Can I have some beancake, please?

I recently read Pat Akpan’s article in the Punch newspaper where she outlined the struggles she went through trying to source a prom dress for her niece in Loyola Jesuit College, Nigeria. The tale ended in classic Shakespearean tragedy format, and I would leave that for another day. What I admired most was the denouement of her piece- where she lambasted the idea of a prom in a Nigerian college. Ehen, that’s the koko of the matter. See, it’s not today I’ve being flagellating this silly mentality of adopting western cultures and ceremonies in a bid to sound ‘hip’, ‘world class’ and ‘global’. This cancer has infested everywhere in the society.
In my student days at the University of Lagos, I noticed a new fad in Mariere Hall. Conversations always went this way;
‘Ify, d’you know how much Toms go for?’
‘Nineteen dollars’
I always replied in an exasperated tone ‘Please, how much in naira?’ Everyone felt it was hip to quantify things in dollars.
Then there was this craze last year about Halloween parties. People broadcasted felicitations about Halloween and wore masks to various events. It is an event to celebrate the end of a planting season and e no concern us, I kept whispering to those that came near.
Finally, I can’t forget all the Sabrina’s and Ella’s I met in the NYSC camp. True quality is not achieved by cloning. I will always believe our culture is not a secret and it’s high time we made it profit.
And for those who think bringing America home is genius; Truly, what pretentious nonsense?!

Dr. Patience Akpan-Obong read this piece in a personal mail I sent to her and here is her comment: Hello Osisiye,

Thank you for your mail. I read the attachment and smiled. Good stuff!

Keep Medaling,


Dr. Patience Akpan-Obong
University Professor, Writer and Author of Information and Communication Technologies in Nigeria: Prospects and Challenges for Development. New York: Peter D. Lang, 2009.

Camp Diaries II

Yeah…back from the restaurant and on the lonely road, I reminisced on all the people I met within this space and lessons learnt.
There was Solo, the self-enthroned ‘Chief Priest’ of my room. Solo is humorous without meaning to be. I remember when they paid us our allowance and everyone trooped to the mammy market to splurge. Solo calmly bought a novel and lay on the mattress for six straight hours in an attempt to stay prudent.
‘Solo, you can’t turn into an academic overnight’ I teased, whenever I passed and saw him lying supine, the money enclosed in a waist bag.
‘Tafa, leave am like that. If I read this one finish, I go collect Vallazone for clinic so I fit wake up when camp don over’.
Then there was Chambers-the boy with the bushy hair who was always puffing. We later spoke and I found out what an intelligent mind lies beneath the dour exterior. Chambers smokes two packs of cigarettes a day and is on his second book.
Then we had Orondaam, who speaks French fluently and has so much social energy. He had befriended virtually the whole camp by the end of our first week.
Oh! The groups where you had to stay together and hear everyone air their views. Then they always appointed a lady to a post in the name of gender equality. All in all, virtues like patience, teamwork and mutual respect were entrenched in the midst of the quotidian routines.
On evenings like this, when the Power Company looks kindly upon my quarters and everywhere glows a dull orange, I sit down; take out a camp memory and mull it over in my mind, looking at its various edges in the light. Maybe I’ll even write a story on them.

'Madam,do me 3 indomie and 2 eggs, takeaway ni o'
'Ehen,my customer'
I dropped onto a seat and watched as she cracked the eggs,dropped them into hot oil and scooped spoonfuls of noodles into a styrofoam pack.
'Madam,na 3 indomie o! Make e plenty o'
'Okay,I know you nar' her lacerised face widened into a smile. She said that in obvious reference to my large appetite which she noticed in the early days of camp. 'Customer yii ma jeun gan' she kept saying whenever I hopped in.
Food gotten&payment made,I gave the shop a once-over-just a rectangular walk-in with a stove and kitchen odds and ends at its end.
'Madam goodnight' I muttered
As I walked midway out,I repeated louder this time 'Madam goodnight'
I wasn't being polite or obsequious,this was my last night on camp and I had come to appreciate these stands and people. I would miss them.
Walking back to the room,new friends staggered and patted my back,some shoved phones into my hands to exchange contacts and we all smiled dopely with the carelessness of youth.
On the tarred stretch that led to my hostel-Panama Bay we called it-I was left alone to my thoughts and the stifling ammonia from pee encrusted walls.

