Get on the Road, You Beauty

‘My country did not send me 10,000 miles just to start the race; they sent me to finish the race’ – John Stephen Akwari, Tanzanian marathoner at the Mexico City ‘68 Olympics

As the starter’s gun went, he was ahead of the pack for a while. Then, with about 200 metres to go, he stopped suddenly, held his thigh and went down, writhing in pain. A large section of the crowd seemed shocked, miffed and helpless, all at the same time. But the other runners were not obligated to stop, so they went on to finish the race. And then the hefty-bellied man in a pair of shorts and a baseball cap came forward from the terraces, charging past everyone - including a couple of stadium stewards who tried to stop him from approaching the tracks were the hurting young man was lying. About a minute later, they were both trudging down the finish line in lane 8. The roof of the Olympic Stadium almost came down with the reaction of the crowd – some of them weeping, some wailing, many clapping, many just shouting, but all of them urging the athlete and the party-crasher on towards the finish line. The athlete could have just limped off the tracks to the side of the pitch or, even the man could have simply advised and assisted him to do that just as has happened countless number of times in the Olympics whenever there is an injury situation. But no, not that duo. Instead, they simply 'conspired' to inadvertently create one of the most memorable and cherished Olympic moments in history by doggedly finishing the race.

The race was the 400 metres semi-final of the 1992 Olympics in Barcelona. The athlete was Derek Redmond of Great Britain and the man in the baseball cap was his father, Jim. A certain Steve Lewis, from the USA won that race. But, hey, who cares about him? The history of Barcelona ‘92 doesn’t seem to anyway. Neither do most of us even remember the name of Quincy Watts, also of the USA, who won the gold medal in the 400 metres. But Derek Redmond has been immortalized, canonized even, for creating that Olympic classic together with his father.

I’m still not sure if the initial footage of the race I saw then was a live broadcast or delayed. Four years after the Redmonds’ heroics, I again sat in front of black-and-white TV (this one was definitely live)  in the wee hours of the night as Nigeria’s Mary Onyali literally tore out her hair in excitement after it downed on her that she had won the bronze in the women’s 200 metres final at the 1996 Olympics in Atlanta. Had one told some other person who did not know what was happening at the time that Onyali had won the gold medal, they would have believed without the shadow of a doubt. Such was the depth of the emotion Onyali displayed. Back at Barcelona ’92 Onyali, together with Beatrice Utondu, Christy Opara-Thompson and Faith Idehen had similarly gone delirious with excitement after winning bronze in the 4x100 metres relay race. Their jump and jig as they hurdled together in celebration is one of my favourite Olympic moments. Ever.

From the days when a scrawny-looking Abebe Bikila of Ethiopia ran and won the marathon barefooted at the games in Rome in 1960 and then performed his stretch-exercise stunts after winning the marathon again four years later in Tokyo, the Olympics has always amazed and fascinated. From the days when a bloodied, bandaged and almost deathly-limping John Stephen Akwari of Tanzania limped into the stadium in Mexico City in 1968, alone - to the applause of the scanty remaining spectators at the stadium - over an hour after the marathon race had been declared over, the Olympics has always captivated and inspired millions for 'victories' other than outright competitive victory. ‘The Greatest Show on Earth,’ as the Olympics is affectionately referred to, has thrown up mighty many such moments through the ages. Moments  of inspiration, of courage, wonderment and intense emotions, when it seems that outright winning is only a poor second fiddle to participating and showing a willingness to carry on, no matter the odds, moments of being thankful and joyous (like Onyali) for simply realizing that you are not the worst of the lot.

It’s the prospect of witnessing a possible re-creation of a few such moments that I guess, makes a lot of people salivate as the 2012 edition of the Olympics kick-off today in London. It certainly makes me tickle at the back of the neck. Let the games begin, please.

When the ‘good ones’ leave you with not even a farewell chance

When people talk about closure in relation to the death of a loved one, I often wonder what clear signs are there to show to the bereaved that they have finally found closure. Does finding closure mean that the pain of losing that person no longer exists or that the regrets that may be present in the mind of the bereaved have been assuaged sufficiently so that he no longer have any sense of ‘what-ifs,’ however long after the death of his beloved? I put down my thoughts here not knowing if closure is what I actually seek, but strangely I feel that by writing I would be able to reduce the weight of the increased torment my heart has been going through over the past few days.

My paternal grandmother, Mrs. Ramatu A.K. Sado died about 11 years ago. She had been very old, certainly in her eighties, although no one seemed to know her exact age. An uncle had announced the sad news to me on the telephone. “What I’m about to tell you is heartbreaking, especially to you, but you must take heart,” he had said. “Your mother is dead… I mean Iworigida is late.” I must have been numb and without movement for 10 or more minutes before I recovered sufficiently to tell my uncle’s wife who had come downstairs what news I had just received. I was inconsolable the rest of the evening.

Mama had been the only mother, father, grandmother, grandfather, sister, brother, and what have you, that I had known from the moment I became aware of the people around me. But prior to her death, I had last seen her four years previously. In-between, I had been ‘too busy’ ‘growing up,’ trying to get my independence, going to school, etc, to see her. I often sent her provisions, but I kept shifting the date of my visit to her. For that I was enraged, angry…with myself for ‘betraying’ my mother. For weeks I beat myself for being a ‘bad’ grandson, for not caring enough for the woman who many could swear was my biological mother. She had left and I never went to say goodbye. My anger with myself increased each time I played back in my mind’s eyes the part of her life I had been privy to. Mama was the dotting, protective ‘cat’ who could scratch and tear apart anyone who messed around with her darling Jibril. I remember her as the scrawny woman with eternally wizened fingers and ‘that voice’. That is how I could describe her voice, neither shrill, nor baritone. Neither, sonorous, nor whatever. Not pitched. It was to me, just ‘that voice’. She was the little woman who was popular around the four Egor villages and much farther, as a trader in pap, salt, sugar, banana and other provisions. And I was famous as the ‘little man’ she took along wherever she went.

She had several other grandchildren but I was her favourite, the one who even in his teens long after I had left the village, she would keep a piece of meat, a morsel or a spoon of rice for when I was away, while the other grandchildren ached with envy. Although she was a Hausa–Fulani maiden from Kano when she got married – Iworigida, her pet name being the Hausa word Uwar Gida (mother of the house) - to my grandfather, her accent was neither Hausa-coloured nor Afemai-coloured. She never totally spoke Hausa or the Afemai language without her famous code-mixing and code-switching. She spoke no English, but long before I encountered the colloquial “watcha mean?,” Mama had popularized “Watdu mi” – her regular refrain whenever she was pissed with anyone or at anything – mostly in my defence. Till date I still tell myself that by my five years absence prior to her death, I had not done enough to give the woman who “carved a future for me where there was hardly a present” enough to smile about in her grave.

Mama died at a ‘ripe’ old age, but my cousin, Alexander, died in October 2010, a mere child, a baby, ‘my baby’. He died three months to his 10th birthday. On Wednesday afternoon, Alex had been rushed back ill from boarding school. The family doctor later diagnosed him with typhoid. By the following Monday the family decided his condition wasn’t improving and took him to a Federal Medical Centre in Lagos. That afternoon, he slipped into a coma and by Thursday morning, my Alex was gone. My best friend had gone forever and I wasn’t even by his side to will him not to go.

I had been working flexible hours at the time and so I had time to look after his younger sister each time she came back from school, while the mother was permanently with Alex at the hospital and the father was doing the running around. As a result I could not go to the hospital. Moreover, I was confident my baby would get well and come home to me. He never did. For several days after his death, the mother, with whom I have an exceptionally close relationship would cry and I would console her. She would ask me: “Jibril, go and bring back your baby now, or don’t you love him anymore?” I would look at her, misty-eyed, not daring to shed a tear – I had to be strong for her. Thereafter, I would go into my room and for several minutes, cry and cry before coming back to look after her again.

Alex had been my best friend in the house, the only person with whom I could exchange glances and we would both instantly send discreet messages to each other. He was the one perpetually by my side when I was ill, bringing me unsolicited cups of water, asking if I had taken my medicines, what I wanted to eat, if he should get me a bottle of Coca Cola or a cup of tea. When he was home on holiday from school he slept many nights on my bed than he did anywhere else. We shared everything and shared similar interests in movies, music, sports, et al. When he was naughty or proving plain difficult, I was about the only one who could talk to him. He was intelligent – very intelligent – and wise beyond his years, and I adored him for that. He was the one who could tell you all my secrets – the people I call or who call me, who was my girlfriend, what I was feeling…. We were kindred spirits, an unbreakable tag-team, and everyone knew it.

