tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90949671688937255532024-03-12T23:03:28.676+01:00Mazi Nwonwu's blogThe viewpoints of a man watching a fast changing worldMazi Nwonwuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858603354130809374noreply@blogger.comBlogger123125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9094967168893725553.post-11675453504312943162022-07-30T12:54:00.030+01:002022-07-30T15:59:08.706+01:00Misleading Videos Fuel Claims of Igbo Disenfranchisement <p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7G5NKV6-0bkRFPB3bBZM5KShHB1PoOmn-v289p3MeEtafbNvU7JE5HTUhy9pwTFFia6iepi0jqg86n2gVnqA7udiCB30eYGN0BRj7j84po4dN0Xy-UbRa8KKwSJ-QcQuosbFzqsdqDFgGtr6gCv60odOlxomPAh_eTmM9ruVmZrjP2jTjtFE1LC02bQ/s640/image003.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="332" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7G5NKV6-0bkRFPB3bBZM5KShHB1PoOmn-v289p3MeEtafbNvU7JE5HTUhy9pwTFFia6iepi0jqg86n2gVnqA7udiCB30eYGN0BRj7j84po4dN0Xy-UbRa8KKwSJ-QcQuosbFzqsdqDFgGtr6gCv60odOlxomPAh_eTmM9ruVmZrjP2jTjtFE1LC02bQ/w443-h332/image003.jpg" width="443" /></a></div>Inec office, Igbede, Ojo LGA, Lagos State</div><p></p><p><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: #0e101a; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;">Viral videos suggesting Independent National Electoral Commission (Inec) is discriminating against people from the Igbo ethnic group and refusing to allow them to register for Permanent Voters Cards (PVC) are misleading.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p></o:p></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><a href="https://twitter.com/Sirphill5/status/1534839922452054016">The videos</a>, which were shot within and outside the Inec office in Igbede, in Ojo Local government Area in Lagos State, show so</span><span lang="IG-NG" style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;">me<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;">people fighting and others complaining that they were refused<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span lang="IG-NG" style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;">a<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">chance to register to get their PVC because they are Igbo.<span style="color: #0e101a;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><br /></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;">In<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span lang="IG-NG" style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><a href="https://twitter.com/perpetuanwachu6/status/1534895351190241281">one</a></span><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><a href="https://twitter.com/perpetuanwachu6/status/1534895351190241281"><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>video</a>, bystanders can be heard asking in Igbo language if the people who were then fighting inside the compound of the Inec office “can fight”.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;">However, eyewitnesses said the conflict had to do with a fight between members of the community where that registration was taking place and had nothing to do with Inec staff refusing to register people because of their ethnicity.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><h3 style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-align: left; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><b>"A fight that started it all"</b></span></h3><p style="margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: #0e101a; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: #0e101a; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;">One of the eyewitnesses, Chinaza Ikemezi</span><span lang="IG-NG" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: #0e101a; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;">e</span><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: #0e101a; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;">m, said the cause of the conflict was the insistence by the people who came to register that Inec staff must not take any of their capturing machines away from the premises.</span></p><p style="margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: #0e101a; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFE9PuUcXSzCPqUfMjNc8uJ7JthJz_-2cj3cjCvgcAJ7YMAb2eOYR9Rht_y0sWou-ANqIFcDyEPUtRLrWx3kPCYeOubz9nrxCS1o-BK6uq9lLlwEPJSJP3AB3M3qWAfpKllGIc8PbwdiSOMcxUAa9f3AhrOfVfZwJBExdjCJ3W-iqRvVQz4KfCvw6-HQ/s1182/Chinaza%20Ikemeziem.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="670" data-original-width="1182" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFE9PuUcXSzCPqUfMjNc8uJ7JthJz_-2cj3cjCvgcAJ7YMAb2eOYR9Rht_y0sWou-ANqIFcDyEPUtRLrWx3kPCYeOubz9nrxCS1o-BK6uq9lLlwEPJSJP3AB3M3qWAfpKllGIc8PbwdiSOMcxUAa9f3AhrOfVfZwJBExdjCJ3W-iqRvVQz4KfCvw6-HQ/w399-h226/Chinaza%20Ikemeziem.JPG" width="399" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: #0e101a; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;">Chinaza Ikemezi</span><span lang="IG-NG" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: #0e101a; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;">e</span><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: #0e101a; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;">m</span></div><p></p><p style="margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: #0e101a; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p></o:p></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;">“What happened was that there was an influx of people. Alaba Market was closed so people can come for their PVC. There were thousands of people and the Inec staff couldn’t handle them. What caused trouble was when the Inec staff came to move their materials to other places where they do registration. The people who came to do registration refused to allow them to go and fight broke out,” Miss Ikemesiem said.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;">Miss Ikemesiem insisted that before the conflict over the movement of machines, there was no issue of discrimination on account of ethnicity.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;">“The issue was that only one machine was functional in the office and the people there didn’t want the other machines to be taken away from there,” She said.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;">Lawal Waheed, who also witnessed the conflict, said he was attacked after he got the Inec staff to safety.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;">“There are some machined that the Inec officials usually take out to other communities so that those people who cannot come here will be captured. This has been ongoing for some months. Some of the people who came to register were insisting that they must be captured before the machines are taken to another location. </span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;">"Attempts to explain to them that the machines that will capture them were in the office and these were meant for another location fell on deaf ears. They attacked a male Inec staff and prevented him from leaving, but his female colleague managed to get into an okada and leave. They beat me and tore my clothes after I guided the Inec staff to safety,” he said.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Qwssu-v-eeOzrzgAp7vhWF0Fz4JD4LUuYVbM9xam58gtqUcTPKgidL5nlzVSf3YUZ6mDWJsS96JQz3dMrFoGbOynZDnSJ5UsA2rvIpDvlYKZ1GJCzxJggOOeRvq50cF7oOrNKloO2406SuYzAzqcLfFJAZihuLiFzgrh1QoI1ILiw0RkWixsAEEUXg/s1171/Lawal%20Waheed.%20credit%20BBC.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="669" data-original-width="1171" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Qwssu-v-eeOzrzgAp7vhWF0Fz4JD4LUuYVbM9xam58gtqUcTPKgidL5nlzVSf3YUZ6mDWJsS96JQz3dMrFoGbOynZDnSJ5UsA2rvIpDvlYKZ1GJCzxJggOOeRvq50cF7oOrNKloO2406SuYzAzqcLfFJAZihuLiFzgrh1QoI1ILiw0RkWixsAEEUXg/s320/Lawal%20Waheed.%20credit%20BBC.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 18.6667px;"><div style="text-align: center;">Lawal Waheed</div></span><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;">He added that a local chief was assaulted during the fracas, and this was what angered the youths in the community who arrived to confront the angry citizens.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p></o:p></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;">Mr Waheed said that there was no time Inec staff tried to prevent anyone from being registered.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><b><br /></b></span></p><h3 style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-align: left; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><b>"There was nothing like 'Igbo people should not vote'"</b></span></h3><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;">“It was while the fracas was going on that we heard some people saying that they were taking the machines away because they don’t want Igbo people to vote. There was nothing like that at all,” Mr Waheed said.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;">A <a href="https://twitter.com/perpetuanwachu6/status/1534804748293095424">video shared on Twitter shows the Inec official returning to the office</a>. Comments by bystanders also<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span lang="IG-NG" style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;">s</span><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;">upport his account as people could be heard saying “how can Alaba be here and they will be allowed to take the machine away” in Igbo.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;">The conflict occurred close to the Alaba International Market in Lagos.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p></o:p></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;">The President of the Electronic Section of the market Paulinus Ugochuwu had shut down the market for one day to enable traders to register to vote in next year’s general elections.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;">Mr Ugochukwu confirmed that there were “issues” during the registration process but stressed that there was no case of attempted voter suppression or refusal to avail people of the registration process because of their ethnicity.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><h3 style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-align: left; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><b>Inec to get more machines to Igbede</b></span></h3><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;">“We are aware of the issue that occurred in Igbede. When we heard of the issue, we called our people and asked them to remain calm and they did. Everywhere is calm now and people are still being registered,” he said.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;">He added that they are liaising with Inec to get more machines to ensure that those who want to be registered will be registered.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;">Mr Ugochukwu said he was inspired to call for the registration of voters in the market after he discovered that only about 500 people among 5000 had permanent or temporary voters cards.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;">“Our people don’t have voters cards because they don’t vote. But, since we started this process, people are very eager and many say they don’t mind if the market is shut down for one week for them to get their voters card,” He said.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;">Inec officials at the office in Igbede refused to speak about the issue because they are not authorised to do so. </span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><h3 style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-align: left; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><b>An influx of intending voters</b></span></h3><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;">However, the Inec Spokesperson in Lagos state, Nike Oriow</span><span lang="IG-NG" style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;">o</span><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><span class="Apple-converted-space"> said</span> the commission is continuing to register people across the state and added that they are seeing an influx of people in registration centres, especially at their centre in Tafawa Balewa Square, Lagos.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;">The Lagos State Police Spokesperson Mr Benjamin Hundeyin <a href="https://twitter.com/BenHundeyin/status/1534931045031858181">reacted to the trending videos on Twitter</a>, saying the framing of what occurred was misleading.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><span class="Apple-converted-space"><br /></span></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;">The Igbo are one of 3 major ethnic groups in Nigeria and are the most numerous traders in Alaba International market which is also in Ojo Local Government.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="color: #0e101a; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; margin: 0cm; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p></o:p></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: left; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">The Registration of voters was supposed to have ended ON May 31 2022, however, Inec extended it to June 30 2022.</span></p>Mazi Nwonwuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858603354130809374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9094967168893725553.post-88909946773863344532022-07-30T09:09:00.006+01:002022-07-30T09:13:03.678+01:00Gunmen Kill Inec Adhoc Staff in Imo<p><br /></p><div class="kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXSfUVsgMwPsrqiGUxyBtrNIycfO360VIqH5WBq7EezV__wzvC6HQ1J2c1zeyMSvHg5DzcALcffnJKnqv1_PYuFujh4ApuI68neANYXKU7WZjXCYS9se4tSfU-4WAZLbxds8yH7zvNUfoVlIPhpaxBrXzU7RMTr5wSWoDFmPm6H4cwja5pi0QdA2Lrqw/s960/Inec%20attack.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="699" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXSfUVsgMwPsrqiGUxyBtrNIycfO360VIqH5WBq7EezV__wzvC6HQ1J2c1zeyMSvHg5DzcALcffnJKnqv1_PYuFujh4ApuI68neANYXKU7WZjXCYS9se4tSfU-4WAZLbxds8yH7zvNUfoVlIPhpaxBrXzU7RMTr5wSWoDFmPm6H4cwja5pi0QdA2Lrqw/s320/Inec%20attack.jpeg" width="233" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Video screen-grab.</div><br /><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Gunmen attacked an Independent National Electoral Commission (Inec) voter registration unit in Ihitte Uboma, Imo State, southeast Nigeria on 14 April 2022 and killed an Inec staff.</div></div><div class="cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql o9v6fnle ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">The killers stated in the video of the attack they posted on social media that they are angry the people they are "fighting for their freedom" are registering to vote.</div></div><div class="cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql o9v6fnle ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">The gunmen, from analysis of the video, appear to be affiliated with the armed and violent secessionist group that has killed hundreds over the last few months in Nigeria’s southeast.</div></div><div class="cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql o9v6fnle ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">The secessionist groups active in the region have been asking for the country to be divided through a referendum.</div></div><div class="cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql o9v6fnle ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">A referendum is a vote and is only viable when it is conducted through lawful means, which entails people have to be registered to vote to partake. </div></div><div class="cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql o9v6fnle ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Inec has in response to the attack suspended voter registration in the LGA the incident occurred and 2 others.</div></div><div class="cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql o9v6fnle ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">The incident comes a few months before general elections in Nigeria and follows a spate of attacks on Inec offices, security forces and civilians in the region.</div></div><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Some sentiments in the region support the activities of the armed men. A few months ago, a popular Facebook broadcaster from the region voiced his support for a caller on his programme who called for the killing of Inec officials and NYSC adhoc staff.</span> </p>Mazi Nwonwuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858603354130809374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9094967168893725553.post-59870157760142757202022-07-16T15:48:00.002+01:002022-07-30T12:29:22.846+01:00How I Am beating Type 2 Diabetes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhCfU9UoqVsOVyuliRLzZEoNZpMjIhpjhT2J5DTyVFd3YwcFFc38jOjlfXZKZhkzJKP3-sI48b5LH1OG8y7n22RDVzEpwZ-h80SabzG5lQ3jvajJHzgU3Sf4Pm0hI8UJU6nnlLiVJuWBaBLDKTfdT07J6OUHR9KRUpaG0evo69tJiuHU5lhRHVE5wQ3A/s297/diabetes.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="170" data-original-width="297" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhCfU9UoqVsOVyuliRLzZEoNZpMjIhpjhT2J5DTyVFd3YwcFFc38jOjlfXZKZhkzJKP3-sI48b5LH1OG8y7n22RDVzEpwZ-h80SabzG5lQ3jvajJHzgU3Sf4Pm0hI8UJU6nnlLiVJuWBaBLDKTfdT07J6OUHR9KRUpaG0evo69tJiuHU5lhRHVE5wQ3A/w416-h238/diabetes.jpeg" width="416" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Diabetes care: Photo credit - Medical Care Today</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I was diagnosed with diabetes in late July. At the time of diagnosis,
my blood sugar was at 365 ml and my vision was already very bad (I couldn't make out the features of people who are not standing right in front of me. If I
know you, I would know you are the one, but I wouldn't be able to describe your
features if asked. My fingers were constantly tingling (A symptom of nerve
damage caused by the extremely high blood sugar) and I felt like a total wreck.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I knew I was overweight but didn't feel it was that bad (I
weighed like 90kg, weigh below 80 now). At least I was hardly ever the biggest person
in the room. I do drink, but very passively—once in a long while—mostly while
hanging out with friends and at most 2 bottles.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I didn't consider myself a candidate for diabetes as I didn't know of a family
member that had it. So getting a diagnosis that read diabetes was a shock.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<a name='more'></a>Shock gave way to reality, and because I am a very practical man, I jumped into research: seeking knowledge about what to do and how to do it. I got lots of information from friends, especially on
Facebook, after I shared my situation.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some of these tips were very helpful, others not so much.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I've got <a class="zem_slink" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diabetes_mellitus_type_2" rel="wikipedia" target="_blank" title="Diabetes mellitus type 2">Type 2 diabetes</a> and one of the major ways of
dealing with it is coming to terms with the disease and learning to deal with
it, on your body’s terms. For me, one thing that works is eating a very low
amount of carbohydrates and slapping on the veggies.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It took me a few days to see the lie in the claim that
diabetes is a big man’s disease. The truth I found is that a diabetic’s meal is
much cheaper than what a normal person would consider a balanced diet, and if
you stick to plan, it is healthier—it should be, that’s the point.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My breakfast usually consists of one small unripe plantain,
crayfish, a little groundnut oil and half-cooked ugu. For lunch, I dive into
copious amounts of bitter leaf soup, fish and about half-a-fist-sized wheat
meal/or semo. Occasionally I try out fufu—very little—but I've not tasted yam,
which used to be my favourite food before I was diagnosed, in about two months.