Memoirs of an Otondo

Shopping for camp,I headed for Lagos Island to get the essentials. My homie-Itunu was at hand to give me the list of the requisite-although they sounded unrequisite-sneakers,white shorts, all to avoid using the camp issue.At the end of the day,I had a white ensemble which boasted cool labels,Itunu smiled gleefully at this and patted me on the back.The only purchase that gave me joy was a black and gold embossed copy of 'The 50th Law', you remember that book?the new sizzler from rap artise,50 cent and the acclaimed writer,Robert Greene.(The 48 laws of power,The Art of Seduction)
I arrived camp when the shadows had grown long and in a haze of so many accents,I got a mattress and a dusty stretch on the cement floor which was very welcome seeing all this arrived at 2:00 a.m.
Reading the 50th law made me appreciate the camp more. See this was a book which rotated around the themes of individuality,mental alchemy-turning shit into sugar and opportunism.
So I appreciated the early morning bugles,because it afforded me the opportunity of experiencing dawn in the open air;feeling the chilly breeze,seeing the sky lighten and the sun peek out-at first shy like a hesitant bride and soon proudly overhead making us scamper to the nearest shade.
Greene said 'When we get to work with what there is,we find new ways to employ this material' That proved true in camp,I learnt how to churn out articles with a pen and jotter seeing the editorial team had to perform without a computer.I learnt how to hold a phone through the night seeing we had to charge and we had a hundred room mates. And I learnt humility when the camp clown said I marched like 'a pre degree student'.
Did I tell you about the sheer variety of languages that exist here?Sometimes I unplug my earphones and just feel myself drift in this cacophony of diversity- chiazo in his igbo accent, musa who when he says 'poor pipe' actually means 'four five', ade who asks if am 'hangry' or if the light is 'hon'. Great peeps,'em all.
As the days draw to an end,and the bonds of friendship cinch tighter,I would always value my top moment-watching the Nigerian flag ascend with an auditory backdrop of a martial tune, I could feel my heart billow in tune with the polyester of the flag's material. Good times-these.

On the pounded yam matter

I heard it from the rumor mill. I felt it from the excitement and increased activity of youth advocates-they tweeted with more voracity. I saw it in the bland requests for a certain man’s number-the man perceived to be in charge of offering invitations. I saw it in the obstinate chin set of people who knew they would not be invited. It was the Presidential Lunch and youths around the country were agog. Why? It was a fora for the president to meet and discuss with the youth. Which people would be invited? Those regarded as representative of the youth population. How would they be identified? Well, by nomination.
So it went that on Tuesday, 25th of May, the youth congregated to have a jaw-jaw with Mr. President. They ate, they spoke, they argued and at the end of the day-they were compensated for their worries.
In the wake of the event, a couple of issues arise. Issues in the form of dissenting voices which attempt to taint the reputation of those who have attended-people who see a sit-in as representation, and attendance as a sell-out. They have voiced allegations against the per diem paid to attendees, against the fact that they consorted with Mr. President and against the quality of the pounded yam.
As a Christian, I frowned when I heard about the meal of choice. Yam and things have always being associated with a sell-out in my religion.
In my view, dialogue between the government and those desiring change should always be welcome. This can be seen in autobiographies of social revolutionaries like Nelson Mandela. It should be noted that social advocacy is different from whining. One has to do with championing a cause and seeking to see the change you desire. The latter has to do with criticizing everything and a desire to be seen as anti-establishment.
On the brown envelope matter, ehm...per diems are an accepted global practice. It is seen as compensation for time and resources used as well as a thinking that the attendees would have made the same amount in their various private ventures.
Then, in the Yoruba culture (and even mine-Ogori Magongo), it is a faux pas to criticize attendees at an event you were not invited to and it follows that POUNDED YAM IS NOT SOMETHING TO BE REJECTED. 
I don’t wanna turn this article into a long thing, So I end on the note that the president’s signing of the FOI bill into law shows his love of openness and interaction. Therefore, it behooves on every true patriot to embrace like opportunities to air their views on a larger platform. This is behavior worthy of a patriot and any who does more than this should be questioned. (Sorry, I just had to slip in that Shakespeare look-alike line)
Then on the pounded yam, good choice of delicacy Mr. President 
Osisiye Tafa, graduate of the Political Science Department, University of Lagos. Tweeter Handle: @osisiye

