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.

Up Pillars!!!!

The news didn’t come as a surprise to me, for I had expected the barbarity of man to rear its head once again, in that encounter. A week ago, as I sat watching the CAF Champions League Semi-final first leg match between Heartland of Owerri, Imo State and Kano Pillars of Kano, I literally told those around me that ‘there will be blood’ in Kano come the return leg in the Pyramid City. Heartland was of course, leading by four goals at the time, rendering the return leg a little more than mere formality. The calculation was simple: Pillars were not going to beat Heartland by up to four goals, if they managed to beat them at all.

And having witnessed many a less-important match end in wanton fan violence in Kano over the years, I needn’t necessarily be a Nostradamus to predict what would naturally follow during the match and after the final whistle in Kano. And so I was proved spot on as the Pillars fans did not only attack the Heartland fans in the stadium but also pelted the Imo State governor, Ikedi Ohakim and his Kano State counterpart, Ibrahim Shekarau with all sorts of objects. As if that were not enough, the fans also allegedly took the governors hostage for about 15 minutes after the match while more about an hour after the final whistle, some of the heartland supporters were still caged in at the Sani Abacha Stadium as irate Pillars fans bayed for their blood. And you are right to ask, all because of an ordinary football match?

It is a shame anyway that the Pillars fans reacted the way they did. Here was a team that had handed mighty Al-Ahly of Egypt a most humiliating exit from this year’s competition. Yes, Pillars it was that I glowingly wrote about after they did the seemingly impossible by holding African club football mega powers to a 2-2 draw in Egypt, a result that led to the exit of the six-time CAF Champions League champions from this year’s competition. At the hands of African club football debutants and total unknowns like Pillars, might I add.

Many followers of the African game had expected Egyptian fans to intimidate the Nigerians before, during and even after that duel, but suffice to say that even if they did, it must have been rather insignificant compared to what happened in Kano over the weekend. Shall we, therefore, say in as diplomatic terms as possible, that Pillars fans are sour losers? Of course, yes. If none of the teams they played away at and picked points from thought it appropriate to resort to riotous tendency against them during their fairytale journey to the semis of this year’s competition, the Pillars fans should have just savoured this experience and look forward to similar experiences in future, rather than giving CAF and football followers a dark label to put on their darling Pillars.

To think that this was coming at a time when I was starting to half-concede my memories of after-match scenes in Kano to the stuff of history. The history of the days when we needed to brace ourselves for doses of teargas, bruises here and there, missing personal effects, burnt cars, second degree injuries and even the occasional death, all from violence of mini ethno-religious colouration. I remember those days of the irresistible 3SC Shooting stars of Ibadan, the tenacious Bendel Insurance of Edo, the swashbuckling Iwauyanwu Nationale (now Heartland), the irrepressible Enugu Rangers, all teams whose performances against Pillars in Kano year-in-year-out sparked riotous scenes amongst supporters. Scenes to which I lost countless pairs of flip-flops, sniffed from dozens of teargas canisters, sustained numerous cuts and bruises as I was caught in the crossfire between opposing fans and the mediating team of teargas-hauling policemen. These were the sorts of riots to which I most fondly lost a part of my pair of Dan Medina (made in Medina) flip flops just three days after buying the pair for which I had saved up money for weeks. Dan Medina had been the in-thing back then. It was the most durable type of bathroom slippers known around Kano and its status as having (supposedly) been made in Medina, Saudi Arabia, added to its prestige and legend. If you didn’t own a pair back then, you hadn’t quite simply worn a pair of flip flop - it was a status symbol of sorts. And I lost a part of my pair after a riot broke out between fans of Iwanyanwu and Pillars in the aftermath of a dramatic Nationale victory in Kano.