I also eat as much ugba and garden egg as I can and drink <a class="zem_slink" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vernonia" rel="wikipedia" target="_blank" title="Vernonia">bitter leaf</a>
water (Don't throw away all the native remedy advice you get, especially if it
is harmless).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, food tends to react to different people in different
ways.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think the key to staying within the threshold is getting a
blood glucose metre and using it to gauge how your body reacts to different foods
and exercise. Yeah, I am not forgetting physical activity and weight loss. Very
important. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I try to brisk walk every day. I live in a neighbourhood with
an incline, so I walk, as fast as I can, for about 40 minutes up and down the
hill. I try to do press-ups, and jump up to a hundred, like skipping without a
rope, each day, but I will admit I am not faithful.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
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Did all these things work for me? I would say yes.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I've not tested above 100 ml in weeks. My daily threshold is
somewhere between 85-95 ml (Normal fasting blood sugar, that is 8 hours without a meal, is between 75-100 ml).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'd like to add that I now eat about a quarter of my
pre-test meal size? "Starvation diet", my wife calls it. However, the truth is
your body does not need all that food you shovel in. It is all about cravings. That is why you frown at anyone asking you to eat what we called "half chop" in
my school days.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don't believe there is a cure for diabetes, yet, or that I’ve
been cured, but it is by no means a death sentence (I really thought it was
when I was diagnosed). The key to beating the disease is to live right. For most of us
who have always had a high-carb diet, withdrawal is super hard but think about
the benefits in the end.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, and after all that hard work, you will look and feel
healthier than you have in years.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In addition, the most important aspect of going low carb is
that you may not need medications, so the fear of low blood sugar we diabetics
carry around may not apply to you.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why am I sharing this information?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because I seriously believe that, the best medicine is
information.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not forgetting that I think I am seeing the outline of a returning
six-pack <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span>.</div>
Mazi Nwonwuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858603354130809374noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9094967168893725553.post-6852450383599507262022-07-16T12:04:00.002+01:002022-07-30T13:31:57.033+01:00Selective Outrage: Are we guilty of ignoring human suffering?<div align="CENTER" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #555555; font-family: georgia, "palatino linotype", palatino, "times new roman", times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggWRS3VjF8xKDScIbDrJSQrMgV2gYZNDdfOs_Haxcv_ifpLGm3ztSF_oFlFCtohjyW5zxH4Cj9NEydg-i7cv7K4sbW-_Gzx8zwscODdCXlzfp0KUtaj8LnAmCGiAJXbew3KQNQoSFQlw1oZAQB8JcSfBU-ouKPCWRovnTcddIX-Pm1I76Kl8BtlGw7jg/s480/dana%20crash%201.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggWRS3VjF8xKDScIbDrJSQrMgV2gYZNDdfOs_Haxcv_ifpLGm3ztSF_oFlFCtohjyW5zxH4Cj9NEydg-i7cv7K4sbW-_Gzx8zwscODdCXlzfp0KUtaj8LnAmCGiAJXbew3KQNQoSFQlw1oZAQB8JcSfBU-ouKPCWRovnTcddIX-Pm1I76Kl8BtlGw7jg/s320/dana%20crash%201.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Photo credit: Mazi Nwonwu</div><br />
<br />
<div align="CENTER" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #555555; font-family: georgia, "palatino linotype", palatino, "times new roman", times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Years ago, a Dana aircraft travelling from Abuja to Lagos ploughed into a two-storey building in the Iju area of Lagos killing everyone on board and some others on the ground. News of the crash soon spread as social media went abuzz. In the ensuing weeks, the fatal incident hogged the headlines on blogs and websites, while many dedicated status updates to mourn the departed, especially those on board the plane.</div>
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As is common with Nigerians, some constituted informal committees to measure how certain people mourned: Did he/she cry enough; or show enough concern by taking one week off work? Was the government’s three-day mourning period too short? Did the officials who lost bosses or subordinates in the crash mourn for a respectable enough period?</div>
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Questions were asked and people were called out.<br />
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Grieving family members of the deceased became topics on websites, where their love (or lack thereof) for the deceased relative(s) was questioned. In all, Nigerians, – mostly elites –, voiced their collective pain until it became fashionable to be identified with your sorrow.</div>
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While this was going on, mostly forgotten, or pushed to the sidelines, were the victims of a devastating bomb blast in the north of the country on the same day. These people were not mourned on social media; no national day of mourning was called to mark their demise; no profiles were created for them on Facebook and very few blogs marked their passing.</div>
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Social media – despite its penchant for crying more than the bereaved – tends to remain strangely silent for many of the people killed by bomb blasts, or in frequent road accidents. This is true for the victims of Boko Haram’s cowardly bomb blasts as it is for the many dead in Baga, Bama and victims of other atrocities that afflict the lower class.</div>
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It is truly worrisome that the only other time Nigerian social media shuddered in collective anger and anguish was when news broke of four young men visited with a brutal but common enough form of mob justice by some residents of the Aluu community in Rivers State. The noise was massive and blogs, as with the Dana plane crash, screamed the names of the victims. All you needed to do was type ‘Aluu 4′ into the Google search bar and every existing detail about these victims of man’s inhumanity to man was available. The unfortunate quartet were university undergraduates of middle-class parentage.</div>
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A few days before the Aluu 4 incident, unknown persons who remain subjects of speculation and beer parlour gossip had summarily executed an estimated forty-six students of the Federal Polytechnic in Mubi, Adamawa State and neighbouring schools. That tragedy was met with less outrage.</div>
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The ‘why’ has been debated, but I think it is quite simple: unlike the killings in Aluu, there was no video footage recording man’s hatred for man in Mubi. There were no pictures to show baby-faced boys in their prime begging for their lives as their compatriots drove their souls from their young bodies. There was nothing, only conflicting accounts of persons killed and those responsible.</div>
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Perhaps without the visual catalysts to identify the victims and the brutality of the act, social media did not erupt; the urban professionals and social media-savvy students at the forefront of both the Dana crash and Aluu incidents were largely silent.</div>
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It would have been apt here to talk about double standards and the claim that people down south do not pay much heed to what occurs in the north, but since this is far from the truth, I will not go that route. The truth is not even anywhere near as complex as many may think and allude to. The truth is that in the age of social media, with news happening at an ever-increasing speed, visual and audio stimuli determine what people take seriously enough to share.</div>
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For the Dana Air crash, the images and back-stories of those who died were immediately available and many of the deceased (onboard) had profiles that most people familiar with social media could relate with. For the Aluu 4, being university undergraduates and also active social media users with friends who easily provided background data was a big catalyst to the social media blitz that followed.</div>
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Many of us show lukewarm interest in tragedies that impact the common man. While I can stress other examples that, taken within a context would seemingly exonerate many of us from blame, it is largely true that we are failing a large section of Nigeria by not doing enough to highlight their plight.</div>
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It might not seem so, but the truth is that class and location play essential roles in who we chose to mourn or mourn with. It is as an old Igbo proverb says: “The corpse of a stranger is like firewood by the roadside.”</div>
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As such, someone needs to make victims of every tragedy less of a stranger, to seek out and bring their backstories to light. Someone needs to highlight the plight of those who do not have the means or the skills to tell their own stories via social media.</div>
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It is important that Nigerian media do more to tell these untold stories so that we do not become too selective in the lives we mourn.</div>
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Mazi Nwonwuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858603354130809374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9094967168893725553.post-62137540563689010152022-07-15T13:32:00.000+01:002022-07-16T16:12:23.055+01:00The gang wars no one is talking about<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #555555; font-family: georgia, "palatino linotype", palatino, "times new roman", times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
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There is an ongoing gang war on the streets of Lagos that the media is ignoring.</div>
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I choose to call it a silent war, but this classification – my attempt to stress the media’s seeming disinterest in the matter – is false. The war is by no means silent; it is loud and, as anyone who pays attention to happenings on the streets of Mushin, Bariga, Oshodi and affected parts of Lagos know too well, bloody.</div>
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I became aware of this war when I moved from Ajao Estate to Mafoluku, Oshodi, in 2008. Armed robbery and other associated crimes were at that time an issue in Ajao Estate, a town once considered prime real estate by the 419 dons of the ’90s (Eze Ego’s house still stands impressive and imposing opposite the CPM chapel). Ajao Estate later became a magnet for Yahoo-Yahoo boys and the Pentecostal preachers that are ever drawn to owners of easy money.</div>
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In Mafoluku, to which I moved because the rent in Ajao Estate climbed beyond my reach, the headache was street gangs, the Oodua People’s Congress (OPC) and like-leaning marauders.</div>
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Separated from Ajao Estate by the Airport Road, instances of armed robbery or theft in Mafoluku were as rare as they could get in any Nigerian city suburb. Many say this low robbery rate was a result of ‘the boys’ not being inclined to operate in their own neighbourhood – they would rather cross the road to Ajao Estate or lurk at the dark spots around Airport Road to do their criminal deeds.</div>
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However, while we rarely got to hear the crack of automatic weapons as we did in Ajao Estate, the screams of distressed souls were a soundtrack that both places shared. Mafoluku, like Oshodi, Mushin and lately Bariga, all bear witness to turf wars that turn streets into war zones and erstwhile jovial area boys into cold-blooded killers with little qualms about hacking opponents to death and setting them ablaze.</div>
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I remember back then in Mafoluku; it was expected that the existing truce – they were perpetually calling truces – could break at any moment; so the wary knew to expect trouble at any time and steer clear of flashpoints. I recall asking someone affiliated with one of the gangs in Mafoluku what the fuss was all about, why young men who were pals yesterday face off in a life or death struggle today. The answer was simple: poverty.</div>
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Urban poverty is rife in Lagos. The acute unemployment situation in Nigeria is felt in this city of millions just as acutely as it is across the nation. Lagos, however, offers a contrast that adds fuel to a common fire: it is a large city and this means that there is money to be made. Every day, millions of residents need to be ferried from one point of the city to another. To transport these people you need buses, boats, tricycles, and motorcycles. To avoid anarchy when all these vehicles come together, there must be a method to control the transporters and designated drop-off points.</div>
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To fill this need, the National Union of Road Transport Workers was created. NURTW coordinates commercial transport operators, who together constitute the major transport operators across the country. The NURTW is probably the second highest employer of area boys, next in line only to politicians (although a blurred line exists where the politicians and NURTW are concerned – Ibadan and Oshodi on my mind).</div>
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To get commercial bus operators to pay what are usually illegal charges at bus stops, hot-blooded unruly youths are employed. In addition, a part of the daily take goes to the gang controlling the neighbourhood where a bus stop is cited and to whom the youths are aligned.</div>
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For many kids from underprivileged backgrounds, working as conductors on Lagos buses, or collecting money at bus stops, is one way to put food on the table. As such, you have a boy born into a very poor family where parental control is slack, looking to the street for care and companionship. Street gangs offer companionship, and later, a means of livelihood.</div>
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Most times, this is the path to a life of crime, but it also provides the chance to grow in the seemingly regimented world of NURTW and make a living at the fringes of the law. A lot of money is collected as revenue from the buses traversing Lagos roads, and this revenue is the primary cause of the ongoing wars among the city’s street gangs.</div>
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When gangs fight in Bariga, it is really about turf and control. For this, they are willing to kill and destroy. Politicians, who see these street gangs as a ready army during election campaigns, are also complicit; as are land speculators who use them to chase off dissenting voices from lands they want to claim.</div>
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No one knows the official number of people who have died in Lagos’s incessant gang wars, but I have witnessed some of these battles, and fatalities are commonplace.</div>
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While the Lagos State Government has made several pronouncements on the menace of street gangs, the attempts to curb gang violence or end the type of carnage common in areas like Bariga, Mushin and even Obalende have been largely feeble; with the gangs coming back to the streets they control after a few weeks away time.</div>
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As Lagos makes moves to become a mega-city, it would make sense for the government and the media to take a stronger, more effective stance in this regard.</div>
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First Published June 24, 2013 by <a href="http://telegrphng.com/">telegrphng.com</a></div>
Mazi Nwonwuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858603354130809374noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9094967168893725553.post-23568751034776793072014-10-09T13:53:00.001+01:002014-10-09T14:57:18.594+01:00Linda Ikeji When Not to Call a Spade a Shovel<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Linda Ikeji shows off her wheels. Photo: Linda Ikeji's Blog" src="http://2rxax5inm6sma94zqz2y91348.wpengine.netdna-cdn.com/lifestyle/wp-content/uploads/sites/6/2014/10/linda-ikeji-rides-3.jpg" height="188" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo: Linda Ikeji's blog</td></tr>
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As sad as the whole Linda Ikeji saga is, and I admit it is
sad on all fronts, we need to look beyond the sentiments and face some very
fundamental facts. And one glaring fact is that Ms Linda Ikeji did take
materials from people without attribution, and she made good money in the process.
Another truth is that we all talking about this because a Linda Ikeji is involved—this story would not have gotten to Google if it was a Mazi
Nwonwu complaining about Intellectual Theft.</div>
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I must admit that I am a fan of Linda Ikeji. Her story is a testament of what a motivated person can achieve.
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I think Linda, as many of us are, is infected by that Nigerian
bug that sees the hand of the enemy in everything negative that befalls us. Rational
minds will think this a silly assumption, but when you see people you consider
intellectuals dancing Makossa as they cast and bind the enemy chasing them from the village,
you will understand the extent of this national delusion.</div>
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Perhaps these ‘enemies’ are the reason she kept her business in
the family. And that’s one of the problem. Anyone who has
done any business with her knows that her professionalism ends on the pages of
her blog and that most companies have to drop laid down procedure just to do
business with her. It was clear to me the very day I had to take a cheque to
her neighbourhood in Surulere that she needs to shake things up. </div>
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Linda’s business ethics was a mess, but looking at where she
is coming from, one can put it all down to naivety. So Let's say she didn't
know. Now she does. So she will, expectedly, come out stronger, with a little
less arrogance and maybe she will start listening to good counsel. </div>
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However, while we blame Linda for not listening (well we
can, but that doesn’t mean we are right), we must bear in mind that she
actually does listen, but possibly to just the wrong kind of counsel. When the
saga started, people rushed to defend her against what they presumed to be
hawks set to devour a damsel in distress. Though some of these defenders
acknowledged she did something wrong in the first place, they felt defending
her was more important than stressing why the toad was jumping around in daylight.</div>
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Our own Pa Ikhide R. Ikheloa wanted Linda left alone because
many of those attacking her are hypocrites. I think while he might be right
about the hypocrisy, our dear elder forgets the story of the man who brought a
log within which juicy ants nest and then starts complaining about the sudden
increase in the number of red necked agama in his compound. I say sir; Linda’s
game-plan was very much like keeping a prized nne ewu in heat in an mkpi’s pen
and complaining about the mkpi’s behaviour.</div>
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Chude Jideonwu, vibrant media entrepreneur of the new
school, also backed Linda: but we all know that his Ynaija swims in the same
river and thus we can hail him for not joining the hypocrites.</div>
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Then there was Ohimai...</div>
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and several others...</div>
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The point is, powerful people backed Linda when this story
broke and I wouldn't be far from the mark when I say she paid attention and
took counsel from this support. Just read her 'response' to the ‘hater’ and
hear the story of the Nigeria of today told in flashing colours: Yes, I stole,
but everybody is stealing and they are only after me because I am a successful
thief. In it, you’d see the average Nigerian public servant, the police man at
the check point and NEPA man glaring down at you from the top of an electric
pole, pliers in hand, telling you to do the ‘right’ thing with his eyes. </div>
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I am not saying those who say envious goons were stalking
Linda don't have a point, they absolutely do, but oyibo mulitimillion dollar
businesses no dey send naija sentiments. If Google was owned by a Nigerian,
nothing would have happened as we would be swayed by the need to avoid a mini Biafran
war—them against us sort of thing. But, the oyibo just looked at the facts and what
clearly was an admission of theft, as contained in her 'response'.</div>
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I like Linda Ifeoma Ikeji, I think I’ve said this before. She has an internet reach that no media organisation in Nigeria can
lay claim to. Couple this with a drive that I’ve only seen in two other women (<a class="zem_slink" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nnedi_Okorafor" rel="wikipedia" target="_blank" title="Nnedi Okorafor">Nnedi Okorafor</a> and Ukamaka Olisakwe) and you have a potential global player.</div>
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My friend and fellow writer Nze Ifedigbo said, in the midst
of the initial noise, that he sees Linda running a very successful TV talk
show, and I agreed. She’s got that kind of aura: the Midas touch.</div>
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So Linda, it is time to start listening. Opin yer ear an hia.
