It seems that I’m watching the life of an otherwise promising young girl take a nosedive and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. My inability to help her has brought home a stark reality; her story is all too familiar around here. One of those things that hardly raise people’s eyebrows. It happens all the time, so many times. Destinies just slip through the cracks, talents untapped, potentials unutilised, priorities unorganised. 17 years old. Tragedy waiting to happen. God!
Ok, let me stop being so dramatic and cut to the chase. Several weeks back, I met a lesbian for the first time in my life. Well, maybe I’d met some before, but this was the first that would openly, casually and noncomittantly tell me she was gay. I looked at her in amazement! I wanted to ask her, why? What the hell for?? But we are in a ‘civilized’ society so I had to pretend as if I was hearing a normal thing. We chatted for quite some time that day; she told me about her ‘girlfriend’ (I wanted to vomit) and their quarrels and her family and blah blah blah. Apparently, her mother knows she’s gay and has nothing against it. What a society. To make matters worse, this girl is only 17! How can a 17 year old girl say she’s gay, what does she know? Does she even know what she wants in her life? Anyway, that’s not the gist for today.
Today’s sad news is that I ran into her again this afternoon. After the exchange of pleasantries, she dropped a bombshell; ‘I’m going to prison’. I blinked: ‘what did you say?’ ”Well, I beat someone up in a pub and he was hurt so bad he got hospitalised, I just got out of……..’ ’But you’re too young to go to jail’, I cut in. ’That’s the thing’, she replied, ‘I turn 18 next week’. I stared at her dumbfounded. How can someone be so nonchalant about going to jail??? Most of all, at her age? At that age, I was battling with lecture notes and tests and exams. At that age I was in university having grand dreams about the future. That was the same thing virtually every young girl I knew at that time was doing. Those who hadn’t been lucky with jamb were trying to overcome the hurdle and get into school and so on. For God’s sake 17 year old girls don’t get into fights in pubs talk less of being arrested or arraigned in court. What kind of society is this?
For the sake of my sanity, I had to ask her what possessed her to fight in a pub in the first place. She said, the other party hit her first and blah blah blah. I couldn’t ask her what she was doing in the pub because I know it’s a way of life here. On many occasions I’ve passed by town centre at night, and I’ve seen how many teeny weeny youngsters would literally drink themselves into a stupor. They get so drunk they sprawl on the roadside, throwing up and doing all sorts of disgusting things. When we were still new, my house mates and I used to ask ourselves how those kids used to get out from under their parents watch to go and get drunk at night. It didn’t take us long to find out that in many cases, the parents were also out doing the same thing. I can’t count the number of times I’ve seen cars drive by in town centre: roof down, daddy at the wheel, mummy beside him, both singing drunkenly at the top of their voices, child in the back seat. How won’t that child grow up to do binge drinking and get drunk at 13, 14 years of age. What kind of society is this?
Maybe this young girl will go to jail, maybe she wouldn’t. I won’t get too close to the matter in case she thinks I’m a potential ‘girlfriend’. I just feel sorry for the way her life is going, although I’m not God and only HIM has power over that. Asides the gay thing, she’s quite good in music and has done soundtracks for movies and stuff. But at 17, all she thinks of is deciding she’s gay (with the blessing’s of her mother!) and so has to be a man by getting into a fight in a pub. I don’t what this world is turning into. What happened to wanting to be a lawyer, or a doctor or all those things teenagers aspire for? Na wa for this country o!!!!!
It’s been so long!!!!! I must confess I’ve missed this blog……I hope you missed me too. I apologise for not posting anything here in such a long time. The past months have been a very trying time for me; physically, mentally and emotionally. It’s been a rollercoaster but thank God we’ve made it to this day. Today, I wrote the last exam in my masters programme and I can heave a huge sigh of relief. If I told you, it’s been easy, I would be lying. However, all is well that ends well. I thank God for seeing me this far, and I commit the last lap, the dissertation, into HIS HANDS.
Having said that, I’d like to let you know that I shall do my best to update this blog regularly henceforth. You know, when the mind is at peace, the creative juices flow unhindered. So, welcome to a new month. I wish you all a peaceful month of June………
These past few weeks I’ve been very vocal in my criticism of oyinbos. I said on facebook that I was starting to think that certain attributes of dishonesty and unreliability are part and parcel of the British. This opinion was borne out of my repeated interactions with some in different settings. In group assignments, everyone except the British guy will do their parts promptly. They smile at you on the road in and in the supermarket but they don’t really like you. They tell you how impressed they are with your performance at an interview but they follow it up with a refusal letter that arrives at your house even before you get home. To sum it all quite nicely, I came to believe that the only straight thing about a white man is his nose…………………
But just as I was starting to cast my views in stone, providence set me up in another scenario that questioned my generalisation of the British character. I happened to be in Burpham, a sleepy town outside Guildford. I was trying to locate an office and I had reached the end of the directions I got from the internet. I looked around, there was no one to ask. So I began to walk down the next street I saw. I didn’t have the faintest idea which direction I was heading to. The first man I saw was a van man. I walked up to him and asked for directions. Unfortunately, he was as green in the area as I was. But he pointed to an old woman who was moving her gardening bags across the road.
