting. At all polling stations, voting started at 12.30pm and at this particular station, it was decided that voting would continue to 4pm. This was actually an anomality as voters should not have been allowed to vote if they were not there by 12.30. This will be ammended for next week. All accredited voters must line up and be counted at 12.30. If any arrive after 12.30 when the voters have been counted, even though they have been accredited, they cannot vote.
Some people who had registered to vote but missed the accreditation process, turned up at the polling station to cast their votes at 4. They were driven away. Not only by the INEC officials but by the voters themselves. For the people, by the people.

At this rather late stage, the local councillor for the area showed up.

The local councillor being given a grilling by the members of her constituency. For this one day, they were the ones in power.

A voter being given his privacy as he makes his choice.

The first vote being cast in the transparent ballot boxes. Nigerians are quite big on symbolism.

All the votes are cast.

The counting begins.

The man in the blue and white shirt is filming the votes being counted on his blackberry. He arrived early in the morning and did not leave the polling station until the votes had been counted. He also bought water for some voters to encourage them to stay till the end and hear the results announced.
A close up photo of the blackberry journalist. He is part of the Enough is Enough generation. They do things differently.

Voters watching intently. No wayo here.

For the House of Assembly, ACN and PDP tied with 23 votes each. CPC had 11 votes. For the House of Senate, ACN nosed ahead with 27 votes, PDP had 24 and CPC had 11 votes. The voter turn out was abysmal. Only 72 people voted while 800 registered at this polling station. Less than ten percent! Hopefully next week, at least half will come out for the Presidential elections.

Once the results were announced, the party agents texted them to their headquarters.

And the day was officially over. At this small polling station and for these 72 voters, INEC had succeeded in carrying out a free and fair, though long winded election. Next week voting will commence at 12.30, thirty minutes after accreditation is done. This will reduce the time spent at the polls.

A more general comment on the results. From this small polling station (and as you can see from the numbers it was indeed very small) it seems that ACN is losing some of its grip on Lagos. Usually, the results would be more of a landslide. The waning influence may be because Bola Tinubu's wife, daughter, son-in-law and sister-in-law are all going for positions in the House of Rep and Senate. There reaches a point I suppose, when the electorate says, Haba.

Join us again next week for more pictures from the smallest polling booth in Nigeria. Hopefully numbers will have grown drastically. I'll try and ask people to take pictures from other parts of Lagos as well. My name is Chibundu Onuzo. God bless and goodnight.

Email Going Round: How Much Is Your Vote?

2011-04-08T22:30:00.005+01:00

I watched as a politician, frantically trying to convince a voter to cast his vote in his favour, brought out a bundle of brand-new N200 notes and dangled it in the man's face.

"How much is your vote?" he asked, with a deceptive smile on his face.

The man hesitated for a moment, and then handed a piece of paper to the politician saying, "This is the value of my vote."

The politician went through the paper briefly, crumpled it, threw it away in my direction and hurried away, muttering loudly that the man wasn’t being rational.

The man, realizing I had been watching, asked, "Am I being irrational?"

I picked up the paper and took a quick look at it. He had written on the paper the breakdown of his family’s expenses, which the government (according to him) had so far failed to provide or make available for its citizens. He then multiplied everything by four (4) years (the period he is committing his vote to).

Something like this:

Security - N20,000 per month x 12 months x 4 years = N960,000

Generator - N40,000 per 2 years x 2 = N80,000

Fuel for generator - N1,000 per day x 365 days x 4 years = N1,460,000

Portable water - N500 per day x 365 days x 4 years = N730,000

Health care Insurance - N10,000 per month x 12 months x 4 years = N480,000

Education - N5,000 per month x 12 months x 4 years = N240,000

Housing - N500,000 per year x 4 years = N2,000,000

Total = N5,950,000 (five million nine hundred and fifty thousand Naira)

"Well," he explained as I continued to stare at his breakdown, "if asking for the basic necessities of life is not being rational, I wonder what is rational?"