Stop putting up defences such as: 'I am not leaving blogger o, see what hackers
are doing to Sahara reporters and co', 'The people who squatted my domain name
are asking me to pay x, not doing that, they can have it', ‘I don’t have a team
yet’, etc. </div>
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Yes, you showed us how a multi-million Naira business can be ran
from atop a cosy bed, by one person. For sure, this model will make beautiful
topic for business management students, but it is time to take it to the next
level. Mind you, a lot of people are eager for you to succeed, and they are
surely more numerous than those who want to see you fail.</div>
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Nne, just do the right things...and stop sharing those pictures,
you are not a wanna be, you are.</div>
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In all of these, make sure you don’t forget the LIRS. </div>
Mazi Nwonwuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858603354130809374noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9094967168893725553.post-26820943798266709932014-08-23T21:08:00.000+01:002014-10-10T17:13:13.877+01:00Untitled (discarded work)<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container zemanta-img" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><div class="zemanta-img">
<a href="http://commons.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Soviet_Union-1972-Stamp-0.16._Mars_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: clear:right;"><img alt="1972 Soviet Union 16 kopeks stamp. Mars 3 lander." border="0" class="zemanta-img-inserted zemanta-img-configured" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/2/21/Soviet_Union-1972-Stamp-0.16._Mars_3.jpg/350px-Soviet_Union-1972-Stamp-0.16._Mars_3.jpg" height="253" style="border: none; font-size: 0.8em;" width="350" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption zemanta-img-attribution" style="text-align: center; width: 350px;">1972 Soviet Union 16 kopeks stamp. Mars 3 lander. (Photo credit: <a href="http://commons.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Soviet_Union-1972-Stamp-0.16._Mars_3.jpg" target="_blank">Wikipedia</a>)</td></tr>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">11: 15 am, June 1 2089, Abuja, Capital city of the
Union of West African States<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Very little has changed in the spaceport. Not that I was
expecting much to have changed in the time that I had been away from home, but
I had not expected things to remain the same. Near the exit doors, just beyond
where the customs desk ended, the touts, not so camouflaged by well-sown but
low quality Aba-copy business suits, still lurked, hungry eyes searching for the
next victim.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Behind them, closer to the exit doors, loitered
taxi drivers, pick pockets, potters, and an assortment of humanity who make a
living from transit ports of any kind. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I felt the touts edging closer from the
corner of my eyes and marvelled at how much space they covered while appearing
not to move at all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A lifted palm was all I needed to ward
off those that my stern mask did not discourage. Outside the port the same
approach served to scoot away the throng of taxi drivers and potters, who
wanted me to believe that my simple shoulder strapped hand luggage was an
encumbrance I needed to be rid of.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As I walked towards the extended storage
area to retrieve my car, I felt the need to look back at the shuttle that had
carried me back to earth. I didn’t look. I knew what I would see: a needle
shaped, rust coloured bulk that lacked the majesty of the real space going
ship. The rocket functions merely as an escape vehicle, one that takes you from
earth to orbit, where you would switch to a space going ship. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I recalled my first trip up and the
excitement of a nation sending men and women to the red planet for the first
time. We all got medals and a lavish reception at the state house. So much have
changed since then, with the privatisation of space exploration and the
formation of the West African Union, shuttles leave for space almost every
fortnight, making what was a novelty a mundane affair that people only took a
cursory note of.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So there I was, James Maduka,
planetologist, Mars explorer, just back from a four-year stint in Mars and the
only official delegation at the port was a medical team that had met us at the
ramp of the shuttle, to ensure we weren’t bringing home any harmful pathogen. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Thirty minutes later I was speeding down
the expressway that linked the spaceport to the outer suburbs of Abuja, head
homewards.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Home, away from space’s star spangled
immensity, was a modest dig in the Apo suburbs of Abuja. An eco-house built
from discarded shipping crates and containers. A self-sustaining energy
efficient bolt hole that I usually loath to leave and dream about when I was
away for an extended period of time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Home was the place Pelumi lived.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Pelumi! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The thought of her sent shivers down my
spine. I grabbed the steering wheel tighter as her dark face loomed in front of
me, sensual lips beaming with evil intent as the heavy lashes of her left eye
closed in a wink that told of what’s to come.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It was an image I had carried in my head
for four years, one I had gleaned as I boarded the shuttle. Why that one image
had stuck baffled me. Maybe it was because it had conveyed longing and a
promise. I promise I can’t hope to get now. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I slowed down as I turned into the gated
avenue that led to my house. My heart lurched as I spied the house on the hilly
perch it shared with four other houses. It was almost noon and the sun gifted
the walls, encrusted as they were with squares of dark solar panels, a reddish
hue that no paint could ever hope to imitate. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I continued down the avenue of identical
prefabricated housing units and then up the hill at end, driving as slow as I
possibly could, yearning for what waited for me on top of the hill, but
dreading the meeting I had called.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Two unmarked two-passenger aircars,
folded wings giving them the appearance of birds at rest, were parked next to
each other in the driveway, blocking the entrance to my garage. The relatives
are already here; I thought as I parked at the beginning of the long driveway
and walked the rest of the way to the house. Deciding not to use the front door, I went to
the back of the house. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Near the back door, two humanoid service
robots were seeding a flower bed. They looked up as I passed but did not offer
any greetings. <i>Whatever happened to Crouch
the four-legged garden robot?</i> I looked past the robots to the where the
walls of the house met the hardened plastic door. Antirust was flacking off on
of the side of the wall and I made a mental note to get a contractor over to
look at it. The finger scan at the back door took a little longer than usual,
long enough to for me to start pondering if Pelumi had programmed the house
computer the deny me entrance. For the umpteenth time I wondered if it was wise
to call for a family meeting and come all the way without first informing her
of my intentions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Just when I was about the pull my hand
away from the pad, the house computer intoned its welcome and the doors swung
open, the loud creaks from dry rollers reminding me how much work I would have
to put in to get the house back to the shape it was before I travelled. Robots,
I mused as I stepped through the doorway into the kitchen, as efficient as they
are, some things still need that human touch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The kitchen, still lacking the automated
food processors that served pounded yam and egusi at the touch of a button,
smelled of humanmade food and I found myself luxuriating in it. Pelumi always
said that passable cooking can be gotten from menus and timings, but great
cooking comes from experience, and the inconsistency of the human touch. Just
so, I thought, as I inhaled the aroma wafting out of a pot I could see bubbling
on an electric stove in the far end of the kitchen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I was bent over the table stuffing
chin-chin that I had pulled from the fridge into my face when the door leading
from the sitting room slide open and I looked up to see my wife glide into the
kitchen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She always glided, my Pelumi. I remember
when we first met and I got her to step on an ant to prove my theory that most
insets would survive being trod on by her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She saw me as she was turning to the
sink to deposit the tray of plates she was carrying and froze. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">‘Surprise,’ I said, feeling as stupid as
my words sounded to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Pelumi was one of those people who wear their feeling
like a mask. I sought her eyes and found resentment where warmth used to live.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Without a word, she turned away from me
and went back through the door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I stood there, pondering how to explain to her that
though I fathered a son after I married her, I didn’t cheat on her like she
believed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Above the house I could hear the whirl
of a helocraft. Uncle Elias is here, I thought, now the meeting can start. It
was my last hope.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Mazi Nwonwuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858603354130809374noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9094967168893725553.post-50671652712308382602014-08-16T09:07:00.001+01:002014-08-16T09:07:41.848+01:00Virulent Part 5 (The end is only the beginning)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I walked to the communication hub and as I dialled
Chike’s call code on their high-end video phone, I could feel Bisi’s hostile
eyes burning holes in my back. <i>At least
she is not crying anymore</i>, I thought.</div>
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Chike’s face came into view on the large view screen; he
seemed relieved to see me. “what is going on?” I asked.</div>
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“Mr. Dotun. Thank God. I can’t talk much. Thinks are
getting crazy out here. Things are worse than I thought. But tell me, the rats,
did you notice any strange thing as you buried them?” Chike was tense, he kept
looking over his shoulders, even though he appeared to be in a sort of enclosed
lab.</div>
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“Yes,” I said, somehow knowing what he would say next.</div>
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“That means the plague has already reached the mainland
and will soon climb up the food chain. You have to leave Eko now. Please take
my wife with you; force her if you have to.”</div>
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I was about to inquire further when the screen went
blank, but not before I saw the door behind Chike burst open and two burly soldier
types enter the room.</div>
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***</div>
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We left Eko the next morning, way ahead of the mass
exodus and death that turned that beautiful city-state into hell-on-earth, but
not fast enough. By the time we made it to Benin four hours later, the
quarantine was fully in place in Eko. We hoped to cross Benin and make it to
Enugu where Chike’s brother promised safety in the form of a close-knit clan of
hill dwellers, but a hastily set up quarantine zone for people coming in from
Eko negated our plans. </div>
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All through the drive, we had kept abreast with
developments. Though the truth was still scanty and bitterly guarded by the Eko
government, Chike had managed to get the story out and the net links were
abuzz.</div>
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I worried for a while, when we could not get clearance
to travel further into Chike’s ancestral home where we felt we might find
safety.</div>
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In the quarantine camp, which grew by the minute as more
refugees flowed in, we waited two weeks for the second round of test results to
either clear us, or sign our death warrants. My wife and Bisi, more like
sisters now, comforted each other, they both lost family in Eko. Then Bisi
died, not from the scourge, no, I think of heartbreak. Of Chike, we heard
little. Some say he they placed him in a government facility safe from the
plague; others said he tried to help the afflicted and contacted the late stage
of the infection. </div>
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Because we left when we did, we managed to cross Ogun
before the militia blocked all exits. From there, only horror tales escaped. </div>
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<o:p>***</o:p></div>
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‘Sir...sir,’ an urgent voice intruded on my thoughts, drawing me back to the present.</div>
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I look up to see a Guardsman looming over me, blocking
the rainbow hue from the cathedral windows.</div>
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‘What?’ I ask, grateful for the intrusion but
wondering what he wanted. The Guardmen were notorious with how harshly they’ve
been treating people since emergency law came into effect last week. Adunni
says it is the tension, they are human after all.</div>
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‘Please head to the meeting tent, the result for the
tests are out,’ he say, turning to walk away.</div>
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‘Wait,’ I call out, stopping him in mid stride, ‘What
happens now?’</div>
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<br /></div>
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The Guardsman looks at me as if he was pondering how
much to tell me, then he just shrugs and continues on his way.</div>
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I stand up from the plastic chair, take
one last look at the Cathedral, and enter the tent to fetch my family. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCHuo5IH1mJFF5YfllLJdbzttx5zg8F66zbxumoMamV3iD2Q1Q84Lc4Y48hOCyqFKSYPtd31o7sZO2xT0wj-KwMLvYth3nQ8fELbrvfNNQSq-g352IGI_HhqcVsHkEI9FAXZUF2m4pAHIy/s1600/camp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCHuo5IH1mJFF5YfllLJdbzttx5zg8F66zbxumoMamV3iD2Q1Q84Lc4Y48hOCyqFKSYPtd31o7sZO2xT0wj-KwMLvYth3nQ8fELbrvfNNQSq-g352IGI_HhqcVsHkEI9FAXZUF2m4pAHIy/s1600/camp.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
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Mazi Nwonwuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858603354130809374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9094967168893725553.post-4760297985196487952014-08-15T11:32:00.000+01:002014-08-15T11:32:33.713+01:0010 Nigerians climb Mount Kilimanjaro for Down Syndrome <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container zemanta-img" style="float: right; margin-right: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://commons.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Kilimanjaro-1938-uwm.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: clear:right;"><img alt="English: January 15, 1938. Mt. Kilimanjaro: Th..." border="0" class="zemanta-img-inserted zemanta-img-configured" height="246" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/9/94/Kilimanjaro-1938-uwm.png/350px-Kilimanjaro-1938-uwm.png" style="border: none; font-size: 0.8em;" width="350" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption zemanta-img-attribution" style="text-align: center; width: 350px;">English: January 15, 1938. Mt. Kilimanjaro: The snow-capped summit containing the nearly perfect crater is flanked by deep furrows of lava flow and glacial erosion. C. 20000 feet. C. 07:00. (Photo credit: <a href="http://commons.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Kilimanjaro-1938-uwm.png" target="_blank">Wikipedia</a>)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Six Nigerian professionals are
embarking on a 6-day hike to the peak of Mt Kilimanjaro, Africa’s tallest
mountain. This is happening as part of a fundraising drive for the Lagos based
Down Syndrome Foundation. The Charity
climb tagged Climb for Down syndrome, the brain child of Inspired by Charity, a
social enterprise, is scheduled to take place 16th-23rd August, 2014 in
Tanzania.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The hiking party hopes to use the
climb to raise awareness about Down syndrome and help to raise 10,000,000 naira
for the </span><span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://downsyndrome-ng.org/"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Down Syndrome Foundation</span></a></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> (DSF). DSF is a
renowned charity that works to provide leadership, support and advocacy in all
areas of concern as it relates to persons with Down syndrome in Nigeria.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mount Kilimanjaro, the highest
freestanding Mountain at 5,895m high, attracts over 40,000 people every year
who seek to climb the mountain. Of the seven summits, it is the easiest to
climb, requiring no ropes, or special mountaineering gears or previous climbing
experience.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The Climb for Down Syndrome Party
will be climbing through the Machame route, one of the seven routes to Uhuru
summit. The choice of the route according to Dotun Eyinade, the convener is to
ensure that everyone acclimatizes quickly and to increase the chances of
success. “<i>Climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro
remains a physical and mental challenge and for many of us it will be one of
the most physically exacting things we would do in our youth</i>” he
added. Inspired by Charity views the
experience as more than an adventure but a purposeful intervention in support of the Down Syndrome Foundation, as it
executes its charitable mandate in providing critical succor to a vulnerable
community. Eyinade, a Fellow with Acumen Fund said the team would leverage the
media, especially new media platforms to raise awareness about Down syndrome
and the Foundation. <i>As socially minded
professionals, we consider the hike a transformational experience, one which
requires courage, grit and determination; we are excited about the prospect of
using the hike to fundraise for Down syndrome foundation and help to place down
syndrome on the front burners of public discourse again.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The professionals are drawn from
the KPMG, Seven Energy, Generation Enterprise, Acumen Fund amongst others. Accordingly,
Climb for Down Syndrome has received the endorsement of the Down Syndrome
Foundation.<b> “</b></span><span lang="EN-US" style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This is a worthy and unique concept which I
believe must be the first of its kind in our country. We would love to thank
the team for believing in our cause and finding our Foundation worthy to
benefit from this unique event,</span><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">” said Mrs Rose Mordi,
President, Down Syndrome Foundation.</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Donations in support of the Climb
c<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>an be made directly to the bank accounts of the Down
Syndrome Foundation as well as on www.234give.com, a crowdfunding platform.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The climb is supported by Premium
Times, The cable news, Development Diaries and the One Life initiative<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Mazi Nwonwuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858603354130809374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9094967168893725553.post-21480496520902166942014-08-13T16:09:00.000+01:002014-08-13T16:09:51.779+01:00Virulent part 4 (pandemic)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrDfJOhSScIF_UOEw1CFUUtakpcQiBd9roqKOPhlmQfHFi43XA_w2QoUzqsmxc0FV32Vt5oUs_GRR8JffFna_hUnVxjFjYtc9tzdtir_KqqqjLqrbah76QN1OvL-WawOcEIuf05iKqya60/s1600/home+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrDfJOhSScIF_UOEw1CFUUtakpcQiBd9roqKOPhlmQfHFi43XA_w2QoUzqsmxc0FV32Vt5oUs_GRR8JffFna_hUnVxjFjYtc9tzdtir_KqqqjLqrbah76QN1OvL-WawOcEIuf05iKqya60/s1600/home+1.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
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“What do you mean they’d not apply the poison?” My wife
asked for maybe the umpteenth time.</div>
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“Just that, Adunni. Chike asked me what poison we used
and where we bought them. Why would he ask that question if they applied it?” I
said, knowing that she was not exactly hot, but was warming up as her paranoia
kicked in.</div>
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“Daddy twins, I can’t believe how easy you agree to his
lies. He’s just trying to divert attention, especially since they left the
cleaning to us?”</div>
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<br /></div>
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“No. He sounded very sincere to me.”</div>
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“He would, Dotun Akintoye, he would. You can so be
gullible it hurts. Who would’ve spread the poison? Who else lives in this house
with us? We didn’t apply it, so it must be them. I intend to speak to that
condescending woman and her husband o. I don’t care if her father owns this
house.”</div>
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“Calm down, Adunni,” I said, for she was already
shouting, not caring if anyone was listening. “It could have come from any of
the houses nearby. You know rats socialise a lot. One visit to a poisoned meat
and the scourge spreads through the four legged kingdom.”</div>
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My intention was to diffuse the tension with some light
humour. Her sour look at me told me humour would not work. I persisted, no
humour though. My reward was the sight of her beautiful smile replacing her
scowl. However, it would be much later that I found out my summary of the
situation was right.</div>
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***</div>
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<br /></div>
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Life went back to normal, kind of, Adunni still refused
to be on friendly terms with neighbours. We never saw another rat again, not
inside the house, not within the compound. We felt that a good omen. We never
talked much about the issue with the poison as my hypothesis of the poison’s
source carried even with my cynical wife. Perhaps the neighbours had overheard
my argument with Adunni about their culpability, because Chike never mentioned
the issue to me again. Perhaps this was because there were no rats left to kill?
