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.