"I wasn’t trying to be difficult," he continued, "I believe this is a modest breakdown of expenses considering I have a wife and a kid. If you have a larger family, the value of your vote may be much higher."

P.S

God rest the corpers and INEC officials who were killed in Suleja. Tomorrow is round one. No matter what tricks they're trying, it seems Nigerians are still coming out to fight.

Goodevening Girls

2011-04-08T02:34:00.005+01:00

My parent's hospital shares a wall with one of the most popular night clubs in Ikeja. As a result of this popularity, the area surrounding the night club has become a hub for prostitutes. On any given evening, you can see at least six girls in skimpy clothing waiting to be picked up. One of the hospital's employees has a special name for these women: goodevening girls. The nickname arose from an experience he had.

One evening as he was waiting for the hospital gate to be opened for him, one of these girls opened the door of the car he was driving and slid into the passenger seat.
"Good evening Sir," she said.
"Good evening," he replied.
When he told the story later, he insisted that he had no intention of paying for her services. It was only curiosity that drove him to ask, "How much you dey charge?"
"Five thousand Naira."
At this point,he had laughed long and hard.
"Five thousand Naira for what? Are you going to follow me home and cook and clean for me?" They haggled for a while but it soon became clear that they could not agree on a price. She climbed down from her car and went to wait for her next customer. From then, all the women that stood around the night club were dubbed 'goodevening girls.' He was shocked at how polite the girl had been,how well spoken.

I remembered this story a few days ago and it got me thinking of the good evening girls. Generally they are reviled. They are called gold diggers, husband snatchers, ashewos. Once, I saw a woman throw a bag of rubbish at one, cursing her as she did so. The consensus is that if you are a goodevening girl, it is always your fault. Goodevening girls are never the victims. After all they carried their two legs to stand on the road, they used their two hands to wear those skimpy clothes. In fact, it is the men that pick them up that should be pitied. There they were driving down the road, minding their business when gbosa, they turned and saw all that flesh on display. They say the good evening girls have agency but how much agency can one have when the choices are so limited.

There must be something wrong with a society that drives thousands of young women into prostitution. There must be something twisted when the only ones to blame are those that should be most protected. Most good evening girls are not Jenifa's, looking for Brazilian hair and blackberries. This is the myth that we like to tell ourselves. They could be doing other work if they wanted to. It is only because they are greedy and want fast money. Yet how can this be, looking at the economic demographic of Nigeria. There are goodevening girls in rich areas and in poor areas. As the poor parts of Nigeria vastly outnumber the rich, we must conclude then that many of these goodevening girls are subsisting and living from back to mouth. All over Nigeria, women are selling their bodies to eat, to buy medicine, to buy clothes. In England and America, people were shocked when the writer of The Secret Diary of A Call Girl revealed that she had become a call girl because she was struggling with her finances in college. In Nigeria, this is everyday news, not even worthy of the back page of the most local newspaper.

Young men, even graduates, are becoming armed robbers. Young women, even graduates, are becoming prostitutes. Something is wrong with this system.

Lagos

2011-04-06T16:58:00.002+01:00

Nostalgic description of Lagos by Nobel Laureate Wole Soyinka. Read here. It seems he's been growing the afro for a while.

Dbanj: "The Last Thing Wey We Need Right Now Na Bad Luck"

2011-04-06T06:29:00.003+01:00

The song is catchy, I'm bobbing my head and tapping my feet. Whatever you have to say about the Goodluck/Sambo ticket, they certainly know how to use the media. The irony is that in the American campaign (from which they have obviously taken their cue)the stars came out to oust the establishment: old white men from priviledged social backgrounds. In Nigeria, the stars have come out to further entrench the establishment. The main question is, have they come out because the establishment pays well or because they believe in the ideas of the establishment?

But the song is catchy sha.