Whatever the reason, I never asked.</div>
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We would have gone on living our lives, happy that the
brief pauses and quick darts of the rats across the living room and those
irksome scratches they inflict as they make their way across a sleeping body
were now stories to be told with relief. We—I to be precise—maintained a
somewhat cordial relationship with our neighbour, trading polite greetings and
swallowing the anger of having to mow the lawn and care for the compound alone.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Things did not remain normal for too long. No, the rats
did not come back, they never did. It was something worse that came.</div>
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***</div>
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<br /></div>
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It was late afternoon when I returned from picking the
kids from school. Adunni’s car was in the car park but the silence of the
house, despite the scent of fresh disinfectant, baffled me. The kids’ shriek of
“mummy we’re home” went unanswered. I walked into the bedroom, checked the
bathroom, the guest room, and kitchen too. Adunni was not in the house. A quick
check at the backyard showed she had been weeding her vegetable patch. The
old-style hoe she was very fond of was lying between the ridges she had made me
dig for her beloved plants, beside the hoe where uprooted weeds with clumps of
earth still attached.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I went back into the house, ignored the twins “where’s
mummy” and stepped to the front yard. I was crossing the spiral stairs that led
to the second floor when a faint whimper reached my ears. I paused, cups my
hands to my ears. Sure enough, the sound came again, accompanied this time with
soft whispers. I looked up. The window to the Nwaogu’s living room were open,
the sounds came from there.</div>
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<br /></div>
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My legs where rubbery when I began walking up the
stairs, and they got more so by the time I was turning the door handle to get
into the room.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Rr7Y6bq55uYfjArV_r_zkXiuXhUIfSGS8xsEgxG6xOO4f6AB3Tunp9JmPfyv3cpikw2lPgpgrweUOLtQy-XdFIy8-VGDRhtR96X-sp_KWMQZ6snfuly7f0y3umWeEPMYPllgMXztZes6/s1600/home+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Rr7Y6bq55uYfjArV_r_zkXiuXhUIfSGS8xsEgxG6xOO4f6AB3Tunp9JmPfyv3cpikw2lPgpgrweUOLtQy-XdFIy8-VGDRhtR96X-sp_KWMQZ6snfuly7f0y3umWeEPMYPllgMXztZes6/s1600/home+2.jpg" height="240" width="400" /></a></div>
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I opened the door and thrust my head in, the sight
before me was enough to stop me in my tracks, and it did.</div>
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Mrs. Bisi Nwaogu,
Chike’s ajebuttter wife and my Adunni were in each other’s arms on the single
settee in the Nwaogu’s sitting room.</div>
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I heard a noise behind me and turned to see the twins
coming up the stairs. I pushed the door all the way open and stepped into the
room, the twins came in behind me. I stood in the room, numb, saying nothing,
staring at my wife and Chike’s wife.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The twins stood
beside me, silent, hanging to my hands as if staking territory, watching the
scene. </div>
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“what’s going on here?” I asked.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The women, who until then were oblivious of my presence,
turned to look at me. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
<i>No, not my Adunni,
I know her well enough. There must be a reasonable explanation for what I am
seeing, </i>I thought<i>. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
I noticed tears on Bisi’s cheeks. Adunni was dry eyed,
but I knew her enough to know that what I saw in her eyes was sorrow, tinged
with something akin to fear. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
“What is going on here?” I asked again.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
Adunni did not pull away from the woman’s embrace. She
opened her arms wide, beckoning on us to come to them. I held the Twins back,
stood my ground, my eyebrows quirking, askance.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Darling, did you not get my message?” Adunni asked. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
<i>Darling? Could she be so brazen? She only calls me
darling in the bedroom, the only place she lets go of that stern exterior of
hers and lets me be boss. Yes, that is fear in her eyes</i>. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
“I did not, the twins were singing all through the drive
back.” I said, throwing darts at her with my eyes, at least I thought I was.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Beside her, Mrs. Nwaogu went from gentile sobs to open
wailing.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Adunni looked at her for a moment and shook her head
sadly. I flexed my fingers, my hands felt limp. The bewildered twins squirmed
out of my grasp and ran to their mother. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
<i>What the hell is
going on? <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
<i> </i>“Eko Atlantic City is under quarantine,
Chike is there,” Adunni’s voice was flat and devoid of emotion, as if she
announcing yet another curfew for the twins.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
“Quarantine, what quarantine?” I asked, wondering what
game they were playing at.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
Adunni did not answer; she instead managed to free one
hand from a twin and pointed. I followed her finger to the left and saw a hologram
that filled one part of the sitting room. </div>
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<br /></div>
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All my attention, when we walked in, had been on the
women on the couch. I had not even noticed the hologram.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
In the projected image, men in protective gear were
leading several sickly looking people into tents, others, too weak to walk, or
perhaps dead, lay limp on stretchers. However, that was not what struck me. I
stood there, stunned, trying, but failing to deny the suggestion that came to
mind. The sick people all had bluish secretion coming out of their noses. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Captivated by what I was seeing, I moved closer. “How
are you getting this?” I asked, noticing that the screen was without a media logo,
so it could not be coming from a mainstream news outlet.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
“Chike planted a spy camera yesterday. He suspected that
something is going on and wanted to get first hand information. He says an
epidemic is upon us. I told him not to go, I told him not to go.” Mrs Nwaogu
said through her sobs.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
“How come this is not on the news then?” I asked no one
in particular. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
“Chike’s camera’s streams to Bisi’s allincom, those are
real-time images from his camera. I’ve tried reaching my colleagues in Eko Atlantic
but the connection’s busy,” Adunni said, finally coming to stand beside me. The
ever-perceptive twins stayed with the sobbing Mrs. Nwaogu.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiR48J8sTNm_FFQOfRXwp0WmR46S1gEkhlnqv-l21_oIO0BoLfmgzQ3QKiwmsSpIuFs_YIb20Ao7FUhvpS_YIwg0qOmOl3Ad69-JHWefV09fLYqHtQ5tn4mMqt67h3Q1FOWFrQvwc6Mfvm/s1600/epidemic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiR48J8sTNm_FFQOfRXwp0WmR46S1gEkhlnqv-l21_oIO0BoLfmgzQ3QKiwmsSpIuFs_YIb20Ao7FUhvpS_YIwg0qOmOl3Ad69-JHWefV09fLYqHtQ5tn4mMqt67h3Q1FOWFrQvwc6Mfvm/s1600/epidemic.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
To be continued...</div>
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Mazi Nwonwuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858603354130809374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9094967168893725553.post-69183687127951260792014-08-11T15:42:00.000+01:002014-08-11T15:44:00.198+01:00Virulent Part 3 (car envy)<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZS4evCs5J7xSyFicASo82PM-SM6C38pyTJsFpfoHtiLkjcoznGJE9I5SFCClVniPjlHvaYKHtLUliwgstr6NCmnFaYXbMLmSNSrMEYIg8LmJmoQb-Dw3ytFfqQVAgg_YEIU0ZXIk1gJR9/s1600/future+car.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZS4evCs5J7xSyFicASo82PM-SM6C38pyTJsFpfoHtiLkjcoznGJE9I5SFCClVniPjlHvaYKHtLUliwgstr6NCmnFaYXbMLmSNSrMEYIg8LmJmoQb-Dw3ytFfqQVAgg_YEIU0ZXIk1gJR9/s1600/future+car.jpg" height="245" width="400" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
Never in all my years of rat baiting, poisoning and
outright stumping, had I seen such secretions on dead rats.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
“Don’t know,” Adunni turned to look at me, a worried
look on her face, “Think this must be a reaction to the poison they ate, though
I’ve never seen or heard of any substance that could cause this.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
“Neither have I,” I said, but I was sure I felt a twinge
of recognition somewhere at the back of my mind. Not being much of the
analytic thinker my wife and children are, I did not dwell on it. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
I do not recall who suggested we check the rats already
collected in the plastic bucket inside, but I recall it was my wife who
suggested sending the twins back indoors, away from the excitement, but not
before they had thoroughly scrubbed their hands with soap and rinsed it with
water.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
“Know what,” Adunni said to me as she closed the door
behind the protesting twins she had just scolded thoroughly for acting naughty
and not <i>shutting up and doing what they
were told, </i>“What pains me is not that someone killed off these damn pests,
but that that person is calmly watching behind a curtain while I clean the
smelly mess.”</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
I did not respond, not that she expected me to. I know
enough about the neighbours to know that the wife was not one to get her
manicured nails dirty carrying garbage or smelly rats. Although the petite woman
had not been wearing a surgical mask when I spied her earlier, I had expected
to find if cupping her face. Without doubt, the stench would have reached their
floor—it was that strong. Anyway, my wife insisted she was responsible for the
bunch of dead rats thrown from the top floor towards the general direction of
the bins. <i>The husband would not be
callous enough to not bring the rats down to the garbage</i>, she said.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
The husband, a jolly fellow with a taste for flashy
cars, was a cyber journalist. Though I worked for myself as a building
contractor, I made it a point of duty to leave home at the same time with the blue
collars. As such, we ran into each other now and then as we readied our cars
for the day. We do not talk about much–sports, a little bit of politics, how
exorbitant car parts were getting, and of course, the newest 4X4s. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
Anyway, it was on one of those mornings a few days after
we had buried the last of the rats that I ran into the neighbour. Like me, he
was on his way to work and had left the spiral staircase leading to their flat
a few moments after I walked by. I turned at the sound of footsteps behind me
to behold his sheepish grin. Why does t<i>hat
guy always appear to be laughing at something</i>?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
“Good morning Mr. Dotun,” he said with more enthusiasm
than I had ever noticed in him.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
“Good morning, Chike,” I responded, not willing to
endure his habitual frown at any use of the officious ‘Mr.’ for him.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
“Well,” that annoying smile crossed his face again, “we
haven’t had the time to thank you for what you did with the rats.”</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
Despite myself, I felt a touch of anger. Not only was
the guy trying to apologise for letting us clean up their mess, he even had the
audacity to tell me “we haven’t had the time to thank you.” I bite down my
anger and turned to him (yes, I had looked away to hide any tell tale sign).</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
“No problem Chike, the rats constituted a serious
nuisance to us too, it was no bother.” I managed to say this with more civility
than I had hoped possible in the circumstance. Anger and its attendant violence
are so tedious. So, while the grimy job of finding and burying all the dead
vermin was a lot of bother, I did not say so, couldn’t say so. I tend to leave
all the heavy lifting to my wife. I am used to it.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
We walked together to our cars. Mine was closer. I stood
by and watched as the door of his opened on auto as the installed AI responded
to his sub-vocalised command. I know I shouldn’t feel envy, but I couldn’t help
myself when the cool smell of <i>real</i>
leather hit me. Chike’s car was brand new, equipped with auto-nav and full body
protective cocoon. It was the type of car the guys in my club were all salivating
over. I looked away. I thumbed my remote, and my ever-reliable Tokunbo’s door
slide open, silent as a night hunter, a conventional door, unlike Chike’s eagle
wing affair. Yes, we did not have the “in vogue” feel of Chike’s Benz, but we are
not far off—even if the look was of a third model Toyota Catcher, from five
years back. <i>Chai</i>, <i>it is not easy to not envy, not when the
thing in question was parked opposite the disused storeroom I call my home
office.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
I was trying my best not to look back at Chike and his
very becoming car interior when his voice forced me to turn again to behold
that wonder on wheels, with its wing doors, now extended to their full height,
appearing to kiss the skies. “By the way Mr. Dotun,” he began, eager like,
“what kind of poison did you guys use? My wife and I had wondered for long
whether it is a new variety. It sure doesn’t work like those stocked by <i>rat-keller</i> hawkers.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
I cannot exactly remember what I mumbled to Chike,
whatever it was, it must have been satisfying for I recall stepping aside for
him to edge past and with a cheerful wave of his hands, drive out of the
auto-gate.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
<i><br /></i>
<i>They did not apply
the poison?</i><br />
<br />
To be continued...<br />
<br />
New to Virulent? Catch read the previous chapters via the links below. </div>
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<li class="zemanta-article-ul-li-image zemanta-article-ul-li" style="background: none; display: block; float: left; font-size: 11px; list-style: none; margin: 2px 10px 10px 2px; padding: 0; text-align: left; vertical-align: top; width: 84px;"><a href="http://fredrnwonwu.blogspot.com/2014/08/virulent-part-2-what-rats-foretold.html" style="border-radius: 2px; box-shadow: 0px 0px 4px #999; display: block; padding: 2px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><img src="http://i.zemanta.com/290920193_80_80.jpg" style="border: 0; display: block; margin: 0; max-width: 100%; padding: 0; width: 80px;" /></a><a href="http://fredrnwonwu.blogspot.com/2014/08/virulent-part-2-what-rats-foretold.html" style="background-image: none; display: block; height: 83px; line-height: 12pt; overflow: hidden; padding: 5px 2px 0 2px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Virulent Part 2 'What the rats foretold'</a></li>
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Mazi Nwonwuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858603354130809374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9094967168893725553.post-25349019087185101072014-08-09T21:17:00.000+01:002014-08-10T06:54:52.762+01:00Virulent Part 2 'What the rats foretold'<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGSTXBzHoaJDwKhaHRtMy8d2q2RDngkWIFkj7xGyEB8tuOrYWp307CsxqWmfQWdMNUYSvbYL2gRjqIxlEJDYQ40fyV5_9MoDD_WPXX56TZhfAzuydqTrDwIVkGNNq2VVlyIVi_hRCaJUgE/s1600/picking+dead+rats.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGSTXBzHoaJDwKhaHRtMy8d2q2RDngkWIFkj7xGyEB8tuOrYWp307CsxqWmfQWdMNUYSvbYL2gRjqIxlEJDYQ40fyV5_9MoDD_WPXX56TZhfAzuydqTrDwIVkGNNq2VVlyIVi_hRCaJUgE/s1600/picking+dead+rats.JPG" height="302" width="400" /></a></div>
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I did not think anything was amiss when rats no longer
scurried across our living room, their movement only captured by the corner of
the eyes.</div>
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This was because the rats tended to disappear, or reduce
in number, from time to time: victims of poison or the stray cats that now and
again made their home under the water tank at our backyard. Perhaps I should
have been alarmed when less and less rats darted away from my headlights as my
car felt its way into its customary parking space beside the large water tank
where the charging units stood, regal, blinking in an electronic symphony. I
was also not alarmed when first the compound and then the house proper was
saturated by the stench of putrefying meat. I was not too bothered and easily
laid the reason for the deaths squarely on a highly efficient poison.</div>
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No, I did not apply any poison and my wife, a nutritionist,
who had wanted to be a nurse, abhorred poison of any kind and so could not have
applied them. </div>
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I could have asked the neighbours—they occupied the
upper floor of our one storey house—but a week before, Adunni had quarrelled
with the wife. ‘She keeps throwing dirty water on my vegetable garden,’ Adunni
fumed when I asked what the war of words was about. She forbade any of her
brood from speaking to them. Adunni, I confess, has the temperament of a
rattlesnake and can take things very far when she feels she has been ill-treated.