Before we crucify him

As a graduate awaiting the next batch of service, I experienced a hopscotch of sadness and fear at the demise of the corps members-this was a tragedy down my alley, more personalized and felt in the bone. I could imagine those young adults as they carried out the final rites of passage we carry out in the final year- dinners, barbecue nights, beach parties, signing of year books, throwing of biros and screaming of hoorah after the last paper, these are the rote carried out by final year students. Some of them would have crafted CV’s with self-help books-waiting for the end of service year to mail that to blue chip companies. Probably one of them had-like me, written a list of gifts he would buy for every member of family with his allawee. These were green stalks who had just started living-who were just learning to take first steps in an independent life, but they were cut down in their prime. These were the ones who did not ‘runs’ their service posting. I also feel a deep fear for those of us who will be posted in July- What will be our destiny?
Standing like a brand in all this darkness is the statement by the Bauchi State Governor saying it was the destiny of the corpers to die. I made a double take when I read that one, so I read his entire statement. Here is a vignette of the entire speech by His Excellency, Mallam Isah Yuguda. It should be noted that the carnage claimed the lives of nine corpers in his state.
- The corpers were well taken care of in terms of remuneration and living conditions while serving in his state
- In the course of election duty, the corpers were the responsibility of INEC and not the state government
- Violence is not generic to the north as he also almost lost his life in Ibadan
- He also suffered some level of mishap during the period as his house was set on fire and his son almost lost his life.
- Safety of life is adequately not provided for in the service year as he almost lost his life in 1979 as a corper
- In the wake of the violence, he acted with quick dispatch as a camp was created for the survivors-he visited and gave them a token for transportation.
- And for the corpers who lost their life, it was their destiny-this being said from the standpoint of Islam where it is believed that whatever happened is written in the stars and cannot be avoided-a matter of fate.
Reading the full statement made me understand his standpoint better. The destiny he talked about was from a religious standpoint and he non obstante, would have called it destiny if his son died. This was not an insouciant reference to lost lives or an I really do not give a damn situation.
Several issues come to the fore like lack of diplomacy and media unprofessionalism. You see, I hail from Ogori Magongo in Kogi State and the belief is that a leader cannot point to his wounds when the citizens are mourning-that is the price of leadership. What Yuguda has done is a classic case of a leader pointing to his own wound in a bid to pacify bereaved and wailing citizens. Grief never cures grief, sir. I remember this one and same Yuguda had also inflamed the nation in the Yar-adua sickness and handover saga with his inflammatory comments, so I think it will not be out of place if he goes to a finishing school where diplomacy is taught.
Also, we would thank the media to report statements in full rather than pick certain excerpts which would sell the news and create a sensational story. I think it was a case of the media grafting a piece of his statement and sensationalizing it.
I sincerely hope that with this piece, I would have salved an angry heart, explained an incomplete matter and made Yuguda carry out his destiny of leadership better by taking some diplomacy lessons.
Rest in peace my fallen comrades, you died in service of the nation and will always be remembered. Adieu.
This piece was sent in by Osisiye Tafa, a political Science graduate of the University of Lagos. Email: osisiyetafa@yahoo.com

Letter to Nigerian Parents

HELLO

I HAVE NO IDEA WHO WROTE THIS BUT IT MAKES INTERESTING READING & FOOD FOR THOUGHT

Friends,Let me add the benefit of my time as a student and then resident in the UK - and I live in Lagos now. The first thing that I discovered about UK-born, white, English undergraduates was that all of them did holiday or weekend job to support themselves - including the children of millionaires amongst them. It is the norm over there - regardless how wealthy their parents are. And I soon discovered that virtually all other foreign students did the same – the exception being those of us status-conscious Nigerians.

I also watched Richard Branson (owner of Virgin Airline)speaking on the Biography Channel and, to my amazement, he said that his young children travel in the economy class -even when the parents (he and his wife) are in upper class. Richard Branson is a billionaire in Pound Sterling. A quick survey would show you that only children from Nigeria fly business or upper class to commence their studies in the UK. No other foreign students do this. There is no aircraft attached to the office of the prime minister in the UK – he travels on BA. And the same goes for the Royals. The Queen does not have an aircraft for her exclusive use.

These practices simply become the culture which the next generation carries forward. Have you seen the car that Kate Middleton(the lady soon to marry Prince William) drives? VW Golf or something close to it. But there's one core difference them and us(generally speaking). They (even the billionaires among them) work for their money,we steal ours!

If we want our children to bring about the desired change we have been praying for on behalf of our dear country, then please, please let's begin now and teach them to work hard so they can stand alone and most importantly be content, and not having to "steal", which seem to be the norm these days.

"30 is the new 18", which seem to be the new age for testing out the world in Nigeria now. That seems to be an unspoken but widely accepted mindset among the last 2 generations of parents in Nigeria.

At age 18 years, a typical young adult in the UK leaves the clutches of his/her parents for the University, chances are, that's the last time those parents will ever play "landlord" to their son or daughter except of course the occasional home visits during the academic year.

At 21 years and above or below, the now fully grown and independent minded adult graduates from University, searches for employment, gets a job and shares a flat with other young people on a journey into becoming fully fledged adults.

I can hear the echo of parents saying, well, that is because the UK economy is thriving, safe, well structured and jobs are everywhere? I beg to differ and I ask that you kindly hear me out. I am UK trained Recruitment Consultant and I have been practicing for the past 10 years in Nigeria. I have a broad range of experience from recruiting graduates to executive director level of large corporations. In addition, I talk from the point of view of someone with relatively privileged upbringing.