The Most Star Studded Elections Nigeria Has Ever Seen

2011-04-05T15:34:00.002+01:00

P.S

Just in case you thought I did a Jega on you by postponing my post about the Monday elections, Jega postponed the elections again till Saturday. More pics then.

CNN on the Election

2011-04-03T02:10:00.000+01:00

Photos and Commentary From the Postponed Election

2011-04-02T18:12:00.014+01:00

My mother woke up this morning like millions of other Nigerians: ready to vote. Unfortunately INEC officials slept last night knowing they were going to postpone the elections for the House of Senate and House of Representatives. Things being the way they are in Nigeria, communication between the head and the tail was slow so not only did my mother think she would cast her vote today, the polling officials thought so too. Thus, they showed up with their equipment and paraphernalia.

Here is the table for casting secret votes:

My mother jokingly dubbed it an 'open secret' station. In this semi-enclosed space, you press your thumbprint next to the 'umblerra' or the broom or whatever symbol takes your fancy and then you proceed to cast your vote in the ballot box. I would like to know the distance between the ballot box and the voting station. Is it enough for someone to snatch your piece of paper and check that you have voted for the right person?

By the time my mother had reached her polling station, which incidentally is very close to where she works, the news had reached her several times that there would be no election today. She tried to make this clear to the polling attendants but rather commendably, they were adamant in carrying out their duties. No news had reached them that there was no election so the election must carry on. They proceeded to mark people's thumbs.

Here is a photo of the dutiful ex-corpers, refusing to close their station.

Here is a photo of a thumb being marked.

In fact, ten votes were cast before the news finally reached this small polling station that indeed, the election had been postponed. When my mother left, it had been decided that the ten votes would be destroyed but she did not actually see this happening. Another concern of hers is that the ink used to mark their thumbs will not have worn off by Monday when they come to vote again. Will they be accused of trying to vote twice? This is a small polling station so the chances of this happening are slim but in a larger station, where a hundred people may have cast their vote before the station closed, will these people lose their votes? And if they don't, could this be a loophole in the system? One person may vote twice or even three times at a large polling station and each time the ink on the thumb is pointed out, he/she will say that they voted on Saturday.

As to more general comments, my mother reports that the atmosphere was peaceful.

A policeman watching the proceedings.
A semblance of a queue as voters stand around, trying to understand what's going on.

My mother and I put the low turn out down to the fact that many people in the area knew that the election was postponed. Hopefully on Monday, the numbers will be higher. More news on the elections then.

Naija o ni baje.

Area Girls

2011-04-01T00:52:00.002+01:00

I wonder why this programme never made it to T.V. All we have is this short clip.

Genevieve on CNN: "I can't diss my country"

2011-03-28T23:44:00.004+01:00

I suppose on principle I object to people making positive generalisations about a place: e.g Nigerians are warm, Nigerians are friendly, then refusing to make negative generalisations about this same place e.g Nigerian are cyber crime artists. But when Genevieve does it, we have to allow. After all she is our Julia Roberts.

What About Us? Presidential Debate

2011-03-26T14:29:00.001Z

Jerusalem

2011-03-23T11:17:00.004Z

I rewrote this hymn some time ago because it's one of my favourite ever. William Blake was the original genius who penned it and I thought, if you altered some words, it could be about Nigeria. So here's my version which I feel is particularly apt at the moment because of elections. Its our time to build a new Nigeria. Read the original.

Jerusalem

And did those feet, in ancient times,

Fish upon Lagos’ bounteous seas,

And was the holy Lamb of God,

On Jos’ verdant mountains seen?

And did the Countenance Divine,

Shine forth upon our dusty plains?

And was Jerusalem, builded here,

Among those dark satanic rigs.

Bring me my bow, of burning gold!

Bring me my arrows of desire,

Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!

Bring me my chariots of fire!

I will not cease from mental fight,

Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand

Till we have built Jerusalem

On Nigeria’s green and pleasant land.

P.S
Listen to them sing it in the brilliant movie Chariots of Fire.

And of course the famous opening scene.