Did I already mention how sharp her tongue could be? So, even though she was
cussing all through the grimy task of seeking for putrid rats in crevices,
cracks, and worst of all, inside her stow-away box, where she stashes all her
favourite special-occasion Georges, Hollandis, Synto-wraps and other party-going
wrappers and blouses, she still persisted on not asking the neighbours what
kind of wonder rodent killer was at work.</div>
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For a day and half, we—Adunni, our twin girls and I—struggled
to rid the house of dead rats and their stench. However, by the time we
finished with the house, carrying the little dead things into the collection
bucket my wife had thoughtfully kept in the middle of the parlour, with hands
that were, as per her instructions, wrapped in plastic bags; we discovered that
the stench coming in from the open windows was as strong as the one indoors.</div>
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Out into the compound, we went.</div>
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Out came the shovel and leather gloves. </div>
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It was easy gathering the rats we could find in the
open, however, those in holes and deep crevices – even though they did not
smell as bad as the ones in the open, posed a challenge until I came up with
the idea to seal them up where they lay. We made easy work of the buggers: a
shovel of earth here, a well-mixed lump of cement and sand there.</div>
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I noticed my wife getting madder and madder as we worked.
Though she did not say what the matter was; I caught the upstairs neighbour’s
wife peeping from her bedroom window and that gave me enough insight into the
source of her anger. </div>
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‘Please don’t let her spoil your mood, you know she sees
this type of work as beneath her,’ I said, trying to calm that storm brewing in
Adunni’s eyes. She had never liked Nneka.</div>
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Our neighbour’s wife, according to my wife, was a spoilt
brat, the sort whose parents granted too many concessions to make up for their
lack of parental qualities. I do not know how true her assessment was, but
knowing how annoyed she already was about them not paying attention to the
stench she insisted they caused, I felt it wise not to inflame her more. Adunni
moved away from me. It was as if my words irritated her. I was surprised when
she beckoned me over to the large pit I had dug to bury the dead rats. I
followed her pointing finger, and saw for the first time the bluish secretions
on the nose of first one, then with glowing alarm, on all of the rats I could
see: those not already covered with earth or other rats.</div>
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“What is that?” </div>
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Reading Virulent for the first time? Read part one <a href="http://fredrnwonwu.blogspot.com/2014/08/virulent-part-1-dead-cows-on-street.html">here</a></div>
Mazi Nwonwuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858603354130809374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9094967168893725553.post-67615686542789808082014-08-08T10:43:00.002+01:002014-08-09T21:18:07.055+01:00Virulent: Part 1 (Dead cows on the street)<div style="margin-bottom: 2.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.0pt;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dusk was playing a lullaby on the stained glass windows
of the catholic cathedral across the street as I sit, pondering about life and
death, in front of the blue and white tent that has served as home for my
family for two weeks now. The tent, one of hundreds in an internally displaced
refugee camp in Benin City, is part of a tent village. It started life as a
screening centre but now houses more than a thousand families. The number will
grow and this place will become crowded. We would have to move then, for more
people would mean less hygiene and death would follow.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Death, that word that denotes a finality, decay, and
hearts rubbed raw by sorrow, has become a constant expression. I see it in the
crosses that find ample expression in the stained windows and the steeple that
crowned the cathedral, in the promise of resurrection, but only after death. I
see it on the net and see it scrolling through live feeds, where individual
experiences give way to numbers that only grows. I look at interactive maps and
see it crawling across place names, a black web that follows the roads and the
rivers, moving from one town to the next, creating more numbers.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />I wondered about what will become of the world if more
than three quarters of us fall victim to the new scourge, as the wild eyed
researcher had insisted would happen in the news yesterday. I am too scared to
admit to myself that everything appears to prove him right—except blind faith.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />I had looked at the interactive maps a few hours ago. It
is creeping closer, maybe not as fast as it was a week ago, but it is coming.
With our forward flight halted by stern faced Guardsmen, I try not to listen to
my wife and kids talking inside the tent.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />I threw my mind back to three weeks ago, back to that
sun swept afternoon in Agege, three weeks ago, when we first encountered the
death the is stalking us now.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><o:p>***</o:p><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Fulani don’t eat carrion,” Adunni had said with that
know-it-all air that I was still trying to get used after ten years of being
married to her.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />Wondering why she would drop a statement like that during
what was a leisure drive along Old Capitol Road in Agege, I followed her eyes
out the passenger side window to where two willowy men stood over two calves,
arms akimbo. The calves were lying prone on a makeshift cattle pen and a bluish
secretion seeped from their nostrils to mix with the dark green of droppings
and muck. It was two days to Sallah and makeshift livestock markets tend to
sprout like sudden sores to taint the environment until the festivities were
over and the sanitation people found the will to act without fear of a divine
punishment.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /> “They are too dark to be Fulani.” I said as I looked away
from the dead animals and their distraught keepers: cattle were expensive,
especially after the big drought two years ago.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />I could feel Adunni’s eye boring into the side of my
face, but I keep my eyes on the road. She does not like being challenged, but I
didn’t care. I waited for her to say something, to tell me that she was the one
who spent the first 20 years of her life in the North and as such knew the
Fulani better.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />We must have travelled for five minutes, without saying
anything to each other when Adunni broke the silence. Not with a cutting
remark, as I had expected.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />“What do you think killed the cows?” she asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />Surprised that she had let my jibe go unanswered, I
shrugged, wondering why the sight of death had affected her that way. It was
rare for Adunni’s tongue to lose its keen edge.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />Silence, broken only by the horns of impatient drivers
and the soft hum from the climate control system I had installed in the car the
week before, followed us home.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><o:p> </o:p>Two days after we drove past the dead calves, it was with
a sense of panic that I couldn’t place that I side-stepped three large rats
jerking in their death throes near the garbage collection point by the gate
that lead into our estate.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />I felt more pity for the cows than I did the rats. In
the context of the war we declared on the rats since we moved into the compound
at New Oko-Oba in December 2058, I was in no state to be charitable to them. To
me, their demise was the welcome result of another round of poison baiting.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><span style="line-height: 115%;">Later, I noticed a pair of dead rats outside the
burrows they had honeycombed around the soak-away in our compound, I felt a
sense of poetic justice—of a death well deserved. The buggers got what was
coming to them. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The saga continues tomorrow. Don't miss Part 2</span></div>
Mazi Nwonwuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858603354130809374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9094967168893725553.post-55638632252744030842014-04-10T09:27:00.001+01:002014-04-10T15:28:47.416+01:00The life of a Soldier: Kabir Salisu, a Candle in the Wind<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY-ldRo2cgnE_IflAbRjX7tnPsxUIQMHnvleyhlQBJMrqonRV-87VCo6LB0tHu2gqS3SOsVEHABQsMn2zZIhXmkUgr1Dt426_P-Mu2p70kAs5xjIhAKKNdASA2yOtofxfliyUQWIMXB2pa/s1600/kabiru.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY-ldRo2cgnE_IflAbRjX7tnPsxUIQMHnvleyhlQBJMrqonRV-87VCo6LB0tHu2gqS3SOsVEHABQsMn2zZIhXmkUgr1Dt426_P-Mu2p70kAs5xjIhAKKNdASA2yOtofxfliyUQWIMXB2pa/s1600/kabiru.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I don’t recall when I first met Kabir Salisu. It is
very difficult to put dates to when you met people that you encountered when
you were a kid. For Kabir Salisu, I could mention any date in the late 80s and
it would be true. This is because at the time I was a student of Army Children
School, New Cantonment ‘A’, Kabir was in Government Day Secondary School, a
school that shared the same land with Army Children School and Command Children
School. However, the more definite meeting came later when he was courting the
lady that later became his wife. The then Miss Ofuoma Obruche lived at EB 2
Dutse Close, Angwa Shanu, Kaduna, the same house where I and my siblings were
raised and which tend to find ample mention in my fiction and nonfiction. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I still recall, like it was yesterday, the group of
dashing cadets that hung around the compound waiting to see Miss Obruche—I think
a friend of his was at that time also courting another lady in our rather large
tenement building. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I also recall that we danced all night when Kabir and
Ufoma finally tied the knot in a simple ceremony that rightfully took place in
Eb 2 Dutse Close.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">So celebrated was the love the 2 couple shared that
even when many of us moved away from Kaduna as life happened, we still kept in
touch, still looked out for news of births, of marriages and… deaths. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">With the coming of gsm and social media, keeping in
touch became easier and one by one we all somehow reconnected on
Facebook. Of the several success stories that this rekindling of contacts highlighted, Kabir’s growth as an army officer was the least surprising. A man
whose humility and intelligence was obvious as first glance, his high flying
career was no fluke.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I recall communicating with Kabir on Facebook when he
was serving in Sudan and jokingly requesting for a Janjaweed scarf and him
laughing and telling me: “ok, if that’s what you want, you will get it”. I
recall him sending me his phone number when he returned to Nigeria, without my
asking, and asking that I come and see him. It is to my eternal regret that I
never took up that invitation, that I stayed away, luxuriating in the
semi-closeness that is social media connectivity.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I can’t claim to be close to Kabir Salisu—his wife,
family, colleagues and a host of others rightfully holds that distinction—but I
knew him and followed his career keenly and fully expected him to reach the pinnacle
of his profession. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I believed him to be one of the bright lights in a
nation fighting to beat the encroaching dark. It is this light that has now
been extinguished.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The much I know about him tells me that this humble
man was a patriot and if we had more like him in Nigeria, we will do better as
a country.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Kabir Salisu was killed fighting for his country on
Monday, April 7 2014. He was a Colonel in the Nigerian Army. The last post
under his name on Facebook was on the same day he died, it read: <b>‘The life of a
soldier’</b>.</span>Mazi Nwonwuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858603354130809374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9094967168893725553.post-38163786507959909002014-01-30T09:11:00.000+01:002014-01-30T09:29:28.210+01:00Danfo Chronicles: When masquerades go to church and gays become criminals <div class="MsoNormal">
<img src="http://www.un.org/africarenewal/sites/dr7.un.org.africarenewal/files/malawi-gay-rights.jpg" height="425" width="640" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">It was a few years ago, at the
time citizen news reportage was gaining traction across the nation, that news
of masquerades meting out corporal punishment on miniskirt and trouser wearing
young ladies somewhere in the Nsukka
axis reached social media.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">As usual, the Nigerian social
media reacted true to type with that outpouring of anger that occurs whenever
vestiges of the ‘devilish’ past of our ancestors appear to be in conflict with
the sacred untouchable manifestations of the new religion.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Caught up in outrage, most of us
missed the big story, which was not that masquerades enforced a dress code, but
that this dress code stemmed originally from the Christian church. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;">You see, the church in Igboland, because
of the colonial missionary inspired and now widespread belief that traditional
religions are of the devil (and the falseness of this needs repeating), has
tried severally to stamp out the practice of iti mmanwu—masquerading—in
Igboland and elsewhere. As such, it is commonplace across Igboland for church
going youths to spurn the coming of age rites that in the past were a mandatory
step in the road to adulthood. At the moment, having convinced the majority, in
principle, that the way of the cross is the one right and only way, the
church—especially of the Pentecostal variety—has taken the battle to the
physical manifestation of the old gods; destroying shrines, totems, sacred trees
and animals, wherever they are found—this is ongoing in today’s Igboland.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">In the face of this history, one
wondered what an mmanwu was doing enforcing a dress code set by a general
misapplication of an Old Testament passage by Christian preachers. (Note that
it is the nature of the Mmanwu to enforce—in the glorious days of our father’s,
some varieties were used extensively as law keepers and enforcers.)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The answer is not as complex as
many may think. To get to this answer, think about culture, how it is said to
be dynamic, to have the ability to adapt and how without these attributes a
people’s culture stops growing, and dies. In this particular instance, the
Igbo, as many warned for years, have slowly, but surely, absorbed aspects of
the Christian Culture in such a way that even those who try to hold on to
cultural practices end up becoming
champions, albeit unknowingly, of these imported values. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">If you consider how much of our
culture we have lost and how much of western culture we have imbibed, you will
understand the mindset that drove masquerades to enforce an archaic Christian value.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">What holds for the Mmanwu
Society, does too for the Nigerian government, which finds itself the most
recent defender of a bible based belief: the one that holds that being
homosexual is against nature and thus offends God. It is now a crime to engage
in homosexual activities in Nigeria and jail terms of up to 14 years is
expected to be a deterrent—the new law echoes but does not replace a colonial
law that criminalises sodomy.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Once again, social media is
abuzz. Armchair critics are finding enough reason to back the government or
decry what they see as infringement on people’s fundamental human rights by a
backwards thinking government.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Once again, social media
activists stress points for and against the new law—depending on which side of
the debate the person falls on. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Many claim the government just
took us back to the dark ages, but I don’t agree. The government is hardly
living in the past, at least not the past that our father’s lived in, for those
ancestors of ours never claimed homosexuality was a crime against the gods. Yes
they saw it as an aberration, but beyond scorn, they never jailed or banished
anyone for homosexuality.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I still don’t understand how a
man can give up the beautifully contoured shape of a female in prime for the
male form but my thinking has evolved over the years and I believe people
should be left well alone to love as they please. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">However, I know that the majority
of Nigerians support the government’s stance against homosexuality. As such, with
democracy in practice, the money bags in Abuja can be said to be heeding the
voice of the people. However, the question should be asked; do the people worry
about homosexuality enough for it to constitute a problem in need of a new law
to tame? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Looking away from the Nigerian state,
one notices that beyond imprisonment and other sad elements of the new law, we
are actually not too far away from the West when it comes to gay rights. In
America you can sleep with who you want but most American states are yet to
agree to gay marriage. Britain is a little ahead of America, but they are
missing the beat by forcing Christian ministers to marry gay people—the right
to ones belief should also be part of human rights, egbe belu, ugo belu.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">On the question of where
homosexuality ranks within the realm of culture/custom, I think of nudity. Now
one hears claims of nudity not being part of our culture. Like our fathers
didn’t have sense enough to wear what suited the prevalent climate here: very
sparse clothing? It wouldn’t do to be alarmed, take a peek at old photos and
see if our fathers and mothers didn’t run around half naked. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">For a fact, homosexuality is not
one of those western imports we always mention, but discrimination against gay
people is. The colonial government introduced the first anti gay law to what
became Nigeria; this new one is mostly a response to aggressive gay rights
activism from the west, and the counter of Western style Pentecostals, I reckon.