I was – and still am somewhat - convinced that my presence at his bedside could have given him more will to live. It’s a blame I still can’t get rid of. The day after his death, when we went to the mortuary to collect the corpse for burial, I rubbed his head and tickled his feet, hoping that our special chord would connect and he would get up from what must have been a 24-hour slumber. He didn’t. And I have been grieving. He was such a terrific, multi-facetted kid and there are constant reminders of him for me in movies, pictures, books, social discussions, sports, attires, and so on.

Much of these details of my anguish about my grandma and ‘my baby’ have largely remained hidden in the innermost crevices of my tortured mind’s diary until Tuesday, June 21 2011 when the crushing news came to me of the death of Mrs. Aisha Bright-Aikhegbe (nee Okponobi) who died that afternoon. She had been battling cardio-vascular ailments for a few months and had been recovering impressively only for sudden complications to force her to be rushed to a teaching hospital where she died that Tuesday afternoon. The previous Tuesday, I called to tell her that I would be visiting (having not visited her for three weeks). She sounded well and I was even more confident she had ‘turned the danger corner.’ She even teased me, saying that until I showed up at their house, she didn’t believe I was coming. We laughed about it and I reiterated that I would come. I never made it and I still kick myself for being away from her for that long prior to her passing away.

Sister - as I called her – and I had only met about three years ago. She was an established defence/police affairs correspondent for AIT while I was a struggling security/crime reporter for one of the national dailies. Once she knew that I was a son of Weppa Wanno, Edo State, like her, she made sure that we became inseparable, calling me to come along with to all the places where the juicy news stories were, linking me with contacts from whom I could make more money, especially as my newspaper had refused to issue me employment letter. On account of her feisty loyalty to me, some of her journalist friends whom she had known for years held her in malice as they felt she was too concerned about me to their disappointment. Her constant mantra was: “You all have your Igbo or Yoruba brethren, but he is the only Afemai youngster I have on this beat and I can’t help it if you guys don’t like how I treat him.” And she kept her loyalty to me intact. As she did with everyone else she was close with. She always demonstrated an altruistic concern to the wellbeing of those she knew, often putting her own interest secondary.

As we grew closer, she had no problems confidently introducing me as her brother to those she met. And I was more than happy and proud to refer to her as my sister. As a good dresser, a jovial, relatable and amiable woman with an unpretentious sense of humour, she was always a standout personality at press conferences and among her peers. Sister was the confidant to whom I spoke about some of my problems and who urged me to be prayerful. She was a very intelligent woman with whom I could discuss a host of issues – politics, music, literature and the arts, philosophy, religion, gender, history, biology, economy – bar sports and to some extent, movies.

She was also a devoted mother to her children and a strong family woman in general. The day following her demise, I called at the house early in the morning. As soon as I crossed the threshold, Daniel, her soon-to-turn-four son said: “Uncle Jibril, give me your new phone to play game.” I replied that my ‘new phone’ was gone, to which he frowned. Of course, the phone had been gone and it had been replaced with another one. But his request brought fresh tears to my eyes: The phone was replaceable, but never so his mother who, had she been there, would have said: “Uncle Jibril, abeg give my Daniel your phone to play with o.”

Where bombs meet complacency, inflexibility

Across the world socio-political landscape today, the governments with the most impact on the lives of their peoples in the area of security are mostly governments with a gung-ho approach coupled with the necessary Devil-May-Care attitude towards security issues as occasion demands. Their ways may not always be 100 percent effective or pretty, but their message to troublemaker-designates all over the world could hardly be clearer: ‘You must think again and again or else you will have all of our state might to deal with.’ Nigeria has lacked such a streak for far too long in dealing with internal security matters. The suicide bombing at the police headquarters in Abuja on June 16, 2011, further signposts this.

As pesky as some may consider the United States of America to be in the current order in international politics and associated issues, one thing the rest of the world cannot always accuse God’s Own Country of lacking is the will to look ahead and act with brutal decisiveness no matter whose ox is gored, in most cases. Such phrases as “preemptive measures,” “preemptive strike,” “preemptive self defence of American interests,” etc regularly rear their heads in the diction of American administration officials. Why? Simple, although America has never been exactly lukewarm to threats against its interests, but from Pearl Harbor to the Iranian Hostage crisis of 1979/1981 through the East Africa embassy bombings in 1998, America has learned the hard way to be ruthless, decisive and more importantly, proactive where matters of terror are concerned.

On one of the few occasions in recent memory when the US authorities failed to properly address such issues in advance more than 3000 souls were vanquished on September 11, 2001. But what followed that attack was a renewed commitment by the US to fight terror and terrorists wherever they may be – Afghanistan, Iraq(?) Pakistan etc. Admittedly, the Yanks’ methods have not always been endearing to all. Nevertheless, since 9/11 especially, they have made a statement that still resonates with terrorists: ‘the American nation refuses to yield to intimidation or cower in the face of terrorism.’

It is an approach that France, under the leadership of Nicholas Sarkozy seems to have also embraced. Some months ago Mr. Sarkozy’s popularity and approval rating across France was dipping by geometric figures because his government was perceived as lacking the verve or va-va-voom to help plant France more emphatically on the world socio-political template. The president ‘saw the light’ and realized he had to stir the hornet’s nest a little especially so as to give his reelection bid more impetuous. Luckily for him, both Laurent Gbagbo in Ivory Coast and Moumar Gadhaffi of Libya inadvertently covered themselves in scapegoat skin and provided Sarkozy the ammunition and the safety valve to make a bold, clear and unmistakable statement of authority: ‘France and Sarkozy can bite.’ Never mind the legality or lack of, in these tactics.

What is important to note here is that, in the main, countries – for instance Pakistan -where the leadership stands by and only tries to react to trouble after some damage has been done mostly get tangled up in all sorts of mess. And when the response is in the shape of what one friend of yours truly’s would describe as “greenish, semi-formed, non-bloody, non-mucoid” performance as happens in Nigeria all the time, the result is the kind of indiscriminate loss of life and property we have seen on a rapid basis in the country in recent times. Far from advocating the sort of brutal and barbaric crackdown on dissent currently going on in Syria or a reenactment of the massacre that took place in Odi in 1999, the truth is that a state cannot just fold its arms and watch a coterie hold it to ransom. Unfortunately, the Nigerian government has continued to prove itself a willing, docile and complacent animal to the antics of predators on national peace and security.

While speaking with journalists on his visit to the scene of the carnage the day after the blast, President Goodluck Jonathan reportedly said: “Terrorists will aim at the top. If they can bomb the President, they will do it.” He was spot on. Boko Haram have never disguised the fact that they would kill the president or the governor of a state if they could. What must worry most Nigerians is that the government and its security apparatuses keep providing the group with the conducive environment to aim higher and higher with each violent incident that gets followed by the usual rhetoric and directionless, halfhearted state security response. Imagine for instance, what information would have been milked from the late leader of the group, Mohammed Yusuf who was carelessly murdered by security operatives who had captured him following the weeklong violent clashes between security forces and members of the group across some northern states in July 2009. Ironically, by inexplicably killing Yusuf shortly after a brief interrogation at a rowdy session before members of the public, the security operatives foolishly threw away vital intelligence on Boko Haram. So it is no surprise that the intelligence community is still as clueless as ever about the group.

As tragic as the incident at the police headquarters is, it bears comical imprints how easily an alien car could stealthily gain access into the convoy of the (supposedly) most powerful policeman in Nigeria and then drive into the ‘welcoming’ embrace of policemen at the sentry - men part of whose brief it ought to be to have known ahead of most people the exact number of vehicles in the Inspector General of Police’s convoy that morning as well as other details about the convoy. So the blast took place within the police headquarters premises as a consequence of yet another case of unpardonable and ultimately fatal lax in security awareness.