Driven to school every day, had my clothes washed for me, was barred from taking any part-time job during my A-levels so that I could concentrate on studying for my exams?! BUT, I got the opportunity to live apart from my parents from age 18 and the only time I came back home to stay was for 3 months before I got married!

Am I saying that every parent should wash their hands off their children at age 18? No, not at all, of course, I enjoyed the savings that I made from living on and off at my parent's house in London - indeed that is the primary reason for my being able to buy myself a 3 bedroom flat in London at age 25 with absolutely no direct financial help from my parents!
For me, pocket money stopped at age 22, not that it was ever enough for my lifestyle to compete with Paris Hilton's or Victoria Beckham's. Meanwhile today, we have Nigerian children who have never worked for 5 minutes in their lives insisting on flying "only" first or business class, carrying the latest Louis Vuitton ensemble, Victoria 's Secret underwear and wearing Jimmy Choo's, fully paid for by their "loving" parents.

I often get calls from anxious parents, my son graduated 2 years ago and is still looking for a job, can you please assist! Oh really! So where exactly is this "child" is my usual question. Why are you the one making this call dad/mum?
I am yet to get a satisfactory answer, but between you and me, chances are that big boy is cruising around Lagos with a babe dressed to the nines, in his dad's spanking new SUV with enough "pocket money" to put your salary to shame. It is not at all strange to have a 28 year old who has NEVER worked for a day in his or her life in Nigeria but "earns" a six figure "salary" from parents for doing bsolutely nothing.
I see them in my office once in a while, 26 years old with absolutely no skills to sell, apart from a shiny CV, written by his dad's secretary in the office. Of course, he has a driver at his beck and call and he is driven to the job interview. We have a fairly decent conversation and we get to the inevitable question - so, what salary are you looking to earn? Answer comes straight out - N250,000.00. I ask if that is per month or per annum.
Of course it is per month. Oh, why do you think you should be earning that much on your first job? Well, because my current pocket money is N200,000.00 and I eel that an employer should be able to pay me more than my parents. I try very hard to compose myself, over parenting is in my opinion the greatest evil
handicapping the Nigerian youth. It is at the root of our national malaise.
We have a youth population of tens of millions of who are being "breastfed and diapered" well into their 30s. Even though the examples I have given above are rom parents of considerable affluence, similar patterns can be observed from beokuta to Adamawa! Wake up mum! Wake up dad! You are practically loving your children to death! No wonder corruption continues to thrive. We have a society of young people who have been brought up to expect something for nothing, as if it were a birth right.

I want to encourage you to send your young men and women (anyone over 20 can hardly be called a child!) out into the world, maybe even consider reducing or stopping the pocket money to encourage them to think, explore and strive. Let them know that it is possible for them to succeed without your "help".

Take a moment to think back to your own time as a young man/woman, what if someone had kept spoon feeding you, would you be where you are today? No tree grows well under another tree, children that are not exposed to challenges, don't cook well. That is why you see adults complaining, "my parents didn't buyclothes for me this christmas", ask him/her how old-30+. Because of the challenges we faced in our youth, we are where and what we today, this syndrome-my children will not suffer what I suffered is destroying our tomorrow.
Deliberately reduce their allowance or mum-don't cook on Saturday till late afternoon or evening-do as occasion deserve.

I learnt the children of a former Nigerian head of state with all the stolen (billions) monies in their custody, still go about with security escort as wrecks. They are on drugs, several times because of the drug, they collapse in public places. The escort will quickly pack them and off they go, what a life. No one wants to marry them. Anyone who stops learning is old, whether at twenty or eighty. Anyone who keeps learning stays young. The greatest thing in life is to keep your mind young.- Henry Ford. Hard work does not kill, everything in Nigeria is going down, including family settings. It is time to cook our children, preparing them for tomorrow. We are approaching the season in Nigeria where only the RUGGED, will survive. How will your ward fare?

If the present generation of Nigerian pilots retire, will you fly a plane flown by a young Nigerian pilot, If trained in Nigeria? People now have first class, who cannot spell GRADUATE or read an article without bomb blast! Which Way Nigeria!, Which Way Nigerians!! Is this how we will ALL sit and watch this country SINK?