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Therefore, like the masquerades
enforcing the church’s laws, we, our government, are actually enforcing the
norms of a culture alien to ours. We do this with all sense of righteousness,
the sort that comes from feeling you are defending the memory of your
ancestors. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Perhaps, what we need to do is
stop for a moment, to ponder: would our pre-colonial fathers stand with us to
punish men for being thus inclined? This is very important, especially as the
cultures from whom we assimilated the dread for homosexuality now say it okay
for like poles to attract.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Mazi Nwonwuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858603354130809374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9094967168893725553.post-7670297596502599162014-01-15T07:38:00.002+01:002022-07-16T16:34:36.387+01:00Old Van in a New Bus<div class="MsoNormal">
<img height="425" src="http://www.jaguda.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/danfo.jpg" width="640" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most people who use the <a class="zem_slink" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Share_taxi" rel="wikipedia" target="_blank" title="Share taxi">danfo</a> or any other yellow bus to
commute through the mad dash that is the average Lagos route are not unaware of
the fact that the cars served as a goods conveyance van in Europe, this hardly
registers. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">However, even if they don’t know what for sure, they know the
tokunbo cars must have served another purpose in their previous incarnation,
especially when they contemplate the dress-ripping makeshift seats and rough-hewn windows that just about serve the purpose they were meant for. They know
that the iron-rimmed seats are not standard issue, at least from whence the
car came, and that the chance of bodily injury if an accident occurs was
amplified by their addition. They know the drivers are largely reckless—early
morning shot of paraga and Igbo reckless—and the buses disasters waiting to
happen. They know this, but throw their lives into the arms of in-time-of-trouble-and-need-gods
as they clamper aboard the buses every morning, afternoon and night. The need
to transit overshadowing fear, caution, and whatever sense of impropriety they
might feel.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a similar vein, across much of Nigeria, the fact that the
political class mostly consist of recycled political jobbers whose major raison
d’être is to have a part in whatever government rules the day is a well-known
fact.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Also largely known is the fact that the politicians direly
need the masses to be relevant, to achieve their dream status. It is a given
that the political class, to become, draw from the masses the army with which
they perpetuate themselves in power. It is from the masses, mostly living below the poverty level, that machete-wielding horde pure into the street to maim and
kill to protest another politician’s failure to secure power. It is from them
too that clutches of bare-chested grandmothers are seconded to thrust withered
glands at TV cameras, again to protest perceived wrongs done to some
politician. Still, the same ‘downtrodden’ masses provide the mass of tribesmen,
religious brethren and other obscure associates that rush to defend ‘their own’
when he /she is indicted for corruption and abuse of office. They provide the
mob soundtrack that has come to act like a force field that shields their
principals from the consequences of their rotten ways.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With these attributes, one would think that the ‘masses’,
even if only those elements that cleave to the political class, are feted. However,
it is a mention worthy fact that the political class tend to turn loose the
bulk of their army after elections have been won or mandate stolen. It is a bitter
irony that they find these discards readily available when the need arises
again, usually four years down the line.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is Nigeria, we are used to these things; they are
norms, common enough to have become mundane, just like drawing air into the
lungs.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If Nigerian politicians study anything, it is the psychic of
the average Nigerian. They know us better than we know ourselves. They know the
power they have over us. They exploit it; ever drumming those elements that
they have programmed us to believe separate us. We dance to their tunes,
unconsciously, falling into thoughtless ethnic bigotry and blind religiosity.
Thus when the corrupt, selfish politician moves from one grime-ridden political
platform to another, we notice, we know we are headed to disaster, but we only
shrug, the same way we notice but shrug at ill-fitted bus seats and drunk drivers.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few months ago, at the period when social media was agog
with news of the formation of a new political party that may—many hoped—have
the clout to challenge the ruling party, the <a class="zem_slink" href="http://www.guyanapdp.org/" rel="homepage" target="_blank" title="Peoples Democratic Party">Peoples Democratic Party</a> (PDP), I
began to feel the rekindling of hope that I had thought lost. Yes, after
Nigerians showed they are largely incapable of collective thought
independent of their ethnic, religious and geographical considerations during
the elections that ushered the present occupant into the master bedroom of <a class="zem_slink" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nigerian_Presidential_Complex" rel="wikipedia" target="_blank" title="Nigerian Presidential Complex">Aso
Villa</a>, I lost hope in the country achieving positive change any time soon.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, it was my pleasure—temporary, albeit—that some of the
political players I saw as possessing some sense of equity were talking about
coming together to challenge the establishment. I remember seriously
considering registering as a member when the new Party berth. I recall gushing
at the thought of <a class="zem_slink" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Babatunde_Fashola" rel="wikipedia" target="_blank" title="Babatunde Fashola">Babatunde Fashola</a>, and <a class="zem_slink" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adams_Oshiomhole" rel="wikipedia" target="_blank" title="Adams Oshiomhole">Adams Oshiomhole</a> et al replicating some of
their more positive policies at the federal level.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was a very premature sense of coming progress or a
chance at it. As a Nigerian, who has hoped and was disappointed several times
over the years, I knew enough about my compatriots to be sceptical, to assume a
‘wait and see’ attitude. Sadly, the new party came to be—despite PDP’s
machinations—and with a speed that astounded even sceptical me, morphed into
the behemoth is still insists it is meant to fight, replace, and better.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps the <a class="zem_slink" href="http://www.new-apc.org/" rel="homepage" target="_blank" title="All People's Congress">All Peoples Congress</a> (APC), as the new party is
called, truly aims to better the PDP, not by providing basic amenities to
Nigerians with the hope of, for the first time in decades, improving the lot of
the common man, but to outplay the PDP in the game of raping Nigeria and
Nigerians. At least that is what their rush to dally with people who only
recently were neck deep in PDP muck.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Truth be told, the first politicians that cleaved to the APC
were of the more progressive ilk, but as the new party expanded, it began to
absorb cross-carpeters from the PDP. At first, the absorption was in trickles,
few enough to be ignored or considered expedient in the type of political
environment we find ourselves in—a wedding, later on, would have taken care of this.
As the PDP began to crumble under the weight of political in-fighting
occasioned by the inept handling of an internal conflict by party bigwigs,
disenchanted political jobbers of all kinds flooded into the new party and the
trickle became a flood.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The question, muttered on pothole-ridden streets across
Nigeria, is not whether the APC will live to become like the party it was supposed
to fight, but how worse it would be. By taking in people who saw nothing wrong
with using the massive PDP machinery to feather their nest, the APC has proven
that it is no better and does not intend to do things any different.</div><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like the <i>danfo</i> bus, Nigerians already know
that the APC is a <i>tokunbo </i>masquerading as a brand new car. Despite
the gaudy new paint, inside, it is still the same old story: a mask, a
construct, a wreck waiting to happen.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
This knowledge does not change anything, come 2015,
Nigerians are still going to promote, kill for, die for and vote for the same
old story and the rape will continue. In Nigerian politics, the only thing that
is not constant is positive change.</div>
<div class="zemanta-pixie" style="height: 15px; margin-top: 10px;">
<a class="zemanta-pixie-a" href="http://www.zemanta.com/?px" title="Enhanced by Zemanta"><img alt="Enhanced by Zemanta" class="zemanta-pixie-img" src="http://img.zemanta.com/zemified_h.png?x-id=a944df15-0ee5-4500-a2ac-f4026d3582f5" style="border: none; float: right;" /></a></div>
Mazi Nwonwuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858603354130809374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9094967168893725553.post-68203458786824009602013-06-25T14:45:00.001+01:002013-06-25T14:45:29.196+01:00The other war we are not talking about<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrNq6FhaN0ihgrAWyqW8FVB_SWFGdHJop4NoaFcODuAk6E5mc6Hc7OezTz_AIB7Z11h_CFglsSD87vFX1grmDyT7JLcJ10MBfNgZ45zpv32lm1IYq_vT6YCz1CHRbsyCJlgp_tfHwyHMtb/s1600/crime-digest-.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrNq6FhaN0ihgrAWyqW8FVB_SWFGdHJop4NoaFcODuAk6E5mc6Hc7OezTz_AIB7Z11h_CFglsSD87vFX1grmDyT7JLcJ10MBfNgZ45zpv32lm1IYq_vT6YCz1CHRbsyCJlgp_tfHwyHMtb/s640/crime-digest-.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo from punchng.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #555555; font-family: georgia, 'palatino linotype', palatino, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
Back in the university, I was a politician; and like all politicians I had to form alliances—another way of saying I manoeuvred to be on the good side of other student politicians or popular students—to improve my chances at the polls.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #555555; font-family: georgia, 'palatino linotype', palatino, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
I never had enough money to go beyond contesting—and winning (thank you very much) my Departmental Presidency—but after contesting for this and that, I knew most of the movers and shakers in my school—Nnamdi Azikiwe University Awka. One guy I knew was Obiadada—a nickname, coined from his first name, Obi, and adada, Igbo for ‘one who does not fall’. Obi was the Director of transport when we were in third year.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #555555; font-family: georgia, 'palatino linotype', palatino, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
</div>
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Anybody who knows what’s up about Nigerian universities will tell you that Director of Transport is a very important position, one that is second only to the Student Union President as per influence in some schools. In Unizik, without student hostels in the then still underdeveloped permanent site on the outskirts of Awka, transporting students to and from lectures in the permanent site was huge business—a business that the Student Union Government (SUG) Director of Transport oversaw.</div>
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As Director of transport, Obi oversaw the required ferrying of students and acquired the influence that came with the position. In Nigeria, and elsewhere, influence means money. Obi made it big, they said.</div>
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I can’t truthfully say that money got into Obi’s head. For those of us who were on friendly terms with him before he made it big, we still saw the same soft spoken boy that was known for his kindly disposition. Aside from the rumour that he had a fleet of buses running the school route, and another of him dating the then Miss Unizik, Obi didn’t appear to be overly expressive with the trappings of office.</div>
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A year after his tenure ended, Obi was killed. Someone or some people took a gun to him, and Obi that would not fall, fell.</div>
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What followed Obi’s killing was a carnage that sent many of us running home to mama. It was a bloody cult war and boys died and mothers cried in vain for sons sent to become men but who won’t be coming home, ever.</div>
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I knew Obi, as much as you will know a fellow student that knows your department and your first name, but perhaps little else. I knew him because the draw of politics ensured our paths crossed several times, but I knew him more because his roommate was a first year hostel mate of mine—a guy that later swore that he had no inclination that Obi was a cultist.</div>
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While some may ponder how that is possible, those of us who passed through school and had an above average profile knew that this happens, a lot too. There are people who join cults but stay well below the ‘flag flying’ radar. Then there are those who at first sighting your mind screams ‘cultist’ but who turn out to be Jew Men with no facilitations.</div>
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Well, this story is not about ‘flags’ or who wore what, but about dreams destroyed and supposed scholars who are killers and a government that refuses to be bothered.</div>
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Obi died, and some boys died or were maimed in the revenge killings that followed. We were in final year then, and if not for an extension caused by a riot over tuition fees some months before, would have graduated by then. It wasn’t the first time it would happen in our school—I am not sure it was the last even—or in higher institutions in Middle-Belt and Southern Nigeria, where cult wars and the resultant fatalities are an accepted rite of passage for university students.</div>
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A few months ago, students in higher institutions in Lagos were the targets, with daylight shootings turning the schools there into what the unwary would presume to be action movie sets. Only, the uninitiated would realise, the guns are real and the gore and blood made up of living, or about to die, matter.</div>
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A few weeks ago, students of the University of Benin were in the news, blocking streets and gearing up for a showdown with police after it emerged that a student was shot and killed by the police. That case is still fresh and further revelations being awaited.</div>
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A few days ago, the same university entered the news again, with reports of more students’ deaths sending mothers to again call their wards to find out if all is well. Not all phones rang, and of those that rang, there were some where it was not the owners’ voices that carried the news that every parent dread—the death of a child that should care for them in old age and ensure they meet the earth on humane terms.</div>
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Unlike before, when police was marked as the perpetrator, the student body did not take to the streets to protest the deaths. They can’t/couldn’t, won’t/wouldn’t, because people from within their academic community are the perpetrators—people who probably added strength to the numbers that protested the police linked killing.</div>
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While we turn a blind eye to it, hoping these types of killing will go away, it only seems to get worse and more dreams are cut short, interred and forgotten; with their killers left to return to the crime scene, either to carry more killings or prove to acolytes that ‘nothing dey hapun’. And the boldness that comes off this ‘nothing dey hapun’ mentality is why cult group graduated from fighting with fists to fighting with guns, from beating up a love rival to shooting him/her dead at point blank range—sometimes in front of parents and siblings.</div>
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Would this ever stop? I doubt that very much, unless the government and police live up to their responsibilities; unless parents train their children better and with a sense of right and wrong.</div>
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As I write this, names float across my mind’s eye. I recall my friend Emeka Ikeh’s teary eyes as he talked about his kid brother, Uche, an aspiring musician, who was shot as he slept in Enugu. Uche was still a teenager, with a possible future that was shining through even then.</div>
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I recall Ngozi Awa’s son, Obinna, who was killed and buried in a shallow grave. Ngozi is a poet and a friend on Facebook; she keeps writing poems to her dead son. Her poems are heart wrenching. Obinna was also a teenager.</div>
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I recall all the boys I have read about or heard about, who were killed by bullets fired by their fellow students during the ego driven killing sprees that inundate Nigerian’s university campuses.</div>
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I recall Eghosa Imasuen’s book ‘Fine Boys’, an autobiography dressed as fiction, a book that captures the world that the cult groups thrive in, and the senselessness of the carnage they wrought (why that book is not yet recommended read for all university students beats me).</div>
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All these deaths are really for nothing really, just the result of bruised egos that needed massaging, with blood.</div>
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There is too much to say about this issue, I can’t say them all here or say them alone, but let’s begin to talk about this and bring the circle to an end.</div>