Again, the bombing had been coming for months and could have been nipped in the bud were the presidency and the security outfits not such headless chickens on security matters. The omens could not have been clearer starting with the October 1, 2010 bombing that took place a mere 500 metres from the Eagle Square, venue of Nigeria’s 50 Independence Anniversary celebrations where the President was chief celebrant. Following that incident was the Christmas Eve bombing in Jos, Plateau State which was quickly followed by the New Year’s Eve blast at Mogadishu Barracks in Abuja. On the heels of that was also the March 4, 2011 blast in Suleja, Niger State during the flag-off of the state governor, Babangida Aliyu governorship campaign. The April 8 bombing in which several Independent National Electoral Commission (INEC) ad-hoc staff were killed also followed. But in their usual headless chicken performance, the security agencies have never been able come up with a definitive list of suspects in any of these cases. Crucially also, whereas more intelligent intelligence agencies or governments would have taken the hint and ‘fortified’ Abuja seeing that all the incidents mentioned above took place in or around the Federal Capital Territory, they also did not react decisively to the aftermath of any of the earlier incidents.

There are permutations that, starting in particular with the manner Yusuf was killed in 2009, the now recurring violent incidents in the country especially in the North are being fed by some powerful saboteurs both within and outside of government. These claims may not be entirely without merit. Still Nigerians should be even more disappointed if that is the best defence their leadership can muster on the mess currently playing out. Truth is, every terror machine has its day of reckoning. It is the duty of a leadership with a sense of the importance of the battle at hand to bring that day forward. Even Pablo Escobar, the seeming unconquerable Colombian drug lord in the 1990s, together with his cartel of violent louts eventually met his day. But should Nigerians have to hold out forever, hoping for some show of flexibility by their leadership in response to or anticipation of developments of grave national importance?

Sitting in ('uneducated,' 'hasty') judgment of Elections 2011

The Big One has come and gone as Nigerians have elected their president for the next four years. No surprises about the outcome though, even though I pretty much wanted a Buhari as president instead of Jonathan. It’s time now for everyone to rally round the new president and hope for the best for all through his tenure.

I am however, a bit taken aback at how once again, we failed to match word with action with regards to the Peoples Democratic Party (PDP) which, before the election, many could not resist describing as the ultimate villain in the sour direction our socio-economic fortunes have taken since the return to civil rule in 1999. Note that I said “a bit taken aback.” That is because I recognize that the ballot paper by itself alone does not bring about change where there is a clear will by people or groups with the right machinery to ensure that change doesn’t happen. The other point is that even when many people kept praising the so-called revolutionary thinking and new-found political awareness of the Nigerian youth, I mostly saw many youth who just wanted to be heard to be saying something, as against youths who truly wanted to be the change agent or knew the path to walk the talk. So, no mighty surprises there.

That noted, it has still been a discomforting experience to see people, many of them young people who had been chanting mantra about change on social networking fora and other fora, develop cold feet when it was time to walk the talk. It has been irritating to see many of the people who one expected to know better, resort to primordial, almost Masonic sentiments when casting their ballot or discussing the politician and his political structure. But then, therein lies the beauty of democracy.

Nevertheless, so far, this has been a far better-conducted, less manipulated election than many of us in our lifetime can point to. It may not have panned out the way proper elections elsewhere do, but for now, we will take this one-eyed leader considering that we have only had blind ones for so long in the past. So, some kudos to Attahiru Jega and his people at INEC. Kudos also to many Nigerians, even President Goodluck Jonathan, for their personal and collective conduct so far. I hope this ‘relative sanity’ carries through to the governorship and state assembly elections next week. If it does, we would be wasting less money and other resources to conduct rerun elections or run around the corridors of court rooms unlike what has obtained since 2007.

There have been vital lessons for all to learn and my major fear is whether, come next general elections in 2015, we would have imbibed enough positive lessons from what has happened in 2011 to entrench even more laudable elections. With all the praise and knocks I can muster for the season, below are a few points I have noted, some of which are sure to stand in the way of better organized polls and more acceptable results, which ought to culminate in a better, more balanced, more elevated, more forward-thinking, a better internationally-regarded Nigeria in future.

1. The ACN is content with remaining merely a regional party.

2. The PDP will continue to rule at the centre at least, for as long as the eye can see unless some miracle happens to the ranks of the other parties.

3. In fact, all the parties self na like Coca Cola and Pepsi.

4. Now that Buhari has had his final(?) shot at the presidency, cue the mad defection from the CPC and its gradual disintegration and demise as a party.

5. The much-vaunted political sagacity *phew* and sophistication of the South West in relation to the other regions of the country seems to be pregnant with many commas and question marks. (Now, you can slaughter me for this one.)

6. The absence of any form of violence alone does not necessarily beatify elections as free or fair.

7. I don’t want to go any farther back in time, so I will score only these umpires: Abel Guobadia – 42%; Maurice Iwu – 30%; Attahiru Jega – 78%.

8. Majority of voters (educated and otherwise) still do not know what voting means or what power the ballot has side-by-side their fortunes and the future of their children and the country in general.

God bless Nigeria.

MY END-OF-2010 CHART

As we peek into 2011 I just had to make a list like this one to end 2010. Happy reading.

REVELATION OF THE YEAR

This wasn’t so much a revelation as it was a more graphically-delivered argument as to why I perpetually feel the need to round up all Nigerian politicians or precisely put, all Nigerian government officials, lump them all in a vast space and set the place ablaze while I sit legs crossed, with the Ten Commandments in hand, listening unperturbed to their anguished last wails as they slowly but surely roast to their deaths. Simply put, when Sanusi Lamido Sanusi, the governor of Central Bank of Nigeria raised all the right dust about 25 percent of the nation’s overall expenditure being gulped up by the National Assembly (a group of just 469 individuals) the import of it all was that not only is the rest of the population left to subsist on the remaining 75 percent of total expenditure but those same mercenaries – who only (pretend to) work for the people 181 days every year - and their cronies in politics and government across the landscape also share out of the 75 percent. In summary, from Maiduguri to Lagos, Sokoto to Calabar, a collection of just about 10 thousand mostly half-educated, visionless, maladjusted individuals is, conceivably, trapping about 90 percent of the wealth meant to tend to 150 million people under their feathers in the name of governance.

Honourable mention: Amos Adamu’s bribery scandal; Wikileaks’ many exposes (make your pick, please)

MOMENT OF THE YEAR

If you weren’t following this on any news and information medium, you possibly weren’t living on planet earth or even on any of the planets. For an initial 17 days the world waited anxiously to know the fate of the brave men. Then 51 days later we were finally going to see the first of them on the surface of the earth for the first time since August 5, 2010. They were not going to spend Christmas 700 feet underground after all. For several hours on October 12, 2010, everyone got itchy as the final tests were carried out on the transport capsule that had been designed to convey each man up through a 700 ft shaft. When the contraption was finally lowered, to fetch a man up for the first time, the whole world - from Manila to Maiduguri, Sao Paulo to Sokoto, Beijing to Bouake, Santiago to San Marino – waited with baited breath. As the capsule, bearing its first passenger trundled its way up the shaft, you could literally cut through the blanket of anxiety across the world with a knife. And then the capsule popped up into the hands of waiting rescue engineers, at around 12am on October 13, and the collective sigh of relief by about one billion television audience across the globe was nothing like the world had ever felt before. Clearly, this most daring of rescue operations, an ‘experiment’ to rescue 33 Chilean miners who had been trapped below 2000 tons of rock was workable after all. Unbelievably, 22 hours later, with chants of "Chi! Chi! Chi! Le! Le! Le," greeting each emergence of the capsule from the shaft, it was “Mision complida, Chile,” and the world went into rapturous celebration.

ASSHOLE(S) OF THE YEAR

In a year during which a traditional ruler physically battered his wife in public, in which some nincompoops smuggled a dying president into the country in a move to further disrupt things in an already unsettled socio-political landscape, picking a single person or group of persons to receive this prestigious gong given for inane and ludicrous acts of absolute comic, yet tragically laughable performance is no tea party. After painstaking appraisal of top nominees, the award goes to… the Nigerian National Assembly. How could they not trump all comers when by the evidence of just two incidents during the sixth and the twelfth months of the year respectively, members of that (supposedly) hallowed group managed to put up performances that wowed the country and charmed people from across the world? Can we really ever forget those disgraceful scenes of June 22 when a mass brawl in which teargas canisters, the House’s mace, whistles, furniture and of course, fists were employed as weapons of debate, broke out on the floor of the House of Reps? Is it also possible for us to ignore how those 469 men and women sent a cavalry after one scrawny little fellow who dared remind us of the blood-sucking existence of the members of that Assembly?