When 'low key' does not pay....(Classroom behaviour)

So when was the Suez canal established?
The class erupted.
Otunba with his trademark black cap stands up without being called upon, ‘The canal which constituted a passageway for the malevolent and nefarious designs of the colonialists, reached that stage in an insipid process…’
He is hushed by the lecturer’s lazy wave of the hand. Otunba was just prolix like that. He never missed an opportunity to drop a big word.
Udoka raises his hands in a dignified manner. The class shushes in eager expectation of the answer.
He stands, dusts his suit and starts to speak through his nose. ‘When I hear the Suez Canal, what comes to my mind is a reign of steady encroachment, of pink faced men in their caravans loaded with ivory, of…?’
Finally, Cyprian answers the question.
I sit at the back all through this, calmly thumbing my blackberry phone. The Suez Canal was created in 1869. I know that. Answering questions is for show-offs. I am not that.
Well, that was question time in the political science class of 2010. An avenue for people to show off newly learned words and nasal accents. That did not sit down well with me. Sometimes the eager students were rewarded with a ‘What’s your name by the lecturer?’, and you could see their chest puff out in pride. I felt it is better to stay low-key and ace the tests, than holler and fail-a hollering failure that would be.
Well, school over and I am in the throes of application to foreign institutions. One thing they always request for is references from lecturers-three reference letters! I can imagine going to my lecturers to ask for such:
He adjusts his nose over the bridge of his nose. ‘Ehen Tafa, I don’t know you o! You were not active in my class…What did you score in my exam? ...Good, but I never saw you…Ah! That’s surprising’.
I really wish I was not ‘low-key’ back then, it would make the process of getting this reference letters way easier. So you are in a class now-holler the answer off when that question is asked. Recognition always pays.

Apply To Join Chimamanda Adichie & Binyavanga Wainaina In The Farafina Trust Creative Writing Workshop 2011

Chimamanda Adichie
The fifth edition of the annual creative writing workshop organized by Farafina Trust will hold from June 23 to July 2, 2011 in Lagos, Nigeria. Award-winning writer and Farafina author, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie will be teaching alongside Kenyan writer & Caine Prize Winner, Binyavanga Wainaina. The workshop, sponsored by Nigerian Breweries Plc, will afford participants a golden opportunity to learn a lot via a wide range of reading exercises, as well as daily writing exercises. The workshop aims at improving the craft of Nigerian writers and encouraging published and unpublished writers by bringing different perspectives to the art of storytelling. Participation is limited only to those who apply and are accepted.
To apply, send an e-mail to Udonandu2011@gmail.com. Your e-mail subject should read ‘Workshop Application.’ The body of the e-mail should contain the following:
1. Your Name
2. Your address
3. A few sentences about yourself
4. A writing sample of between 200 and 800 words. The sample must be either fiction or non-fiction.
All material must be pasted or written in the body of the e-mail. Please Do NOT include any attachments in your e-mail. Applications with attachments will be automatically disqualified. Deadline for submissions is April 27 2011. Successful applicants will be notified by June 15 2011. Accommodation in Lagos will be provided for all accepted applicants who are able to attend for the ten-day duration of the workshop. A literary evening of readings, open to the public, will be held at the end of the workshop on July 2, 2011.

The Youth Presidential Debate

It was past 4 PM. The only sound that filled the cavernous Ladi Kwali Hall of Sheraton Hotel and Towers, Abuja was the reggae music from a live band rendition. Touted as one of the most significant political youth events in recent times, it was the occasion of the Peoples’ Senate Presidential Youth Debate. Expectations were high. As people milled around, a member of the Peoples’ Senate walked in and promised that the meeting will kick off in five minutes time. Twenty minutes later, he came on stage and called on a fellow senator to give the opening prayer. He gave the opening prayer wearing his cap. Then the national anthem was sung.

The Minister of Women Affairs-Mrs Anneih’s speech was a pointer to the drama this debate would pack. She came on stage and spent some painful, awkward minutes hastily re-reading her speech and making corrections. She finally looked up with an apology ‘I did not get it printed out so I’m trying to correct it’. Then she read the ‘speech’ which was full of a lot of talk about sabotage; her enemies who thought she would die on her return trip and references to the Youth Leader of the PDP who is sixty years old with a head full of white hair. She tore the hall apart when she canvassed for the women to vote for Goodluck Jonathan. The politically variegated crowd erupted into loud murmurings and not a few senators shifted uncomfortably as they saw their unpartisan edifice crumble before them. She finally left the stage, but not before reminding the crowd of the fact that she owned an I-Pad; the ticket to be referred to as a digital leader.

The amiable moderator-Mr Onifade came on stage and the debaters were introduced. There was an awkward moment as the PDP representative clambered eagerly onstage and was verbally restrained by the moderator. The seating arrangement was conducted by picking numbers from a bowl where the PDP representative ironically got the last slot, this was not to determine the debate’s happening as he gallantly defended el presidente’s honor.