I hurried towards the old woman. As I hurried and gesticulated, she seemed to hurry back inside her house. ‘Excuse me’, I kept repeating, no answer. In my mind I thought, yeah, she’s seen a black girl and thinks I’m dangerous. But with no one else in sight, I was determined to extract some sort of response from her. So I stayed put in front of her garden bags. As she came back dragging another set of bags, I said to her again, ‘please can you tell me where to find….?’ She looked at me and shook her head and went on dragging the bags. I stood my ground; ‘excuse me ma’am, could you please…..?’ ‘I’m sorry I can’t hear what you’re saying’ she said when she drew close. I repeated what I said pointing to the piece of paper in my hand which held the address I was trying to locate. ’ I’m sorry I can’t hear you’ she repeated. This time she reached out and collected the paper from my hand. She squinted at the paper then looked up at me again: ‘I’m sorry, I can’t see it, let me get my magnifying glass.’ She went back inside the house and emerged again with a magnifying glass in hand. She tried to read the paper again, with obvious difficulty. By this time, I was starting to feel bad, thinking of how much of a bother I must be giving the poor woman. Finally, she made out a name on the street address and smiled as she looked up to give me directions.
I didn’t want to bother her anymore and even though I didn’t quite get the descriptions, I told her it was alright. But you know older people are always wiser than us. She immediately guessed that I was still quite lost and she said; ‘you know what, let me just lock my door, I’ll come with you.’ I was stunned. ‘Please don’t bother,’ I said to her. ‘No, no, it’s alright,’ she replied; we don’t want you to get lost. All this while, I didn’t even notice that she limped slightly and where she was taking me to was quite a distance from her house. as we walked along, I taking my characteristic long strides, she struggled to keep pace with me before telling me jokingly; ‘I can’t keep up with you, I’m an old woman. I used to be able to, but not anymore.’ ’Oh, I’m so sorry,’ I replied, almost bending over to give her a warm hug, ‘I’ll slow down.’
To cut a long story short, she escorted me from her house to the very road I needed to be on. It was so far and out of the way that I’m sure I couldn’t have found it without the old woman’s house. On the way, she regaled me with the history of the place and what it used to be called and simply won my heart in the process.
I do not know her name. She doesn’t know mine. I probably will never see her again. But she has with that simple encounter, touched me in a very profound way. She’s a darling old woman, very British, and in a very British town. Who am I then to cast aspersions or make general statements about the people?
Yes, I’ve been robbed and I’m not finding it funny at all. In Guildy, not Lagos oh! It’s not funny at all.
My suitcase has just been stolen from an Arriva bus and I’ve gone from bus station to bus depot, none of the drivers nor officials claim to have seen it. I guess the suitcase just grew wings and flew away. The most annoying part is that the Arriva officials just couldn’t be bothered to try to trace the particular bus and bus driver even though I told them the bus number and the time I boarded it. Do you know what they did? They referred me to the police station. And do you know what I did? I went to the police station. Yeah. The suitcase is that important to me.
I can’t believe I was stupid enough to leave my suitcase up front in the luggage space while I sat at the back. What was I thinking? That people are too good to steal because this is UK? Pipe dream.
Apparently, human beings are the same everywhere; black or white, developed or still developing country. And everyone has an innate predisposition to steal, it just depends on the checks and balances that bind them. For some people, it’s a moral or religious check. For others, it’s the CCTV.
And for me, it’s a wake-up call! There are thieves everywhere. Ole, barawo, ogere olosha!
Had a very funny “kitchen parliament” discussion this evening and I just can’t stop laughing about it….
The white girl comes into the kitchen with her boyfriend and the Nigerian guy I’m chatting with asks her; “who’s doing the cooking today, you or him?” “Both of us” says the white girl; “why, don’t African men cook for their girlfriends?” “Oh, I can cook for my girlfriend” says the guy. “But not for your wife” she returns. “Well, I can cook for her once in a while.” Apparently, the girl had been doing some reading on cultures. I couldn’t resist stoking the fires of the conversation: “he’s an African man you know. African men expect their wives to do everything.” Bingo!