Honourable mention:
Sani Kaita (Super Eagles player who helped ruin Nigeria’s best chance of winning a match at the 2010 World Cup)
Laurent Gbagbo for refusing to concede defeat to Alhassane Ouatarra over the November presidential run-off election in Ivory Coast.

FEUD OF THE YEAR

This was a ‘street fight’ between two people who deserve each other more than 150 million Nigerians or 6 million Ogun State population deserve either or both of them. The “Battle of Sango,” as many have labeled the incident, was the confrontation that took place between Ogun State governor, Gbenga Daniel and Speaker of the House of Representatives, Dimeji Bankole at the formal opening of the Sango-Ota overhead bridge on July 29, 2010. The story is told of how Daniel spited Bankole by hurriedly leading Minister of Works, Sanusi Daggash, to ceremonially declare the bridge open when Bankole, who was scheduled to join Dagash in cutting the ceremonial tape was just a few metres from the scene. In furry, Bankole jumped into the bus that conveyed the governor and the minister to the place and… well, the rest of the story can be learned in as many ever-marginally varying versions as there are people willing to give an account of the events.

Honourable mention: OBJ vs Ayo Fayose’s “Bastard & Father of Bastard” word match in Akure.

PRODUCT PROMOTER OF THE YEAR

Before August 5 2010 when 33 miners were trapped underground at the San Jose mine near Copiapo in the Atacama desert in Chile, Chile was, beyond the legend of the Atacama Desert and the copper mining industry in the country, more famous for the bestiality of its former president and strong man Augustus Pinochet, as well as the pair of Ivan Zamorano and Marcelo Salas, both celebrated Chilean football players of the 1990s and early 21st Century. By October 13, 2010 when the trapped miners were rescued in a made-for-the-cameras exercise, something fundamental had changed for the country, although it is still to be seen how far reaching the effect could go still. Chile may not be a ‘product’ in the same way as you would refer to Coca Cola, but experts and laymen alike believe that with the thrilling, ultimately successful media packaging of the rescue of the miners, Chile gained a lot of goodwill that should mean more tourist visits and more willing foreign investment in the country. As the ‘orchestra conductor,’ the Chilean president, Sebastian Pinera said after the successful rescue operation: "We faced up to this rescue united as a country. We did it the Chilean way, which means the right way." Great advert! Brilliant PR!!

JOKE OF THE YEAR

That, once again, as we go into year 2011, 9 years before 2020, in spite of the country still being barely able to light its homes while its roads are hell-holes, Nigeria will, come 2020, become one of the 20 most industrialised nations of planet earth. With the caliber of presidential material we have had for the past four years? Abeg I still dey laugh o.

END OF THE YEAR QUESTION

By whose votes will the next Nigerian president be elected in 2011?

PROPHET OF THE YEAR

Paul, the psychic octopus, for (supposedly) correctly predicting the outcome of eight football matches during the 2010 FIFA World Cup in South Africa.

QUOTE OF THE YEAR

One quote will not be enough for me here, so I’m going with two:

“I dey laugh o” - former president Olusegun Obasanjo, reacting to news that former vice president Atiku Abubakar had been chosen by the Northern wing of the PDP as its consensus candidate for the PDP primary elections in 2011.

“My name is Sanusi Lamido Sanusi, (my name is) not Central Bank Governor. By my nature, if I do not believe that I am wrong, I do not apologise” – Sanusi Lamido Sanusi on December 1, while standing up to the Senate’s bullying over the CBN governor's 25 percent net spending comments.

Cheers for what?

I don’t usually pride myself on being the party pooper especially at a time like this when everybody is flaunting their best patriotism dress. However, I do feel like dragging a few things out of my diary to highlight why I, and of course, millions of Nigerians have continued to agonize as our weary beloved Nigeria has trudged on through the years. Thankfully, or rather, poignantly, the country’s many (avoidable and ridiculous) failings as an entity, have continued to be peppered over by the remarkable resilience of its truly brave and tolerant people.

Below is my (pathetic, if you will) attempt to capture a few issues - many of which certainly do not beatify our heritage - that are a reminder of where we are today.

• On October 1, 2009, 24-year-old Grace Adie Ushang, a member of the National Youth Service Corps serving her fatherland in Maiduguri, Borno State was, IN HER SERVICE UNIFORM, thought to be provocatively dressed by a gang of young men who raped and murdered her. That band of gorillas is yet to be caught and I can bet my left arm that the authorities are not even looking to arrest them, perhaps because she was ‘an indecent girl who got what she deserved.” On the same day Grace was killed, the trio of Rotimi Philips, 28, Ibrahim Olojede, 32, and Friday Uti, 34, were callously spread with bullets by a group of policemen right inside a car in front of the workshop where they worked as motor mechanic in the heart of Alagomeji in Yaba, Lagos State. Arrogant and unapologetic as ever, the culprits and their masters in the police hierarchy have not shown any remorse for that atrocity and as a news reporter covering the story since it first broke, I have lost count of the number of tacit and even direct threats I have received for daring to follow developments on the issue.

The late Grace Ushang

 

• By his estimate, former chairperson of the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC) Mallam Nuhu Ribadu believes that Nigeria has wasted about N700 billion in oil proceeds since independence. I think that is even a conservative estimate.

• In a country still plagued by widespread illiteracy, there are fewer more eloquent testimonies to why this is the case than the fact that education still gets an annual budgetary allocation that is just about half the National Assembly’s budget. Add to that the fact that teachers - who in more forward-looking societies are some of the better paid professionals - are some of the lower earning workers in Nigeria and you may better understand the point I am making here.

• In 50 years, from Wale Soyinka Chinua Achebe, John Pepper Clark, T.M. Aluko, Ola Rotimi, Zainab Alkali, Zulu Sofola, to Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie and Ben Okri, to name a few, Nigerian writers have wowed readers from around Africa and other parts of the world with engaging literature, that has provided more than just a hint of how blessed this country is. A special toast must be reserved to these ambassadors whose ink, continues to give a more pleasant meaning to what being Nigerian is contrary to whatever unedifying impression the political class may have created in the mind of the world.

• Thirteen years ago, he and his cronies set the tone for what was to become a future pattern of political and electoral rape of the Nigerian people this nation. In a more orderly and saner clime, former military president Ibrahim Badamasi Babangida would never be seen as anything but a betenoire and an aberration anywhere issues of election or eligibility for public posts are being discussed. Money no doubt, talks loud everywhere in the world and although he may not win the PDP’s ticket for the elections, but the sheer temerity in his throwing his hat in the ring as a potential elected president of this country, goes some way in highlighting the value system we have nurtured down the years. Only a culture of highest-bidder-may-come-forward that canonizes people of means however tainted the means may be, can embolden even the darkest of black beasts to believe they can wriggle round a system, no matter their antecedents. Unfortunately, this is what Babangida and his delusional ilks constantly prey on this to make a mockery of us all.

• Believe it or not, water is almost as, if not more expensive than soft drink in this country. Think of it, a bottle of Coca cola, Pepsi and the likes sells for N60 while a bottle of packaged water sells for N50. Perhaps not even in a place like Germany with its well-known story of limited water reach, is a litre of water equal in deutschmark value, to a glass of beer.

• Since the British left our shores, one can count the number of natural disasters that have befallen this country on the fingers of one hand. Yet by continually pushing the self destruct button such as in the case of the Lagos-Benin Expressway and many other appalling man-made calamities, Nigeria has lost more lives than a combination of 20 tsunamis, earthquakes, cyclones, landslides, wildfires, volcanic eruptions and typhoons could have claimed.

• Like most aspects of our lives, the Nigerian entertainment industry, through the ingenuity, hard work and tenacity of its practitioners continues to trudge on in spite of the odds. Technically speaking, most of the movies still leave much to be desired but the music has come on in leaps and bounds quality wise. And these, together with other media of entertainment, have through the decades proved a more competent representation of the true Nigerian spirit – a Spartan spirit that conquers all obstacles.

• Three general elections since the return to civil rule in 1999, Nigeria still doesn’t have sustainable and workable electoral laws and rules to guide the conduct of elections. Hence, at the turn of each electioneering period, we contrive to further muddle things up by coming up with selfish contingency rules that only cater to the whims of the cabal with the strongest and furthest reaching influence.