The debaters were all seasoned gentlemen in their own rights; Sunday Ogidigbo, lead pastor of the Holyhill church, Adeolu Akinyemi who modestly explained that his friends call him a genius, Ohimai Godwin Amaize, the social advocate whiz kid is the youngest campaign manager in the country, Ajufo Ajufo who hails from a royal family and Uche, the contractor for the ICT Centre in Abia State university, he definitely represented the incumbent.

The debate started in an easy format, the moderator called out a line of policy and each debater within an allotted time pontificated on how his candidate would deal with that area of public policy. This period allowed for them to posit at length on the new slants their candidates would bring and did not allow for sparring. Ohimai was the first to draw blood though as on the area of corruption, he replied with a poker face ‘My candidate will not spend 18 billion naira on a presidential jet or five hundred thousand dollars to refurbish his kitchen’, the PDP candidate flinched visibly and this opened the gateway for this repartee reproduced verbatim:

Deolu: Nigeria’s problems cannot be swept away with a broom

Ohimai: We need candidates who have managed a million naira of their personal money before getting into power

Uche: We have seasoned economists like Sanusi to manage the economy so when people say candidates have not managed a million naira of their personal money; I sincerely don’t know who they are talking about

Soon, it was question time and the debaters unsheathed their claws, as with questions deceptively laced with my brother, my big brother, my pastor…, they mercilessly attacked each other’s candidates. The PDP got the short end of this deal as Uche was questioned on the power probe, excess oil account… Ribadu was questioned on his support of Saminu Turaki of Jigawa who he convicted while in power for a six billion naira scam and allegations on his ‘selective prosecution’. The representatives gallantly parried these attacks; Uche with calm confidence and sometime inane answers like requests for ‘the newspaper where you saw the story’, and Sunday with analogies like ‘Ribadu can’t solve all petitions he received, it’s like pouring a whole bowl of rice into your mouth’.Ohimai also explained to applause how Dele Momodu intended to provide 50, 000 jobs on first day of assuming office, by giving a million naira loan to youth for farming and fertilizer production. Deolu in a blame-shifting tactic, explained Buhari’s detention of Shagari and Ekwueme with the revelation that Ribadu found the duo guilty. Deolu shook his head wistfully when Uche challenged the debaters for their candidate’s wives’ inactivity on the campaign trail. Ajufo’s lackluster performance was covered with an ever ready smile.

The crowd was allowed to throw questions and a few minutes after 9p.m, the debate proper was ended. The ballot papers were collected, furiously counted on site but mysteriously the results were not announced.

The debaters milled around snapping photos, giving backslaps and exchanging bb pins, it was an amiable event and one wondered why the candidates themselves could not adopt this brave and non-zero sum approach to politics.

At the end of the program, the youths were enthroned, for organization, their stellar display and their belief.



.

Wisdom in Extra Curricula Activities...

‘Alli, how far?’ I hollered at my best friend.

He smiled as he trudged toward me, carrying a stack of files.

‘We are having our LOM meeting’ he replied preening his tie.

‘Oh!’ I rolled my eyes,  Alli was the President of the Junior Chambers International (JCI), an extra curricula group on campus. They engaged in entrepreneurship seminars and the like. I could not fathom why students will not face their studies squarely; considering the tons of course work we have to contend with, but instead join clubs and all sorts.

I hoisted my knapsack a little higher, and in a slightly supercilious tone, I announced ‘Okay, I’m off to the library’.

Alli smiled cheerfully and set off toward his meeting venue, while I trudged the beaten path to the library.

In school, these clubs existed in their droves; JCI, AIESEC, Students in Entrepreneurship… and it seemed a waste of time to me (then)  to join these sororities (as it seemed), pay semester dues (give them my money), attend meetings (give them my time) and buy their branded  T-shirts for outings (give them more money again! ahh ahh!).

That phase of schooling completed, and as I traverse the web searching for scholarship opportunities, a certain requirements stares at me like a nemesis; ‘extra curricula activity’. Foreign institutions (more often than not) and virtually all scholarship boards require evidence of prospective student’s participation in an extra curricula activity, during their time on campus.

Now, in retrospect, I see the wisdom of participating in those academic clubs and the like back then.  I can imagine Alli spitting out his credentials and getting the top pick for scholarship slots, before those without any such opportunities are considered. So if you are a student, make sure you have an extra curricula activity you partake in on campus, as this always comes in handy during job interviews, scholarship applications,  visa interviews… It portrays the individual as one who can multitask and come out with good results, even when working under pressure.

So pick a form- join that club today or walk into that community primary school and offer to teach a class for free twice a week; it always helps with the CV. Be an Alli!

Experience of a first class student

When Kelechi told me to write an article about my experience as a first class student-the experience, travails, expectations, perceptions..., I accepted but did not deliver. I felt it would be a similar to a duck preening her feathers-a narcissistic act.