Mazi Nwonwuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858603354130809374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9094967168893725553.post-80081797670074845222013-05-20T17:13:00.003+01:002013-05-20T17:15:15.792+01:00It's my birthday!<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 17.99479103088379px;">he calender on my wall says it is my birthday, but I doubt if this day share much with the day I first tasted this earth's air. If indeed it shares anything, it must be the memory of the date I dropped gills for lungs. </span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 17.99479103088379px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 17.99479103088379px;">My siblings and I grew up without birthday celebrations and I can't remember me or my siblings marking our various dates or telling each other happy birthday--well, my younger si</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 17.99479103088379px;">blings, because they grew up in a different age, should be exempt here <i class="_4-k1 img sp_6h2d3l sx_3701da" style="background-image: url(https://fbstatic-a.akamaihd.net/rsrc.php/v2/yH/r/ZJnGbZOGdGW.png); background-position: 0px -869px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; background-size: auto; display: inline-block; height: 16px; vertical-align: -3px; width: 16px;"></i>. This is not to say that we did not look with longing at birthday celebrations and wished that it was us behind the cake, pressing a knife through yummy softness and smirking at the camera man through the flickering flames of candles marking our years on earth.<br /><br />We yearned for ours but only ever came close to realising this dream by sharing those of others. I can still see clearly the colour fotos from a time past. I can still place people in the rows and replace babyish faces with adult faces here and there. Though many names have since faded with time, a lot of names still come easily to the tongue. EB 2 Dutse Close looms in my mind and names of the lucky few whose birthdays, usually the 1st birthday <i class="_4-k1 img sp_6h2d3l sx_3701da" style="background-image: url(https://fbstatic-a.akamaihd.net/rsrc.php/v2/yH/r/ZJnGbZOGdGW.png); background-position: 0px -869px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; background-size: auto; display: inline-block; height: 16px; vertical-align: -3px; width: 16px;"></i>, form on my lips. Lips that draw into sad lines as I recall names that can only now be stated in the past, names of people now in the world removed from this one.<br /><br />I did get my chance to celebrate a birthday. Then I was already in the university and the fun muted as the mind had bigger fishes to fry.<br /><br />Perhaps the fact that I thought little of birthdays, mine or other's, had something to do with the lack of birthday celebrations in my house. Still, I forget even my own and can't readily without thinking hard tell that of most of my siblings. I have to key in a reminder a week or more before so that I don't forget my wife's. lol. I don't remember dates well at all.<br /><br />Well Facebook have changed that. Now friends ensure I don't forget the joy of birthdays and I have a party in my head knowing many people took the time to say 'Happy Birthday'.<br /><br />The calendar on my wall says it is my birthday <i class="_4-k1 img sp_6h2d3l sx_3701da" style="background-image: url(https://fbstatic-a.akamaihd.net/rsrc.php/v2/yH/r/ZJnGbZOGdGW.png); background-position: 0px -869px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; background-size: auto; display: inline-block; height: 16px; vertical-align: -3px; width: 16px;"></i>. My chi says you are born, you live, and then you die, a straight forward life marked by days and nights and the changing seasons <i class="_4-k1 img sp_6h2d3l sx_3701da" style="background-image: url(https://fbstatic-a.akamaihd.net/rsrc.php/v2/yH/r/ZJnGbZOGdGW.png); background-position: 0px -869px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; background-size: auto; display: inline-block; height: 16px; vertical-align: -3px; width: 16px;"></i>. My chi also says I am no longer a man alone, so birthdays have been added to those must-remember dates, for my daughter, for my wife, for my crazy sister who tells me not to be 'too old school joor'.<br /><br />Today, another circle is complete and we are officially older. Much thanks for everyone who sent a shout-out, may you be remembered too.</span>Mazi Nwonwuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858603354130809374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9094967168893725553.post-81155017625555517922013-04-04T17:20:00.004+01:002022-07-16T16:19:53.262+01:00Boko Haram and the finger pointing nation<br />
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My constantly changing Twitter and Facebook timelines are announcing news of another attack in Kano as I write this.</div>
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It’s Easter Sunday and I am lying sprawled on the now child-battered centre rug that used to be my pride and joy. Coming from the kitchen is the sound of something sizzling in oil and the scent of spices. My wife is cooking a feast for the Easter Celebration. I do not call out to her to inform her of the latest bomb story. I actually stopped telling her about the bombings long ago. On her part, gone are those exclamations, which used to be her response to news of another mass killing. <i style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Ewuchim o!</i> She used to exclaim—an expression that encompasses the pain and helplessness that mark such situations. These days, when she hears of another attack she just shakes her head sadly and say “<i style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">eeyah</i>”.<br />
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I used to post reactions to the news on my Facebook page, from where one of those combined social media apps takes it on to Twitter, and perhaps Linkedin, but I don’t do that anymore, at least not with the same conviction or purpose. Fewer and farther in between are those angry words directed at the perpetrators.</div>
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I also no longer see the propriety in wishing that the dead peacefully rest when those who took their lives remain free to kill again and again. Effectively, I am numb and I can easily say the same for most of my compatriots. We no longer react as sane human beings the world over would react to the violent premature deaths of scores of innocents.</div>
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I am ashamed that I am this way, even though I try to take solace in the fact that my state of mind is a side effect of how routine news of death by Boko Haram has become. This state of mind extends across the whole country.</div>
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Now and then, Boko Haram and its sister terror vessels take the horror metre up a notch, enough to make a nation largely acclimatised to their brand of evil shake off the numbness and take to social media pages to vent for a day or two, then we go back to the new normal. The new normal appears to be death by grenade or AK47 on a daily basis, and death by bomb once, twice or trice in a blood-soaked week.</div>
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In my mind – though I need to dig to find it – there are still memories of a time when stories of roadside bombings, suicide bombings and killers who scream “<i style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Allahu Akbar</i>” as they take the life of men, women and children created by that same God, was something we attributed to the Middle East and American movies. Though the Middle East continues to face that same problem, it has extended its reach to Nigeria. As it is, something that even the most pessimistic of us would not have envisioned lives with us.</div>
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Truthfully, when the bombs came to Nigeria, they did not come via what many believe is the physical expression of the misinterpretation of a prophet’s teaching. They came through a bunch of gunmen who purported to fight for the ecologically damaged oil-producing communities.</div>
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I recall I was in Bori Camp army barracks in Port Harcourt job hunting after my Youth Service in 2005 when a car bomb went off on the major road in the barrack. I can’t recall if that incident made the news then, but since that was before social media changed how news is distributed and accessed, I think not, especially since it happened in a military barrack.</div>
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That attack could possibly be MEND and its fellow travellers’ first use of bombs to drive home a point. Bomb culture MEND style soon became a staple of those so-called freedom fighters and they continued claiming responsibility until things came to a head when the Independence Day bombing was attributed to MEND.</div>
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The bomb detonator then moved to the Islamic militants who already, it appears, has an affiliation with bombs via their brothers in arms and ideology in the Middle East. Boko Haram, in whatever form, embraced suicide bombings with the same ferocity Islamic insurgents in Pakistan, Afghanistan and Iraq did and brought us to where we are today.</div>
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<b style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Boko Haram and the question of reason</b></div>
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Unlike the Niger Delta gunmen, the Boko Haram guys appear—they’ve stated this as well—not to be driven by economic gain or social empowerment (I do not buy all that John Campbell-esque argument about the marginalisation of the North and other similar bla bla blas). For Boko Haram and its affiliates, the call for Jihad seems to be the major motivation.</div>
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True, we must not forget, how the high-handedness of the Nigerian Police played a big role in the morphing of a localised Islamic belief system into an insurgency that has now achieved international dimensions, but we must not lose sight of the horror that is Islamic fundamentalism and how it has become a reoccurring decimal in much of the Muslim world.</div>
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That said, this does not mean that poverty and unemployment are not catalysts here. A hungry youth with little to live for in the now is more easily sold to the idea of the immeasurable beauty of life in the hereafter and would more readily embrace a trip to that waiting paradise, especially when all he needs to do to get there is to kill some folks.</div>
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Still, as Abdulmutallab and other upper-class insurgents have shown, this is not as accurate a depiction of fundamentalists as many of us would want to believe. Fanatical religiosity is not a disease peculiar to the poor, nor is the desire for a place in heaven. However, it is the responsibility of the government, or those in control of what many call our collective commonwealth, to see that anyone that can be saved from the grip of the sort of fanaticism that Boko Haram and like-minded groups represent is saved. If providing access to qualitative education, employment and an all-round good life is the key to achieving this, then it behoves on the government to explore this path. If you think not, then you had better remember what they say about idle minds.</div>
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The above may sound very much like an affirmation of the Campbell theory of Northern Nigeria Insurgency, but it is only a take on a probable solution. We may do the usual finger pointing about how the north has had more than their fair share of power, but since that will only lead to further finger pointing, I would rather go on.</div>
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But permit me to ask if any of the former or present leaders from the north has had a child, brother, wife, sister, mother and father killed in this insurgency? I will also like to ask if any of them are sending their kids to the schools or hospitals in the north? Same question may be asked about the leaders in the south?</div>
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<b style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Time to stop the finger-pointing and deal with this</b></div>
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Boko Haram insurgency is a very complex one. It is probably the most complex of its type in the world. I see the Boko Haram story as consisting of different elements that together amount to a very deadly mix. So we have religion, ethnicity, poverty, illiteracy, politics and some other things finding expression in it one way or the other. And I doubt if we can tackle any one of them in isolation.</div>
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Boko Haram and its associate insurgents are a very difficult case, but it is not an impossible task. It can be done, but those who have a stake in the solution must come together to do the needed. Finger pointing is the order of the day and the fallacy of this method of fighting an insurgency, or anything for that matter, can be better addressed by an analogy.</div>
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In the late 90s, prophetess Helen Nkume was making some serious waves as a gospel singer in the South East. With a knack for danceable beats and barrelful of wise saying, Prophetess Nkume was one of the better-known Gospel musicians expressing themselves in the Igbo language then. One of her songs predicted woe for the enemy pointing accusing fingers at her. According to Ms Nkume, the enemy should be aware that while he/she is pointing at her, four fingers in that same hand (It is actually three fingers, I checked) would be pointing back at the pointer. There is a lesson in this, a lesson for our political and religious class who insist on laying the blame elsewhere instead of admitting to themselves that they are at fault.</div>
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If the lesson is learnt by all—read political, cultural and religious leaders across the country—there would be better understanding and cohesion in the push to make the country safer. The situation where everyone is chasing shadows should not be allowed to continue. While we may never agree on what Boko Haram is or what they are really fighting for (even the self-identified leader of the group seems to be clueless in this regard), we surely must all agree that the group and its copycats are destroying the social and economic fabric of an integral part of this country. We must also agree that the actions of Boko Haram are inflicting on us a mindset that sees the deadly carnage they wrought as normal—a deadly psychological no-no if you ask me.</div>
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Instead of everyone reverting to type when the bombs go off: The government spokesmen mouthing the usual no-stones-unturned mantra or a not-so-well reversed version of it, my fellow Igbo talking about plans against our race, the people of the West fronting and declaring “Dem <i style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">no born Boko Haram well to bomb here</i>”, and the people of the North wringing their hands, accusing the government of being responsible or not doing enough, after all, "what is good for the Niger Delta bandits should equally be good for the Boko Haram bandits".</div>
<div style="border: 0px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
Instead of all that, Nigerians should learn that talking and finger-pointing solve nothing if it does not stop the senseless killings. Don’t count on it sha.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
READ: <a href="http://www.thescoopng.com/umar-bello-hausa-fulani-the-nigerian-scapegoat/" style="-webkit-transition: color 0.2s; border: 0px; color: #004276; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; transition: color 0.2s ease 0s; vertical-align: baseline;">Umar Bello: ‘Hausa-Fulani’ — The Nigerian Scapegoat</a></div>
<div style="border: 0px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<b style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">So, I was talking about my wife’s cooking</b></div>
<div style="border: 0px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
I chew on a piece of chicken as I write, wondering if as a result of the fresh attack in Kano, somebody’s son or daughter would never know the taste of food ever again. I shake my head, but the image of mangled bodies once implanted refuses to go away.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
I look at Twitter for a bit and am not surprised that an update on the bombing is sandwiched between a tweet from a celebrity musician about her difficulty in choosing between brown and white rice and another from someone directing people to visit a site and download the latest Nigerian club banger.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
So in effect, we continue to party while the bombs go off. We act as if everything is ok. We may be numb to it all, but like Naeto C said “things are not the same”.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
Originally Published by <a href="http://www.thescoopng.com/mazi-chiagozie-nwonwu-boko-haram-and-the-finger-pointing-nation/">TheScoopNG.com</a></div>
</div>
Mazi Nwonwuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858603354130809374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9094967168893725553.post-21207801694377521142013-02-28T11:57:00.000+01:002013-02-28T13:28:58.314+01:00A walk in the other side of music<br />
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Music
is a part of human Culture. culture itself is universal. One aspect of culture
that best exhibits this universality is music.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">All
over the world, from Lagos to New York; from manila to Rio; from the icy
deserts of Greenland to the tiny islets of New Zealand, musicians, just like
others involved in the arts, shape the way the world is viewed. Be it through
the captivating moves of Michael Jackson, the mind numbing guitar tunes from
Carlos Santana or the soul stirring vocals of Sade Adu, the world feels music
and music fills the world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Perhaps,
my choice of music acts is not universal, but still, my point is out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<img src="http://www.goth-witch.webspace.virginmedia.com/baphomet1.jpg" /><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Like
world shapers, artists mould culture. Consciously or not, they manipulate the
choices of their subjects, shaping what we wear, where we sleep, what we eat
and even in the extreme, who we marry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Since
Human minds are attuned in different ways; the artist, being human, are given
to diverse idiosyncrasies that have a bearing on their creations. This
character can either be infused with good or suffused with the dark side that
we all obviously have.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Recently,
just like in the distant past, the arts seem to lean more towards this dark
side, exemplified by the runaway success of films like ‘Twilight’ and others of
like ilk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Music,
like the movies, appears to be interpreting the times through lyrical content
and visuals –the disturbed imagery of accompanying music videos- that some have
interpreted to somehow glorify the darkness, personified by a Judaeo-Christian
Satan. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Artists
like Jay-Z and his wife Beyonce, Rihanna, Lil Wane, to name a few, are some of
those walking the part already taken by metal rock artists in the past.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Undoubtedly,
Jay-z is one artist that has over the years delved into what many would
consider the occult, if not in fact, then by insinuations.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Jay-Z,
who has long been rumoured to belong to an occult order—probably Freemason—fuelled
more speculations with the use of occult imagery in his<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>latest video called “Run This Town”
(featuring Rihanna and Kanye West).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">But
this is not the first time Jay-Z is showing signs of occult affiliations. Years
earlier he propagated the massively popular ‘Roc sign’ that incorporated a
widely known symbol of the Illuminati cult, the left eye within a triangle.