Birthday wishes 101

There is something about waking up on the morning of your birthday. Of course, you are older and then you get reminded about all sorts of things – about how long you have been about and around, where you’ve got it right, where you have been atrocious and where you could have tinkered a little more for better effect. I am a year older today and although I like to think that my birthday or similar anniversaries isn’t overtly special, I am not entirely convinced about that thought. However, I do know that I don’t like to make a party out of my birthday. And even this I am not sure, has passed through enough test to hold true for me.

That noted, it is given that, once again, I’m not blowing out any candle lights on a birthday cake this time around. But at least I am entitled to some birthday wishes. So, dear granter of wishes, here we go again this year. Firstly though, I suspect that some of my wishes from last year were not exactly granted, not because they were ludicrous or outlandish but because the wish list was too lengthy. Therefore, I am attempting an abridged version this time.

A few days back, someone whispered to me that on this day there are certain ‘pests’ I need to get rid of through prayer and even suggested the kind of prayer I should say. I was told that there is no better occasion than today to pray against my enemies, both known and imagined. So I woke up this morning to the rhythm of Durella’s Enemies song. But far from being gifted at marking down any enemies, plus, I am incredibly incapable of imagination when it comes to such issues, I only hummed along enthusiastically to the bridge where the song goes: ko si bi won se le se ma si k’ole m’ole …. (no translation please, go learn your own Yoruba). I didn’t bother with the enemies are many in my life, part.

Talking about enemies, well, in this case pesky well-wishers, dear wish granter, I still have an issue from last year’s wish. Those meddlesome characters are still on my case with regards to the issue of me getting married. It irritates me to think that some of them are, like I pointed out last time out, ‘unattached’ geriatrics compared to me who is just one score and a few years old. Yet these busy bodies fear as they claim, for me that my not being ‘attached’, to their knowledge, is an indication that something is horribly wrong. Dear giver of wife, I didn’t plan to talk about this subject again this year, but I’m glad to ask this all the same. Please, you know that girl, no not the broomstick thin girl, and certainly not that gaunt, plain-looking, bimbo either. You know the one I am talking about, abi? That one with the lips, no not the thick-lipped knocked-kneed one who seems to walk with both feet almost together, I mean not the one with those eyes, those almost perpetually expressionless eyes. I am talking here not about the one who ogles at me each time she sets eyes on me. God forbid, not that plump one, as she likes to be called, who seems like she’s been around for seven lifetimes. Yeah, not that one with a jackal’s laughter, the one who walks with the grace, well, the grace of a kangaroo and has an IQ as high as a room’s temperature in winter. I am not referring to the clunky, clumsy, butter-fingered, traipsing, talkative, curvaceous one, you know, the one with the temperament of a rabid cat – that withdrawn-murderous-withdrawn-murderous temperament. The girl I actually mean here is that one, not the squat, spontaneous but freaky and preternatural one with that dollish look. OK dear provider, since I promised to make this an abridged version, I trust you know the girl I’m talking about here, the one I have been eyeing for God knows how long now. She knows herself and might even read this. So, to keep things abridged, she could even volunteer herself to you to help fill in the blank spaces. Suffice to say that she is the one I have identified for a wife. At least it’s an improvement from last year.

Staying with ‘abridged’, let me lump all the other wishes together because I do not think they allow for any abridgment (I hope to God that that word exists in the English language). I trust you to see some of them through at least.

One more thing, please, not that I am gloating or being insensitive here, but dear mighty one thank you for fulfilling at least one of my wishes from last year, the one about a change in the shape and orientation of our president. But the only problem is that I am afraid that the president you have given us as a substitute still seems to me like an amoeba - his shape or even shade defies my definition and description.

And before I go please, I’m still hoping to take that vacation not to ritzy Sun City, not to decadent Las Vegas, not to breath-stopping Dubai and not to idyllic Riyadh or scenic Milan or Paris, but to somewhere beyond the clouds above, although maybe not in an aeroplane or some space machine. But may no fate willfully misunderstand me and snatch me away forever.

Hip! Hip!! Hip!!!

2010 random memories

The 2010 FIFA World Cup is now just the stuff of memory, with only stocktaking left to be done. Records were set and broken both on and off the pitch - there was a new winner of the golden trophy for the first time since 1998 and the second time in 32 years (since Argentina won it in 1978). A European country won it for the first time outside Europe on the eighth attempt. And for the first time, the final match of the tournament did not involve any of Argentina, Brazil, Italy or Germany. For many, South Africa has indeed put up a show with memories to keep for a lifetime. So while we obviously will remember the vuvuzela, Paul the psychic octopus, the farcical French team, etc, here are a few more things also worth remembering from World Cup 2010.

A dirty beautiful game

One of the most enduring images from the 2002 World Cup is the sight of Brazil’s Rivaldo clutching his face in mock-agony after an opponent kicked a ball that clearly hit Rivaldo’s knees back to the Brazilian player who was about to take a corner kick. Throughout the 2010 World Cup there were similar ridiculous instances of players showing utter disrespect to the game and their own fellow professionals by feigning victims of foul play. It was not limited to only the European and South American players as Ivory Coast’s Kader Keita showed in the group stage match with Brazil by throwing himself down with the force of a small boy tossed off with a swing of an angry elephant’s trunk.

The Chileans did it very well against Switzerland while Spain’s Juan Capdevilla got a Portuguese player sent off by half getting up after a clash with the player only to sneak a look in the referee’s direction and then go down clutching his face. And as was blatant in the final match between Spain and Holland, the Spanish managed to get to the final of the tournament as perhaps the most fouled team and the team with the least number of cautions simply by outwitting all of their opponents in the game of dirty tricks.

Even Brazil, the team from the land of jogo bonito riled a few people by resorting to ‘teasing’ football to the disrespect of their opponents in the 3-1 win over the Ivory Coast.

Pantomime villain

Many players or even coaches qualify for this accolade. Luis Suarez of Uruguay comes to mind, as do perhaps Ivory Coast’s Keita, Nigeria’s Sani Kaita, or maybe even the Uruguayan officials in charge of the match between England and Germany. Holland’s Mark van Bommel also deserves a mention. But somehow, Brazil’s Felipe Melo deserves it more. Having failed in his job of keeping the creative players in the Holland team quiet as he repeatedly gave the ball away needlessly and mistimed several tackles in their quarterfinals encounter, Melo then went from bad to worse by inadvertently nodding the ball into his own net to bring the scores to 1-1 early in the second half. As if that was not enough, he also lost the ball from which a cross was delivered for Wesley Schneider to nod into the Brazilian net for 2-1 to the Dutch. To cap his villainy, a little afterwards, Melo inexplicably jabbed his studs into the midriff of Dutch winger, Arjen Robben after clumsily losing the ball to Robben in the first place. Of course, Melo got his matching others, and so also did Brazil’s hope of a sixth world cup triumph.

Fine margins

It was not the most exciting World Cup ever but South Africa 2010 certainly provided fans with more than its own fair share of edge-of-the-seat moments. There were several what-if, if-only and it-could-have moments that got many mouths hissing, teeth gnashing and a few hearts beating a little faster – the moments and decisions which, if scripted some other way, would perhaps have altered the fate of some of the participating teams and maybe even the destination of the trophy. There was the Frank Lampard ‘ghost-goal’, as there was Asemoah Gyan’s last minute penalty miss against Uruguay as well as Diego Forlan’s last-kick-against-the-bar act against Germany. Many people will also remember Yakubu Aiyegbeni’s ‘fair play’ miss in front of an open Korean net.

But in terms of a single game, the margins were much finer in the quarterfinal encounter between Spain and Paraguay. First Paraguay’s Nelson Valdez’s goal was wrongly disallowed in the first half and then came the crazy 95 seconds of two missed penalty kicks in the second half - Uruguay’s Oscar Cardozo missed a penalty only for Spain’s David Villa to ‘draw’ a penalty from a Paraguayan defender less than a minute later. Xabi Alonso missed the the penalty after being ordered to retake initial successful attempt. Even when the goal eventually came for Spain, Andres Iniesta had to hit the right woodwork first only for Villa’s follow-up to come off both woodworks before trickling over the line.

A triumph for the basics

If the world cup taught us anything, it is the fact when all is said and done, the simple things often bring forth the richest rewards. Football matches have often turned on the blunder or skill of one individual player but it is still a team sport in which long term plan, team work, individual and collective hardwork, experience as well as youth, desire, technique and simplicity of approach have often led to success. The 2010 World Cup emphasized this even more for all to see. With prima donnas like Cristiano Ronaldo, Lionel Messi, Ricardo Kaka, Didier Drogba, Wayne Rooney and the rest of his air-castle ‘world class’ England team mates all failing to ignite the occasion, the tournament proved that the game is a sport in which team work matters more than star quality, where hardwork triumphs over weekly wages, where technique surpasses media hype.