I walked into school on Monday morning, and was besieged by the human traffic of students who had come to write the Post UME examination, all of them with expectant faces hoping to be a member of this ivory tower with tall buildings and immaculately kept grounds. As the sweaty bodies of this hopefuls brushed mine, trampled me-I decided to write this cameo because someone in his freshman year might read this and use it as a guide in this place where you have the ‘freedom to read and not to read’.

I came into the University of Lagos that fateful October morning like every ‘Jambite’. I stared intently at the lagoon, tipped my head to view the peak of the Senate building and envied the staylites who seemed to know everyone wherever they went-I even envied their faded jeans which contrasted with our shiny and over-expressive outfits, I envied the way they knew the price of every item in the restaurants where we ordered a la carte and they did not have a stern father tagging behind in a safari suit.

Then it hit me like a bomb-‘Registration’, I will never forget that period of my university life-having to trudge the whole length of the school twice a day-the security guards acting so rude and condescending, being talked to in clipped tones, a staff calling it a day when it got to your spot on the queue, then having to make a decision between going to a class or completing some registration process.

When the lectures started, they were far from what we saw in the Hollywood movies-a lecturer talking to about thirty students, here we had a hundred plus students in a hall with seats for half that capacity, and a faulty P.A system to boot. Classes passed by in a blur of static, whisperings, shouting and endless stream of mp3 songs from people’s phones.

I made a few friends in the next level, and got their notes for the freshman year, so that while I unfortunately got stuck at the back of class for some lectures, and gained only my name on the attendance sheet, I perused the notes in the quietude of my hostel room.

Well. I think that sums up my first year; using notes from my friends in the sophomore year, endless nerve wracking registration process, I think the only bit of advice that comes from this piece on my first year is to align yourself with the right people immediately you get into campus, preferably with those in higher levels since a myriad of problems can be solved with a simple tip.

My sophomore year had the school placing high scoring students in certain hostels-the scholar’s list it was called, and at Jaja and Mariere halls, all geeks congregated. I was placed with the best students in penultimate and final years of my department, and that period constituted the apogee of my academic life on campus. In a room filled with the best of books and materials on my course, it was no surprise that I spent the whole session swotting with the ‘free’ materials, which were obtained at the price of an excuse and promise of safekeeping.

Penultimate year wasa baptism of fire, we were introduced to presentations and the courses that constituted the crux of the discipline and most importantly, I was not placed in same room with departmental scholars. So in the dusty rooms of Jaja Hall, with mathematics department students scholars quoting their abstruse Laplatz theorems, I learnt independence and after a semester of faltering presentations with a shaky voice and weak papers, I finally got the hang of it.

Now, final year, ‘In equity, I am a graduate’, and everything seems to be going on a roll; being the blue-eyed boy of lecturers, the subsidized accomodation offered by the authorities,the nice treatment by classmates but the fear of the unknown and a lot of issues come into the fore. People say first class students will find it difficult getting jobs because they are not team players, or because their typical anti-social nature will make it difficult to ace an interview, therefore the best type of student is the second Class upper student who is a composite student (academic and socially grounded). All that doesn’t seem to faze me though, challenges are there to be conquered, but as I tap this piece out, I have the niggling doubts: What if my project is not good enough, What if my last semester results don’t meet up, What if truly I am not a team player...?

I just hope someone reads this and understands that here, relationships cum friendships you strike matter a lot. In my case, I think that has made all the difference

Graduate's Musing

Graduate’s Musing

My literature teacher in secondary school said a story must always have a climax and an anti-climax

Little did I know that this applied to life also

Well, my final days in school definitely corresponded to a climax

What with all the tours of bars and binges

We all had high hopes;

Finish school and get paid big bucks in the multinationals

I was the most realistic of my friends

I hoped for a five figure paying job

Well, first morning after school and

All I feel is uncertainty

Gone are the timetables, so I don’t even feel guilt at stabbing a class

Then I hook up with friends; eager faces full of élan over bottles of beer

Ade wants to further, Arab wants a professional course, Chu wants to work and Josh is in his father’s company

Now I know that post graduation is like the game of golf; individualistic

We can’t all go the same route

So I log on to view the much hyped scholarship opportunities

And I get offers from Mexico and Botswana,

Bombers may bomb and legislators may tomfool, but my Naija is better than these

And the Commonwealth says you must be discharged from NYSC to apply

You notice there are no opportunities to intern around

Almost all job offers are pro bono, just like this piece for Businessday

No places to even engage in volunteer work which is a prerequisite for scholarships