Hei, you should have seen the way the tempo in the room increased, lol. The chat moved from just food to whether the guy could carry the baby. And he said, it’s the duty of the wife. The white girl couldn’t believe her ears! Didn’t you make the baby together??? Women and men have separate duties in a marriage, the Nigerian guy explains. The man pays the rent, school fees of the children, even the extended family of the wife. He also pays dowry on the woman, so the least she can do for him is to………..”become his servant,” the white girl cuts in. Yeah, you see the lot of the African woman”, I add. “That’s not all; she also does his laundry and makes sure it’s freshly pressed with his food ready before he wakes up in the morning.” But does the woman also work? she asks in incredulity. Yes, in modern day Africa, she does in addition to doing all the household chores and sundry duties……..”
By this time the Nigerian guy was exasperated with me. Turning to the white girl, he said, “look, Dupe wants to marry a white man so don’t listen to a word she says.” The white boyfriend is already in stitches from too much laughter. “You know what? I think you should just marry a British”, the girl says. They don’t make you do all of that…………Hehehehehehehe
In case you’re wondering whose side I’m on; let’s just say, there are certain parts of African culture that I don’t quite agree with. But who else agrees with my white house mate? Two more affirmative opinions and I’m off to find a white guy. Lolllllllllllllll
Now, I am officially biased! I am convinced that Nigeria’s Federal Government scholarships in its various forms are largely the exclusive preserve of Northerners. Apologies to all my Northern friends, don’t take it personal. I hate to sound tribalised but the facts seem to speak for themselves.
Infact, I am angry. Is it one Nigeria at all? I just met yet another northern guy who just arrived for his research programme. And while we were chatting, he innocently asked me which scholarship I was on. In his words; ‘so which scholarship are you on, PTDF?’
You see, it has come to the point where northerners cannot not even imagine anyone schooling overseas without a scholarship. Can you imagine? I turned the question back on him, “which scholarship are YOU on?” “Why do you think I’m on a scholarship?” he replied, smiling. “Oh common, are you not a northerner?” I return. ….
HIM: so it is only northerners that win scholarships abi?
I: something like that (not bothering to hide my disgust). So which one are you on, PTDF?
HIM: (laughs) No, ETF
I: I see. That’s Education Trust Fund, right?
HIM: Yes. But why do you say it’s only northeners that get them, did you apply for any and you didn’t get?
I: Oh please, we know these things. Every northerner in this school is on a Federal Government scholarship (That’s probably an exaggeration but I couldn’t be bothered).
HIM: You mean non-northerners don’t get some? No, that can’t be.
I: Ok, give me an example of three non-northerners that have won them.
HIM: Ok, my friend Raji is from Lagos…..
I: (cut in) it’s because of the Raji in his name
HIM: (laughs) I think the problem is that you don’t know about the existence of these things. Like the ETF, the Federal Government gives 50million naira to universites as a grant for staff training and development. So it’s mainly for lecturers.
I: (in my mind: yeah, the northern ones) I see.
HIM: So which one are you on?
I: None.
HIM: What???
I: As you can see I’m not from the north.(You better keep quiet before I vent my anger on you.) Anyway, it was nice talking to you. I’ve got to go now.
HIM: Ok, thanks a lot (blah, blah, blah).
You see Nigeria’s life outside? I don’t have anything against the guy oh (incase he’s reading this) but I have everything against the skewed administration of the scholarships. I have everything against the lopsided flow of benefits without recourse to need or merit. In a lot of cases, the people who win these scholarships are children of those who can in any case afford to send them to any school in the world. Yet the ill- administered system would ensure they get the scholarships instead of those brilliant students whose families cannot afford the quality education.
And so such promising stars fall through the gaps of history without ever having the chance to achieve their dreams. That, is very annoying. So, that much money floats around Nigeria’s educational hemispere? On ETF alone, 50 million to EVERY university EVERY year!!!!! Only God knows how much is appropriated for PTDF every year. And all the others as well. God, where is your face? You need to visit judgement on all these people that are jeopardising the future of Nigeria’s youths.
I wouldn’t mind so much if all the beneficiaries of these scholarships actually merit the awards. If they are academically sound enough to merit it, fine. But is there ever a fair competition? And so, some people languish in frustration in the country because their fathers don’t have key political or economic affiliations. They come out of school, they don’t get jobs because nobody can give them a note to anywhere. They study hard but they don’t have the financial wherewithal to go further. And so the gap between the rich and the poor widens everyday. And so, the frustration of the average Nigerian youth grows everyday. And so, crime in Nigeria grows everyday.
God, from whence cometh thy help?
A few weeks ago, a friend of mine posted a message on facebook asking for blood donors for her father. She was talking especially to her friends back home in Indonesia where her father was lying ill in hospital. This dear friend never betrayed any emotions suggesting that the situation was critical. Infact she organised a cinema outing for us right after exams. She’s always doing things like that, always bright and cheerful.