The tournament proved to us all that division of labour and identification of the simple often negligible details looms larger than gong ho approach to issues, that desire to win doesn’t even begin with turning up for a match. This is why the teams which won more hearts at the tournament where the likes of New Zealand, Uruguay, Spain, Germany, Holland, Ghana, Paraguay, Slovenia, Slovakia, rather than England France, Brazil, Portugal, Nigeria, Italy, etc. For these reasons players like Thomas Mueller, Forlan, Bastian Sweinsteigger, Iniesta, Carles Puyol and Vincent Enyeanma won more plaudits than Rooney and co could dream of.

Moment of the tournament

Decisive moments in the 2010 World Cup were by the truckload – Suarez ruining Africa, albeit Ghanaian hopes with his hands, Siphiwe Tshabala thumping that opening goal into the Mexican net on June 11, Holland knocking out pre-tournament mega-favourites, England’s dreams unraveling in six sick second half minutes against Germany and so on. But I rate the moment when Uruguay’s Sebastian Abreu’s ‘Panenka’ penalty kick nestled in the net during the shootout against Ghana in the quarterfinal as moment of the tournament. Ghana had given many Africans and romantics elsewhere candy joy all the way to that stage and even after Suarez stopped that ‘goal’ from being and Gyan missed the penalty, something somehow in millions of heart still echoed the “it’s time for Africa” line from Shakira’s Waka Waka song in prayer and optimism that it was written in the stars for an African team to get to the semifinal of the World Cup this time. But that cheeky, nonchalant kick by Abreu finally rested those prayers, slumping millions of shoulders, drawing litres of tears and causing a few heart attacks in the process. That single kick was as ludicrous and audacious as it was fatal, literally, in its impact.

This small-minded notion… amuse yourselves, please

Permit me to – before someone else does it on my behalf– say that I occasionally get caught up in the wave of new ideas such that my behavior could easily bother on that of an obsessed, simple-minded nit-wit. I can sometimes be terribly guilty of buying into certain ideas especially of intellectual nature when such ideas originate from one of the people I really like – celebrity or civilian – without having the patience or guts to critique the idea enough before embracing it. You can call that naivety, call it intellectual laziness or follow follow in Nigerianese.

So, here I am writing yet another article based on an issue raised by acclaimed Nigerian author, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. It is again about the “single story” as inspired by the brilliant “The Danger of the Single Story,” a speech delivered by Adichie in the UK last year. The FIFA World Cup is of course the most dominant event on the airwaves at the moment, particularly in Africa where the tournament is being staged for the first time. Being an avid sports follower, especially football (I support Arsenal, follow Rafael Nadal, Maria Sharapova and the Williams sisters, the Super Falcons, Super Sport United, Chicago Bulls, etc) I have, like millions across the world, been following the ongoing fiesta in South Africa. And I like the fact that Africans have greeted the tournament with great fervor, but I‘ve also got a few issues with the extent to which people, especially other Africans, see the event as an African affair as opposed being merely a South-Africa-hosted tournament.

Maybe it’s something to do with my being chronically incapable of thinking optimistically or less cynically about issues such as this, but I don’t exactly see why SA hosting the world cup can be construed as Africa’s party. Yes, a few countries, notably, some of South Africa’s neighbours in Southern Africa may benefit from the tourism throwback that come with SA being host, but isn’t that where it all ends as far as the event being an African affair goes? The tournament may be coming to the continent for the first time ever, but in my opinion, the way people across the continent seem to ‘hug’ the whole thing as a triumph for Africa smacks of a poverty of ambition and a disguised reminder of just why the continent remains underdeveloped, with or without the effects of colonialism. Considering the fact that it required some form of rotational principle for an African nation to secure the hosting right for the tournament in the first place, all the “Africa” talk about the world cup seems to hint at our tacit agreement with the continent’s place in world issues is perceived to be. It seems that somehow, we acknowledge that very little is due the continent or that Africa does not deserve so much from the rest of the world in whatever sphere. Therefore, we are eagerly ready to lap up what little crumbs and pieces we can get occasionally. Ever heard of Europe’s World Cup, North America’s World Cup, etc?

Even in 2002 when the same event was hosted for the first time on Asian soil (Japan and South Korea) who recalls the media or political angle tagging it in any form as an Asian extravaganza? Perhaps, the rest of Asia (especially Saudi Arabia, Qatar, Malaysia, China, the UAE) were (unlike Nigeria for instance, with its hundreds of politicians going to SA to “celebrate with our brother”) more preoccupied with thinking of how to ensure that one of them would be the next Asian host of the tournament. But ironically, using the current state of affairs as a vista, even if the World Cup or perhaps the Olympics was to be ceded to Africa in 10 or 15 years, how many countries on the continent apart from SA - and with the possible(?) inclusion of Egypt or Tunisia - seem to have the football structures (administration, well-run football leagues et al) and the national economies to host it?

Severally, I have heard people in Nigeria say that the reason SA is doing better economically and in terms of infrastructure than most other African countries is the presence of the white (European) population in the country. This, some argue, made it possible for SA to win the hosting rights in 2004. I don’t know what the thinking is across the rest of Africa. But sadly, this argument is in itself worrying because in the final analysis, it is a tacit admission of the inferiority of the black man to the white man mainly based on the colour of the skin and all that comes with it. It must be pointed out that there is nothing wrong in being second best. But there is certainly something wrong with being second best to whoever by miles. Unfortunately, this is what the African continent seems to always labour to be (distant second best) to the rest of the world, in ideology, technology and what have you in spite of the well-documented achievements of pan-African and anti-colonial activities on the continent. To take a leaf from Adichie, that is just a case of ‘make others think of you as small over and over again, and they will believe you are small.’ Otherwise put, ‘think petty all the time and you become petty.’

As a Nigerian, it is for the same reason that I am disturbed that Ghana rather than Nigeria has reached the quarterfinals of this year’s tournament. And for that I refuse to revel in the Black Stars’ achievements so far not because I am a spoilsport or bad belle as they say in Nigeria. I simply do not see the all-for-one-and-one-for-all scenario in the whole thing. The Black Stars’ stellar display is a Ghana thing so Ghanaians, not Nigerians, should shout their voices coarse in the name of patriotism. Nigerians would be better off picking a few lessons from South Africa as hosts and the Ghana national team. Same goes for the rest of the continent.

So even if all six African teams participating at this year’s World Cup had failed to make it past the first round of the tournament it would have been an indictment on those nations’ footballing principles and structures – just as it still is that only Ghana managed to make it beyond that stage. And however Ghana’s participation at the world cup ends this year, make no mistakes about it, history will record the name ‘Ghana’ and not ‘Africa’, ‘West Africa’ or ‘Nigeria’s neighbour’. As they say, “Let every man learn to answer to his own surname.”

The 'single story' of a people, by the people

In a thought-provoking talk she delivered in Oxford, UK, last year, celebrated Nigerian Author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie spoke about how stereotypes or the perception of a situation based on only a peripheral understanding of that situation can heavily distort the reality of the situation. In the speech titled ‘The Danger of the Single Story’ Adichie also contends that lack of interest in establishing a more encompassing picture about a subject could easily lead to the painting of warped versions of an event, creating a one-sided storyline in the process. In other words, the complexion of history as perceived by different people at any point rests heavily with which perspective of a topic they had been feeding on over time.

It’s heartening that such a compelling subject matter should be broached by a daughter of Nigeria, a place whose people have for decades suffered gravely from the effect of different uncomplimentary ‘single stories’ about the people and their institutions. Sieving through pages of history, it is quite easy to note that one of the banes of the Nigerian society is the peculiar inflexibility or outright lack of will to take advantage of available socio-economic opportunities towards entrenching a saner socio-economic and political state of affairs. Hence the pervading socio-political lack of direction and economic backwardness for which the country has for decades remained the butt of jokes in the comity of nations.

In her speech, Adichie remarked: “Show people as one thing over and over again, and they become that thing.” This perhaps also raises the question of how to, for instance, avoid seeing a negative single story in a situation where a subject in question unceasingly confronts the observer with the unbecoming side of whatever the subject’s antecedents are. And a few developments in the country in recent times actually probe the obvious question of whether we are doing nearly enough to change some of the not-so-nice ‘single stories’ that abound about Nigeria.