So most engage in hedonism; booze and sex being the favourite

While others feel their IQ’s plummet as they log in hours on a game console

You blame the University for removing that gift of routine from your life

You rue your graduation and envy classmates whose fathers have companies

And the church is always the best refuge

As you get a position straightaway: ‘brother’ and a task; ‘follow up the newcomers’

So you attend vigils and cast and bind legislators which should be stoned

When you return from a vigil at 3a.m, you feel purposeful

But hair suffocated and your muttering of incoherent tongues make you feel like the witch yourself

Depleting bank account

Stares from family members who wait for the graduate to ‘perform’

And you wait futilely for the call up in which you would be flung as far as possible

At the back of your mind nags the thought that classmates have fared better

Well the ladies always give birth and marry

You wonder if the degree sitting pretty was worth it

While other times you cherish memories and feel intellectually superior for experiences garnered

A computer village apprentice might be better off

As your president bemoans the quality of graduates

These are the conflicting thoughts of a graduate I must say

So you step up to the street corner

And enrol in a french school; ‎‎good- for the CV

Start up at the tailoring institute; learning a trade always helps

Help out at the bakery; confectionery pays these days

Spend less time on facebook & twitter; life is better improved than talked about

The google bar permanently on; there should be a scholarship lurking somewhere

So you don't stay in one spot  & claim 'Nigeria happened'

Aye..a graduate's  better must always be best...

Parody of the 2011 Presidential Elections

Its selection time, the various actors step out and dance to new tunes. The one dancing apala switches to alanta, since the spectators seem to like that while the one that swayed languidly in the breeze like a maize stalk jumps and danced frenziedly.

 Its selection time, everyone is making adjustments in a bid to sway the spectators.

Its selection time, the spectators cluster and lean into the circle.

One of the dancers runs and hugs the village’s pariah, welcoming him back to the fold of civilized community. ‘aburo, se o wa pa? I hope the food was manageable, don’t worry, you are out now, I want you to just relax and enjoy the fresh air…fi free’. The convict smiles in return and makes a two finger salute, peace from the cells.

Another of the dancers , to gain support, cuddles one who he has previously maltreated for wrongdoing. ‘Ah! man mi, are you ready to take on this role? Oh! That six tubers of yam issue? he waves his hands dismissively, ‘that was in the past, a phase I don’t like to remember, you know not even being able to spend time at my friend’s burial…chai!’ He stops to shake his head sadly ad pulls his friend closer. ‘Well, I hope we can put that behind us and win this dance’.

Another seems to realize the dance is drawing to an end, and this is the time to show hidden skills. He is galvanized into action and dashes from one end of the crowd to another; leaping into the air and throwing cartwheels within a beat. His knickers billow in the afternoon sun; the sun’s rays catch and throw reflections from his bronze scrotal sacs, dazzling everyone. ‘Ahhh!  So he could do this, so he could do that? ’The spectators stare in awe at this new revelation’. Some keep him in mind while other dash to his side of the grounds. Whatever happens, this bronze balled dancer will be remembered.

Another fixes his glasses rims more firmly over the bridge of his nose and executes carefully  practiced steps, he does not make any moves to impress and the spectators are convenient to forget him. ‘I have danced in Rome and in the Grand Hall at Britain, let those who check out my profile know I am fit to win. I don’t need to leap into the air or fraternize with criminals to win’. But the people don’t want a staid dancer, they want to see energy and leaps so they cast glances of commendation at him, wish their pikin will achieve his laurels and the romance ends.

Another hypnotizes a group of people to his side of the ground, he achieves this by swinging a  glittering rosary and muttering unknown phrases, they approach like moths to a lamp and he dances to impress only these few, he makes choreographs to the rosary and they are infinitely  pleased with that. No one is leaving and no one is entering this household.

There is a stringy man at a far corner, all weathered skin and a royal posture. He comes from a large clan and they scream themselves hoarse at his slightest of moves. ‘He is our father incarnated, you should select him, see what he did for us’.

Now the drummers beat the drum more fiercely, and the head drummer is in rapture. ‘Pour more water on my sweat bathed torso’ he shouts, ‘Pour palm oil on the drum skin so it does not burst, throw roasted crickets into my mouth whenever they hang open and I want six maidens to fan me with the widest cocoyam leaves that can be found in the land.’

They all hasten to do the drummer’s bidding-there can be no dance competition without music and the dancers have come too far to be let down, so they dispatch twelve maidens to the stream with large gourds for the drummer’s cooling water, six young men are given sharp machetes and kegs to get palm oil for the drum skin and all the children are driven into the forest to get the fattest brown crickets for the drummer. Now the audience is largely depleted because the music has to go on and some grumble about the wisdom of a dance which oils the drummer .The drummer smiles and promises the best of music if his desires are met, ‘More oil, more breeze, freshhhh air…’ he screams hoarsely.