And while I was away in London, she flew to Indonesia to see her dad. Apparently the man had been in a coma. But when she arrived, he opened his eyes and started eating. She came back from Indonesia two days ago. In class yesterday she was telling another friend how her dad had recovered upon her arrival. He had even been discharged from hospital before she returned to UK.
That was in the morning. At night she was called and told that her father had just died. I can only imagine the shock on the poor girl. That she attended lectures today is a miracle. But I can understand that numb feeling. Via the telephone is the worst way to relay such news. Though sometimes, it may be the only way.
Girlfriend, if you’re reading this, I know exactly how you feel. It is only God that can comfort you right now. Yeah, we all try, come to your room, drag you off to a movie and all that but the pain is deep inside. I know how it feels to cry behind closed doors, when the door closes behind the last person. Try not to drown yourself in sorrow; eventually you’ll see that it won’t bring him back.
Thank God for his life, and the time you spent with him. Everything in life is a gift from God. Every second, every minute. That’s why we have to try and use it wisely. May God guide, protect and strengthen you, your mom and the rest of the family.
I’m back to Guildford after a thoroughly satisfying break. Sorry, I couldn’t update the blog while I was away. It is due to the fact that I couldn’t for the life of me, remember the password to the blog! Can you beat that? There’s no telling what frequent pounded yam and correct vegetable soup can do to your memory.
London was a blast. I didn’t even want to leave again. However, duty called and I had to return to good old Guildford; with it’s grossly unreliable Arriva buses and the hustle and bustle of student life. So it’s back to Tesco value and chemical chicken. When we grow up we’ll be able to buy beef as that is a very pricey commodity here in UK. Lol. May God help us.
Time flies. It’s almost halfway through the course and before you know it, we’ll be winding up. Was it not only yesterday that I was in Nigeria anxious about this new chapter in my life? I didn’t know what to expect but I thank God that he has made it a beautiful experience.
This is not to say that it is all rosy. My time out in London was some sort of eye opener. Nigerians are not finding it easy out here. It’s a rough ride trying to pay the bills which keep mounting. Rent, phone, oyster top-ups. People come back home to meet their things at their front door if they default in the weekly rent payment. And guess what, some of the landlords who do this are actually Nigerians. Talk about man’s inhumanity to man, or is it Nigerian’s inhumanity to Nigerians? Anyone who goes through all these and still manages to send something home should be hailed like a king. It’s not easy to save those pounds.
God will make a way for us all.
Hei, who is going to save us from this delicacy? For those who don’t know “okporoko” or “panla” as yorubas call it, is stock fish and it is an expensive but popular delicacy in the south western and south eastern parts of Nigeria.
Unfortunately, its popularity does not seem to be catching on with my Polish housemate, and understandably so. The smell! Ok, I can’t be complaining about the smell of stockfish, but this particular one that one of my Ibo housemates has can smellllllllll!
I was in the kitchen trying to rustle up something and I just couldn’t get past the smell. I couldn’t lay my finger on what was smelling but it was a bad odour. So when the Polish girl came, I asked her if she could smell it too, just to be sure it wasn’t my nose acting up. “Yeah”, she said; “it’s so bad it puts you off your food, right?” I couldn’t agree more.
Together, we launched a search for the “thing” responsible for this offensive smell. ”You don’t think it’s stockfish?” she asked. “No, of course not” I retorted. How can this bad smell be our sweet delicacy? Soon, the second Ibo guy joins us and says he’s also been trying to locate the source of the smell all morning. We opened the fridge, freezer, oven, grill; there it was! “Oh”, says the guy, “it must be the okporoko these guys cooked last night!” Martha said, that’s stockfish isn’t? She didn’t need further translation to know what okporoko meant in English.
“Could you please ask him not to cook it again?’ The Nigerian guy and I burst into laughter. She joins in our laughter; “it’s too much. Where does he get them from? Did he buy a fresh supply?”
Don’t be surprised if a notice soon pops up in the kitchen saying: “Please DO NOT cook Stockfish in this kitchen. Thank you for your cooperation.”
Lol………….
Yesterday, I went to watch Sherlock Holmes at the cinema with some friends. The movie was nice, but it was the whole being together thingy that was really enjoyable.
We were taking some pictures and generally having a good laugh when the cinema security came to warn us that it was a greivous offence to take pictures inside the cinema. He said it carries a penalty of up to 150 years in jail! Haba, what would they give a murderer then, 1000 years? Lol.
Anyway, we were not about to find out if he was bluffing or not, so we tucked our cameras away. Better safe than sorry!
So I’ve got only a few pictures to share with you here…….