Two examples from the past week, although not directly linked but by wider implication related, would suffice here. The first has to do with events at the ongoing FIFA World Cup in South Africa. Nigeria’s defeat in their opening game with Argentina was not even a problem. But what demonstrated the culture of unwillingness by most of our institutions to respond to available opportunities was the tame manner the far-from-super Super Eagles blew the chances they had to qualify for the next round. Firstly, in losing to Greece when they were well-placed to win or in the worst case scenario end the match in a draw, the Nigerian team failed to keep their destiny in their own hands. Then, in only achieving a 2-2 draw with South Korea in the final match when a victory of any margin would have been enough, the team also showed an alarming inability to utilize the lifeline Argentina threw at them (in defeating Greece). And the fact that the players created enough opportunities to win that match twice over if they had elected to, drives home the point even harder. In the end, it may be valid argument to point out that several other teams that crashed out at the same stage of the competition also all suffered from the same symptom. But it is also legitimate to argue that in the case of Nigeria, it is more symbolic of the fact that in most cases, even when it seems that the hard part is over, when it seems things can only hit a higher point, somehow, somewhere, someone, some people or some institution can be relied on to bungle things for everyone, pushing things to a new low. And what better flag-bearer for us in this regard than football.

That fiasco in SA invariably brings to mind a story of an opportunity missed in politics last week, this time right inside the hallowed chambers of the House of Assembly. Hundreds of printed pages and hours of radio and television airtime may have already been dedicated to dissecting the shameless violence at the House of Representatives on Wednesday June 23, 2010, over the N9 billion fraud allegations against the Speaker of the House, Dimeji Bankole. And there is certainly much more still to be said about it all. But in particular, it was another lost opportunity by representatives of Nigerian politicians to make a positive statement about themselves, an opportunity to convince a segment of the society that somehow, the political class has been victim to the single story all along, a story of lack of patriotism, immaturity, gruff and uncouth disposition and much more.

As those scenes played out, some students from a secondary school in Abuja who were on an excursion to the House witnessed it all. But for a group of pupils most of whom must be familiar with the words and footage of Lagbaja’s Surulere music video, the lyrics of African China’s Mr. President, Fela Anikulapo-Kuti’s songs, all in addition to generations-old tales of thuggish behaviour by the political elite even in sacred places like the House of Assembly, it was a validation of what should have, relatively speaking, remained a mere myth. And for the politicians, it was a big goof, certainly a missed chance to make an argument that somehow those sour tales are a product of sensational media reporting, the hyper-active imagination of human rights activists and even paranoid parents, guardians, aunts, uncles and what have you. It was their one huge opportunity to tell a section of a generation a more rounded story about the political class, but typically, they blew it.

So, if in future, any of those pupils decides that for whatever reason she would disrupt her History teacher’s next class and for that reason, goes to school, whistle in pocket, no one should be surprised where she got the idea from; if any of those pupils at the next argument with his peers, suddenly goes berserk, hurling every object in sight at his opponents, shredding their clothes, spewing invectives at such people and breaking a few limbs in the process, that pupil, in the words of a Whitney Houston song, shall have “learned from the best.”

And so between the Nigerian football team and the political class, the status quo persists - no interest in demystifying the inimical single story. If anything, it remains a tale of re-enforcing the story of squandering given opportunities – a mirror of the wider Nigeria since independence, since the oil boom, since the birth of our (pseudo)democracy.

E don happen o!

In fact, e don really happen! Now I know exactly why dancing as a pastime has never really appealed to me. I also now know why my choice of music revolves predominantly around songs and singers (whose songs) you needn’t necessarily dance to – songs which at their most demanding, only require a shake of the head, some clapping, whistling and sing-along. I have just discovered that my largely stonecold general lack of jig in response to any piece of music that involves a shake of the backside is tied to something else other than the fact that the music may not be appealing enough for me to respond to. My utter lack of partying or clubbing spirit has often baffled even me, and now I realise that my near-complete aversion to owambe has a more genetic origin than me being a plain social misfit (for want of a better phrase).

Truth is that somehow I was never designed by nature to dance, but just to shake my head, hum a few lyrics, clap and …well, that is it where music is concerned. What I am saying is that perhaps nature never designed me in the mould of the Nigerian brand of the Peugeot, to weather the mountain-high road bumps and valley deep potholes and so on that adapting to different beats and rhythm of music is. I was fitted out more like a Bentley or any other make of such cars not suitable for driving on Nigerian roads, just for roads in a place like London where it can zap around – no potholes, no bumps.

What am I harping on about? For a while now, I have been feeling like an alien wherever songs by today’s music acts, particularly my Naija brethren, are being played (my opinion about music being fairly well documented in this other piece). Perhaps for the purpose of proving my street credibility or just plain being led by a lonely impulse of delight, I decided, in spite of my heavy feet and reluctant waist, to weigh how much behind the times I have grown musically. So I went to a CD stand where I got a couple of CD compilations of some of today’s rave-of-the-moment songs by Nigerian musical acts.

The result of that purchase is that I have been up since 3am today and I have been unable to go back to sleep, not because I don’t want to but because I can’t. After the three hours of manic, adrenaline-inspired, unabashed act of self-deception and indulgence I got involved in last night, all in the name of dancing, I have been reduced to a creaky-boned shadow of my usually sprightly early morning self. Through several hours last night I jigged, swaggered-and-gingered, danced the sangolo, did the galala, did the alanta, twisted, swirled, twirled, swerved, bounced, swung, clapped, jumped, bumped-and-grinded, all to sounds which before last night I had only ever whistled or nodded to. My energetic display and the deftness of some of the moves I managed to put together wowed even me, and an onlooker would have been tempted to believe that I was either drug-fueled, Holy Spirit-controlled or even both. Such was the high energy and abandon of my solo show as I locked myself away in a room (pretending to be) dancing to the likes of P-square, Wande Coal, Timaya, Terry G, Nico Gravity, Bracket, J Martins and so on.

At the end of it all, sweat-drenched-and-sweat-scented, I felt like a bird – fit and strong, ready to fly. I took a cool bath and then hit the sack about 30 minutes later and slept until about 3am when I got up to use the bathroom. But I only got up with a heavy head, creaking joints and searing pains all over the body. And now I have moved from a sweat-scented solo performer to a sorry owner of a Robb-scented rickety body. Even my cousin cannot show enough sympathy for my self-induced plight as I have reduced the poor boy to my masseur-cum-therapist-cum-personal minder with a bottle of Robb by the side.

Make no mistake though, my current raggedy physical state has nothing to do with me being too lazy. Hey, we are talking here about the same Jibril who can play volleyball for hours on end, kick a soccer ball around all day long, trek longer distances than the Biblical Israelites or historical Boers of South Africa, and for those who know me more, the Jibril who can also … ok that’s enough now. Simply put, as I sit (more like lay) here barely able to punch the keys on my laptop and wondering which one out of a physiotherapist, homeopath, orthopedic surgeon I should invite first, I have definitely learnt one life-changing lesson: There is a limit to adventure, and some experiments are simply not to be attempted if you are not genetically wired to conduct them.

Just how do they do it?

I was not invited, and as I sat there, I certainly felt distinctly out-of-scene. A deputy editor of my paper had ‘arm-twisted’ me into going. They tell you this all the time as a journalist in this country: “This profession is like the military. Once you are told ‘go’ you just go. Nobody cares how you do it. All that matters is that you bring the story.” I have heard such small-minded and outrightly anal lines severally.

The invitation my ‘oga’ (how they love that tag) forwarded to me via a text message merely read: “… birthday ceremony organised by our friends in our honour…” But wow, what a birthday! What friends and what occasion!! Now, parties are not part of my strong points but I have attended my fair share of them – birthdays, dinners, get-togethers, wedding ceremonies, etc. But this one seems to top my list of all, maybe because I was seething with irritation to be there at all and as a result, I sat there with an extremely critical eye.

In what was a shindig, I was desperately out-of-zone amidst the sea of bottles with different contortion; the geles; the kaleidoscope of colours; the loud indiscreet music; and dare I say, the share adrenaline. But I still was duty-bound to make a story out of it all. So, I managed to note down a few things – some for my own personal cut-away. I noted down the unabashed display of excitement from millionaires, the majority of them grandmother and grandfather millionaires, mind you.