Such times were reenacted at the weekend. Times when several hours after a football match, it was still considered suicidal for a lot of us to cross from Sabon Gari to Brigade Quarters. It was such times when for hours after a match you were holed up inside the main bowl of the Kano Township Stadium until policemen, at their own risk, too, managed to smuggle you out later in the night. Those were the times when even as a reasonably neutral fan you were forced to chant ‘Up Pillars!’ to save your neck. After any of the afore-mentioned teams had dished out the usual dose of agony to Pillars, and you happened to be caught in a mob of irate Pillars fans, you had one of two choices – remain steadfast, even in your neutrality and receive the beating of your life or manically shout ‘Up Pillars!’, before gloating Pillars fans. And in those circumstances, ‘Up Pillars’ was a small price to pay in exchange for a sojourn to the orthopedic centre. It was back to those Up Pillars days again last Saturday, shamefully so, for a team Nigerians had up until then been very proud of.

Four men, one barrel and two bags

Nothing prepared me for that occasion, and I guess nothing ever prepares you for it. Time was around 7.38 pm as I strutted down a street in the GRA part of Ikeja, Lagos. I had just left an eatery where I spent the previous three hours or so filing a feature article to the deputy editor of the Saturday desk of my newspaper. I had been running around, almost in circles all day, gathering material for an article I had to file same day otherwise I simply forget it. Uppermost on my mind at the time, therefore, was the thought of getting home as soon as possible, take a bath, eat dinner, watch some TV, if possible, and then hit the sack. Such was the jaded nature of my body and mind that I desperately sought to catch the most efficient, if most dangerous form of transport in Lagos – commercial motorcycle (okada).

The first few okada I tried to hail down either had a passenger already or they wouldn’t just go my way, so I decided to walk on in the hope that I would catch one eventually. There was obviously no hint of danger and although I didn’t know GRA that much, the street I was walking down at did not carry any hint of what was to hit me (if they ever carry any that is) – well-paved road, perimeter/electric fences, tightly-locked gates, bla bla. But then it happened. Around the middle of the long street (more than 400 metres), I saw an okada dropping off a passenger. There was also another one about 20 metres from the first one, also dropping of a passenger. From across the road I hailed “PWD,” the name of the bus stop where I was going to board another okada or bus, towards my home. Unlike the others, this okada beckoned on me but was also rummaging in his pocket for what I thought was change for his passenger.

Then I fell for it and crossed the road to meet him as the other okada man was asking if he (my okada man) could spare him N40 change. His own passenger came towards us and I thought he was coming for the N40, so I just turned towards my okada man. In split seconds I was starring at the barrel of a locally made pistol. The ‘passenger’ had crept from behind me and grabbed my shoulder, holding the pistol to my face. “Give me the bag,” he barked. I handed him my laptop bag which had no laptop in it but had my digital camcorder, my ID card, some money, my tape recorder, a few books etc. “Where is the money,” he barked again. “I don’t have any money I said,” as he tried to frisk the side pockets of the jeans trouser I wore. I kept shifting back tapping his hands away and then just dug my hand into one of my back pockets and brought out some money, which I threw on the ground as I stepped further away. Quickly, he bent down and picked the money. By then the other okada had turned his bike towards where I was coming from while the other ‘passenger,’ the one who had been on the okada I flagged down, crossed the road and mounted the bike as Mr. Gun jumped on ‘my’ okada and they sped off. Only then did I manage to shout “ole, ole,” prompting some of the guards in some of the houses on the street to come out. But it was too late. The deed was done. I immediately put a call across to the state police public relations officer who in turn urged me to report the incident at the Ikeja Police Station.

Funny though, at the police station, as I was writing my statement/complaint, another man came in to report that he, too, had just been robbed of his laptop (an official laptop he had just been given, having just been employed newly) right in the middle of a traffic slow-down in the same GRA. From his description of the man with the gun, I suspect it was the same gang that did the job on me. And as we walked out of the station and my partner in distress carried on complaining, I just kept thinking of the irony of it all. Here I was, a crime reporter who has often felt so much pity for some suspected robbers, especially those on okada to the extent that I have had to wonder if the police were not been too fussy with some of the arrests. To think I had so helplessly fallen victim to the people I have always felt such pity for.

Come to think of it, I have often wondered how robbery victims, especially the on-the-road-and-at-gunpoint ones felt. Well, as I walked on silently that night, I had my long sought answer – drained, befuddled, benumbed, breathless, helpless, maybe even slightly touch-and-go, edgy and tetchy, but grateful it didn’t get any worse.