There was so much to eat and drink but I was too busy getting irritated to bring myself to eat. Worse, I inadvertently chose a seat directly in front of one of the air conditioner vents in the vast hall to sit on, and so, all through my stay there, I kept shivering with cold like someone from the Sahara Desert on a first visit to Siberia. The hall was one vast space but it was so full that there was barely enough space to stand much less sit. But even as I struggled to find space for my feet, one appallingly bloated (not fat, mind you) woman still found enough room in front of me, to jig around with her uniquely fallen features – a pair of sorely sagged breasts held mercifully together by a helpless bra; a pathetically protruding tummy; and shapeless backside. Her wizened face - complete with its athletics track lines - was so heavy with brown powder that you would think she had just robbed an Estee Lauder shop and decided to use all the loot at one go.

Two hours later, as I left the venue, still filled with irritation, something soured my mood further; at the gate two men were punching, slapping and kicking at one helpless man. Soon, he was asked to kneel down, as he frantically begged another man who must have been his age, if not even younger. The man’s sin I got to know, was that he had accidentally stamped on the other man’s foot in an attempt to gatecrash an occasion to which he wasn’t invited. Eventually, he was ‘pardoned’ after another man pleaded on his behalf. I was galled. And that is saying the least.

Outside the gate, I was still shaking my head in silent disapproval of such brazen aggression when I saw him once again. Not Mr. Stamp. This other man had been there earlier as I hurried into that extravagance. He had beckoned on me (or so I thought) as I hurried past him. He had said, in a clearly beaten voice, ‘bros, abeg find me something now, I dey hungry.’ Honestly, I didn’t take in the full import of his words until I was halfway through the entrance. You know one of those instances when you hear a word but it then takes that extra second to hit home. Seeing the man again was, therefore, Providence’s second chance to me. But this time he didn’t say anything, perhaps he didn’t see me, although he seemed to be looking in my general direction.

Walking towards him, I pretended I was seeing him for the first time, and with a cosmetic smile - of guilt - etched on my face, I stretched a polythene bag containing a loaf of bread at him. The bread was the only thing I managed to take away from the gig (and why I even bothered, I don’t know). Pronto, with the alacrity of a drowning man, he grabbed the bag like a drowning man would do any lifeline thrown at him. He added a brisk ‘thank you’ as he walked towards the nearby Tafawa Balewa Square while I hailed down a motorcycle.

Of course the irony of it all wasn’t lost on me: That man only wanted, in fact, needed to have a bite but could not get one. Meanwhile, few yards from him some people could not just have enough bites. His was for survival while for that motley crew in there every succeeding bite was an indulgence. They could not waste food enough but he could not, it seemed, attract enough compassion to get a few survival crumbs. Talk about the contrasts of life. And just how do people find the will to sit back and encourage or even breed such contrasts?

My judgmental self could not help believing that somehow, that man’s fortunes and those of others like him could be better, with a little less avarice and a little more let-others-survive disposition from characters like members of the motley gang at that shindig, who are scattered across the Nigerian landscape. It could be argued that none of those party animals had anything to do with the desperation of the man. But as was evident in the case of Mr. Stamp who was ‘disciplined’ for trespassing, this other man is directly or indirectly a victim of the indiscretion, gluttonous, utterly selfish and oppressive life some of us lead in this part of the universe.

Mind you, the gathering in question had some of the people who individually or together with their agents and accomplices in the corridors of power, have ensured a clear absence of the middle class in Nigeria, a place where you are either rich or poor. And there in lies the connection, or so I think. You may not see it. Or do you?

My end-of-2009 chart

Moment of the year

From San Francisco to Sango Ota, Tashkent to Taraba, Port Elizabeth to Porto Alegre, London to Laos, whether on the internet or over the radio, television or telephone, there was unanimity in spirit, some unspoken camaraderie across the globe for those few hours of uncertainty. ‘Oh dear, could this be the end of a colossus?’ seemed to be the question on millions of hearts and lips on June 25, once news broke that Michael Joseph Jackson had been rushed to the hospital. Collectively, the world has hardly ever witnessed a more intense moment of baited breath than the period between when MJ was rushed to the hospital and his eventual death. And it is similarly difficult to find one development to surpass the news of his death as news of the year.

Revelation of the year

Thanks to the combination of the global economic meltdown, the governor of the Central Bank of Nigeria (CBN), Sanusi Lamido Sanusi and the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC), Nigerians got to know how much rot had been covered up in the banking sector in the country. People got to know who spends whose money in this country and I for one got to appreciate how much of a ‘big guy’ I could become if only I could get some bank to borrow a hefty enough sum of money from.

Asshole(s) of the year

In all probability those six days weren’t the goriest or bloodiest in Nigeria’s history. But the philosophy leading to the gore and blood was as jejune, ludicrous and anal as any you will ever hear of. Even in places like Afghanistan, Iran or Palestine acts of terror have often supposedly been a show of defiance against the perceived overbearing posture of the West, never about eradicating western education and the whole gamut. But here we had a band of simpletons called Boko Haram who engineered a carnage in which hundreds of lives and millions of naira worth of property perished. Saudi Arabia the spiritual home of all Muslims has centres where scientific research is conducted. Mathematics, physics, biology and other such paraphernalia of western education are studied in places like Iran and Lebanon. Now, add to that the fact that the imbeciles, led by their vile leader, planned their dastardly acts while most definitely talking over cell phones (a product of science and western education) all the while, then you might begin to understand why any of those nincompoops certainly stands out as idiot of the year.

Product promoter of the year

Globacom Nigeria Limited has to be by far and away the winner in this category for sheer tenacity of purpose. What didn’t they do to sway and might I add, irritate subscribers? Most subscribers to the services of the telecoms outfit should be familiar with such lines as ‘Luck don jam you,’ ‘make you no let this awoof pass you,’ how will you spend… millions?, ‘Sshh… make you no tell any bodi o,’ and numerous others. For the naked effort in persuasion or nuisance value to the customer, Glo certainly ‘Ruled’ our cell phone ‘world’ more than any other this year.

Feud of the year

I can tell you that at the height of it, there was absolutely nothing civil about this feud. It was pure roforofo fight in which every instrument was permissible as long as it gave an edge and for any length of time. I am talking here of the rivalry between two newspapers owned respectively by a serving governor and a former governor of two neighbouring South-West states, two personalities who also belong to rival political parties. There was such evident small-mindedness on both sides that you could aptly predict what makes front page news in either publication every morning, for once one carried any news item, the other was sure to cover the other side of the same story. And the major stories for either publication in the most, revolved around whatever dirty detail could be dug up about the rival proprietor.

Joke of the year

That as we go into year 2010, 10 years before 2020, in spite of the country being barely able to light its homes while its roads are hell-holes, Nigeria will, come 2020, become one of the 20 most industrialised nations of planet earth. Please, shoot me for not being enthusiastic, curse me for not been patriotic but I will still tell you tales of pipe dreams and of a place called Sugar Candy Mountain.

Person of the year

I could choose Barack Obama, Babatunde Fashola, Yar’Adua or any other person for this, all with justifiable reasons. But for his sheer resilience, his perseverance and iron-cast will at surviving all that nature, bad leadership and even his own folly and misguided adventure keep throwing at him, the Nigerian man has to be my person of the year.

End of the year prayer

Oh no, dear God, please don’t let it be true that we are now on the verge of being tagged a terrorist nation in addition to whatever black tag they have already put on us. We sure have too much on our plate already.

End of the year question

Who is Nigeria’s president?

For the sake of sanity

It was a humbling experience to be part of the procession in Lagos on Friday December 4, 2009. The procession was a vigil in honour of 24-year-old Grace Adie Ushang, the female youth corper who earlier this year, was most bestially violated and murdered in Borno State by yet-to-be-brought-to-book perverted cowards.

Earlier same day, there was a similar procession in Abuja, also to remind those in authority of how much they have neglected their vows and duty to protect us all. Those in authority may be silent on this because they may be thinking, 'what's the life of a 24-year-old worth to anybody anyway. Moreover, she got what she deserved.' That is the voice of cowardice, apathy mysoginy and ignorance.

But luckily for those who have identified with this cause and the push for a bill against violence against women, that is not our own voice. Let's continue to do something to shame the ignorant ones and to help bring culprits in cases of sexual violence against women to book.

The next victim could be you or someone you know or care for, someone you love.