Wild fans usually throw the salute during Jay-Z’s stage performances, probably
not knowing the origins of the sign or perhaps, not caring.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
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<img src="http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSApiFi6INnQaJgMhv4YUC3PnZeLMaEe3BQ57HqAsY5EiMKOU3l" /><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; page-break-after: avoid; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Jay-Z also has appeared in public<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>wearing a black hoodie with the words
“Do What Thou Wilt” engraved on it. Though the words are suggestive in
themselves, the fact that they are the official dictum of the Ordo Templi Orientis
(O.T.O.) and of its reformer, occultist Aleister Crowley, leaves a whole lot to
imagination (The O.T.O. is a hermetic order modelled after Freemasonry and
German Illuminism).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; page-break-after: avoid; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; page-break-after: avoid; text-align: justify;">
<img src="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQISMQG2RSr_jWAIOONcH7zSK2ARyjEXVJPLryIpIsW9rCZyh3BCw" /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; page-break-after: avoid; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Truth is, Jay-Z knows a lot about occult imagery and seeks to
either make their use more mainstream or just wants to build an aura of
mysticism around his persona, thereby tapping into the growing leaning of the
west’s teenagers to the dark side. A phenomenon that has resulted in the cult
like following of various vampire movies of which Twilight is a very good
example.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; page-break-after: avoid; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Both Beyonce and Rihanna have done songs that centre on
possession, with Beyonce taking it further by naming her possessed/possessing
persona: her<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>alter ego Sasha
Fierce, who she affirms is the fun, sexual and aggressive side of her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=9094967168893725553" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=9094967168893725553" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">She
says:<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>“<i>I have someone else
that takes over when it’s time for me to work and when I’m on stage, this alter
ego that I’ve created that kind of protects me and who I really am</i>”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Sasha
Fierce is at times depicted wearing a dress adorned with an occult symbol of a
goats head, otherwise known as Baphomet’s head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">On
her part Rihanna, in the video of her song Disturbia explores the bleak world
of mind control and demonic possession. Not only does she play with the dark
side, she appears to have recently embraced it completely as her recent videos
show.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTDUCum_EiHJEgxRiWPJPRUdGy3Gc4DG8sdjjQ6qAC0oLCIDontPCO2RIWEiI3B6wdpSelYI98FpOa7133UcpZx6VEp9UXOjeJhub5qJdmE0mggTIXIhx-AbKDYUIKcY3PlhB76fefsK8/s1600/rihanna-russian-roulette-promo-photo-single-barbed-wire-eye-of-horus-patch-freemason-sexy-illuminati-devil-satanist-new-world-order-mason-golden-dawn-stupid.jpg" /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Though
this use of occult imagery in video did not start with rap and Hip-hop acts,
they appear to be taking it to the next level. If they do this to get
recognition, then they have definitely succeeded--if the number of awards some
of the artists mentioned above garnered at the last Grammy awards are anything
to hinge ones assertions on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Article
first published by<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://sideviewmagazine.onsugar.com/" target="_blank">Side
View magazine</a><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>in 2010<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Mazi Nwonwuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858603354130809374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9094967168893725553.post-2630964037288163022013-01-25T22:47:00.002+01:002013-01-25T23:24:42.769+01:00Governor Chime has done well, but...<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The continuing absence of Enugu state governor
<a class="zem_slink" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sullivan_Chime" rel="wikipedia" target="_blank" title="Sullivan Chime">Sullivan Chime</a> leaves a sour taste in my mouth, but it is not for the reasons
you might think.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I am from Enugu state and the present state of affairs
falls, as they say, on my doorsteps. It is unprecedented in Enugu history for a
governor to—if we are to believe the official statement—be on accumulated leave
for this long. Despite all the political and constitutional rules this lengthy
absence is said to be breaching, I do not intend to dwell on what laws has been broken or how that will impact the polity. Rather, I want to dwell on how
much the man’s tenure has affected my community and what his absence means to my
constituency and me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I am from the hills of Anike. My ancestral home is the
hilltop town of Nkwe: one of those places that development seems to ignore
perpetually, until recently that is. This lack of development may, or may not,
have something to do with the fact that aside from meagre cassava, vegetable
and palm produce that our women take to the markets in <a class="zem_slink" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Awgu" rel="wikipedia" target="_blank" title="Awgu">Awgu</a>—where our LGA
headquarters is situated—and neighbouring towns, we appear, on the surface, to largely
lack much to offer in terms of commerce. This argument, that we don’t
contribute much to the state to warrant attention, was used to justify the lack
of government presence in the villages that make up Anike for decades by
successive governments. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">In truth, my village, located within the hills of
Anike—where terraced farmlands, beautiful hills and valleys, forests,
meandering rivers and other gifts of nature are readymade for tourism, where an
abundance of that particular type of stone used for building in the south east
meant quarrying would take off once big trucks could make it into the hills, where
the highland climate calls for a different kind of agriculture, the kind that
makes South Africa billions in wine sales—has more potential than any myopic
minded government would see even if you place the </span></span><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">evidence</span></span><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> right under their nose. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<img height="480" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-g-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-snc6/9502_4491761246089_808150014_n.jpg" width="640" /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The thoughts of tourism and its associated economic
empowerment have always being on the mind of my people, but devoid of effective
representation for years and lacking the economic power to begin the required
transformation from rustic rural settings to a town with enough modern
amenities to draw the potential tourist, we could only do so much. If you don’t
believe the tourism potentials of the hills of Anike, think of a more
accessible Obudu, rolling hills and all; think ancient hill terraces that are
hundreds of years old; think fauna protected by ancient gods and flora that
produces the freshest air you can dream of.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Like what obtains in many communities in the south
east, social and infrastructure development in my village has been based on the
communal self-help system for years. My people carved their own roads from the
slopes, built their own schools, began building their own health centre, before
the intervention of a son of the soil, Uche Uzochukwu, drew government’s attention
to a land too far off the beaten track for anyone to take notice. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Government
completed the health centre and the secondary school, all built within the last
ten years, and we celebrated what was an unprecedented feat in our eyes:
government providing infrastructure to us, the usual rejects. This was in the
days of <a class="zem_slink" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chimaroke_Nnamani" rel="wikipedia" target="_blank" title="Chimaroke Nnamani">Chimaroke Nnamani</a>, who despite his regrettable lack of ambition
actually had some spark of grassroots development, in his first term that is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<img height="480" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-c-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-snc6/268420_4491776686475_1595685865_n.jpg" width="640" /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_7"
o:spid="_x0000_i1027" type="#_x0000_t75" alt="https://fbcdn-sphotos-c-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-snc6/268420_4491776686475_1595685865_n.jpg"
style='width:468pt;height:351pt;visibility:visible;mso-wrap-style:square'>
<v:imagedata src="file:///C:\Users\FRED\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image005.jpg"
o:title="268420_4491776686475_1595685865_n"/>
</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">If you know my village, or similar villages in Nigeria,
you would understand when I say that I never expected to see a paved road
snaking towards it in my lifetime. If you’ve ever been to my village, you would
not be amazed when I say thoughts of pipes bearing water to homes in the
village was as improbable as Nigeria putting a man on the moon in the next
decade. Public power supply was something we spied from across the hills when
we look towards Mbana in Isioche LGA of Imo state, we dreamt of it but for sure
weren’t expecting to see those cables crisscrossing our hamlets any time soon. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The summary of it is that within the last 4 years all
these farfetched dreams came to pass. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<img height="480" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-e-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/299050_4491760846079_142589610_n.jpg" width="640" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_4"
o:spid="_x0000_i1026" type="#_x0000_t75" alt="https://fbcdn-sphotos-e-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-snc7/299050_4491760846079_142589610_n.jpg"
style='width:468pt;height:351pt;visibility:visible;mso-wrap-style:square'>
<v:imagedata src="file:///C:\Users\FRED\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image007.jpg"
o:title="299050_4491760846079_142589610_n"/>
</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I had returned home earlier in the year and beheld a
scene that appeared surreal: a very big water storage tank in front of my
father’s stone and brick house, with public taps located by our entrance, one
of several in the village; just behind the fetching point is a big PHCN
transformer, one of two in the village. Now my trusty generator rests when it
should be doing its duty of powering our house. However, the wonder of public
power supply and pipe borne water from the two water schemes in the village diminished
when I got home for the Christmas celebrations—in the face of black tar
climbing the hills towards my village to transform what naturally is the
remotest place in Enugu state into 21<sup>st</sup> century compliant village. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I do not give in to praise singing easily and I still
hold that much of our leaders are rouges who are raping us ceaselessly, but in
Chime, I have found a man, who though operates from a deeply flawed system, delivers
the promised good governance to the people. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJgxPSuKXYLGdKSmIJrJ0akDCz3xiEjN5JfteTthdlbc3AfVg6wB2UZ-CRosyuOa-vfI5PL681wyXNglLgw7No0MljtZkHW_Sb49wxw2KhGyF30TJNidvFlHbWPfNNF50lT-GPV5P0T7Dh/s1600/DSC03184.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJgxPSuKXYLGdKSmIJrJ0akDCz3xiEjN5JfteTthdlbc3AfVg6wB2UZ-CRosyuOa-vfI5PL681wyXNglLgw7No0MljtZkHW_Sb49wxw2KhGyF30TJNidvFlHbWPfNNF50lT-GPV5P0T7Dh/s640/DSC03184.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The story of Nkwe is not peculiar, a one off, it is
something Enugu state holds in common, the story of a silent, but
hard working governor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">It will be very sad if Chime is not able to complete
his tenure, or if his illness takes much away from a man that feels the pulse
of the grassroots and is willing to do the right thing in a region where
democracy does not exist. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Enugu state is dragging, every facet feels the absence
of the governor, and something needs to be done soonest. While I hope his
return happens soon, it may be wise for the man to look at himself well and
speak truth, to himself. Even if he can’t go on, his legacy is assured.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Governor Sullivan Chime has done well, but he needs to
watch it less he gets carried away with his achievements and sense of
importance and fall into the trap that ate his predecessor: overblown sense of
self worth, that disease that afflicts politicians and makes them think they
alone have all the right answers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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Mazi Nwonwuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858603354130809374noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9094967168893725553.post-43641583428835176612013-01-25T06:07:00.003+01:002013-01-30T08:49:58.685+01:00Rape and the Nigerian society<br />
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<img height="577" src="http://llwproductions.files.wordpress.com/2012/05/real-men-dont-rape.jpg" width="640" /></div>
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I encountered rape very early in life. I was perhaps 14 when
a random visit to the home of a local ruffian presented me with my first
glimpse. A girl, lying on the bed, with only a tiny towel to cover a miniscule
part of her honour, stared at me from a threadbare mattress, her eyes pleading
yet seemingly resigned to her fate. I had been sent to the room to “take kola”.
I remember her clothes were in a bucket by the door, a bucket filled with
water. Her story was sad. A visitor from the east, she had only asked for
directions to her brother’s house in Angwan Kanawa and was lured to the house
of Baba Wani’s aged grandmother, where he and his boys took turns on her. I got
to the house on the second day. The monsters were clearly done with her and
were offering her as kola to any young man that came to the house. I recall
crying as I begged them to let her go, I recall the girl saying nothing,
defeated I think. I recall she kept her legs parted, tired of fighting, she
existed in a state of ‘cooperation’.</div>
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<br /></div>
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They let her go the next day. Fate however, knows how to
mete out poetic justice.</div>
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<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /></div>
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She never said, but her brother, the one in Angwan Kanawa,
was a police officer. I still remember the raid, more than twenty boys, some as
young as I was then, some younger, were picked up. I remember the girl’s face
as the police men brought her to my father’s shop. There was little gratitude
in her eyes as she shook her head and said, “This one no follow, he came to beg
them to let me go”. I still remember the pain of the cane across my back as my
father wiped me mercilessly for being acquainted with Baba Wani and his then
notorious gang. My father refused to consider that his shop was located in that
house until a few years before and we still had a ‘packing store’ in the
compound, next door to the rape room. Baba Wani did not make it out of the police
cell alive. He was probably 18 or 19, his story was the story of dozens of the
local terrors we had then.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The second time I met rape was also as bad as the first.
Again, a group of boys cornered a girl, the girlfriend of one of them, and took
turns on her. The guy in whose room it occurred used to run with our group in
Government College Kaduna. He stopped following us when the Kaura—gang—life
drew him to its bosom. Babylon lived with his sister who worked with a
construction company and was hardly at home. He said later that the girl was
not his girlfriend, but refused to see it from our point of view that since he
‘toasted her’ and she agreed, she actually was and thus deserving of his
protection. I don’t know if fate ever caught up with Babylon and his co-conspirators.
I know they denied everything and the girl’s family never reported to the
police. I recall the noise died after a week or so and Babylon and his group,
who had all ran away in the heat of the moment, returned with exaggerated
swaggers to their steps as their street credibility shot through the roof.</div>
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The third time I encountered rape was closer to home and
very personal. I had gone with my female cousin and her female neighbour to an
Mbaka crusade in Enugu. My cousin’s house was walking distance to the then
‘Adoration’ ground inside the technical college beside IMT’s Campus too. It was
raining, the place was over crowded, the ground was muddy, we were miserable
and regretting the whole ‘adoration’ business. I can’t recall who suggested we
go home, but three of us walked under the starry night enduring the slight
drizzle. We had just crossed the Trade Fair complex and were about to negotiate
the next slope—where my cousin’s house is—when perhaps a dozen guys swooped on
us.</div>
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There was no weapon to fight them off and before I knew what
they were up to, three of them had me pinned to the wall of the Trade Fair
complex and the others were bearing my cousin and her neighbour away, in two
different directions. I begged, I cried, reminding the smelly urchins that they
have sisters at home, but it was to no avail. I felt my heart break into a
million pieces and I knew then that I could not live again if they had their
way, but no super human strength came to help me throw off my restrainers and
save the girls that were then calling out to me. It was a nightmare become real
and the fact that more than twenty thousand people were stumping the sandy
stoned Enugu earth a few metres away as they called for the heavens to send
more showers of blessing made it all the more surreal.</div>
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I had given up, promising myself I will struggle the more
and perhaps be fortunate enough and the boy with the knife to my throat will
lose his patience and take my life. If ever there was a better alternative,
dying at that moment was it.</div>
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Then the scream, blood curdling, from the depth of a
stricken soul, reached my ears. Initially, I thought the worst had began, but
as I looked towards my cousin I found she was still standing, struggling with
her attackers as scream after scream poured from her. Her neighbour joined in
and then I did too. I screamed with all the strength I could muster. I recall
falling to the ground as my restrainers let go of me suddenly. I remember how
relief flooded my heart with fire so cold I almost passed out from it when my
whispered ‘did they…’ was replied with ‘mba’.</div>
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<br /></div>
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We went back to the Adoration ground—they went, hugging
themselves tight, I followed behind them, dragging my feet as shame washed over
me in torrents. I am the man, I thought, but I couldn’t protect them.</div>
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The security men at the gate followed me back but we saw no
one. We later concluded that they must have taken refuge in the hundreds of
buses packed along the road, buses that ferried worshipers from across the
south east to Mbaka’s weekly ‘Adoration Mass’.</div>
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It took me months to recover from the trauma and took my
cousin longer to start seeing me as a ‘man’ again. It was a close shave, a very
close shave, one that still makes me shiver, one that brings home what that
young man in India must have gone through.</div>
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I read an article where a lady said Nigeria has a rape
problem and I picked offense that some responders felt not soiling Nigeria’s
already battered image is more important issue she addressed in the article. I
gave the examples above to say, yes, we have a rape problem and it is not new.
I say let the image of the country be soiled further if that is what will get
us to take notice of the ills around us.</div>
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I agree with the writer of the article that Nigerians
condone a lot of evil and rape is one of them. Aside from the high number of
case that go unreported, what do we do to rapists?</div>
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Most times than not we try to excuse rapists by blaming the
victim:</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>What was she doing there in the first place?</i></div>
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<i>She must have lured him with her dressing!</i></div>
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<i>How can she tell me one man raped her, haba, how is that
possible?</i></div>
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<i>Had she been wearing a very tight jean, the robbers would
have had a harder time raping her.</i></div>
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<i>Nne, next time abeg, wear very tight jean to bed.</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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Unbelievable inanity is our normal response to rape and the
victims of it. Like Babylon and his crew who celebrated their successful rape,
we unwittingly grant rapists the space to rub it in. Yes, I heard of the girl
that was forced to marry the man that got her pregnant after forcing himself on
her. This man should be rotting in jail, now we gift him the very person he
abused. Talk about absurd, criminal even. In the face of such uncivil behaviour
from the society, we can’t blame the women who chose to suffer in silence, who
chose to not reveal the wrong that have been done to them.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The Nigerian media also need to come to terms with the way
we respond to rape. They are grossly tilted towards glorifying the rapist and
making rape seem like fun, or what how else can we interpret headline that go,
“Randy man ravages neighbours daughter”?</div>
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<br /></div>
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I still don’t know what pushes men, or women even, to rape,
but I say cut off the offending member of the guilty party and I will thank you
for it. And no apologies.</div>
<br />
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Mazi Nwonwuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858603354130809374noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9094967168893725553.post-18697109593509003592013-01-16T22:22:00.001+01:002013-01-27T09:21:10.142+01:00My next BIG Thing!<br />
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<span style="text-align: justify;">Social media will be celebrated whenever and wherever the
story of the generation of Nigerian writers that I belong to is written. And
that story will surely feature how writers of my generation, managed, despite the odds,
to create something grand out of the possibilities inherent in social media. The
story will be big and surely, the tales of how aspiring writers searched for
and connected with thousands of like minded individuals would be an integral
part of it. While I don’t particular feel I am qualified to write this story, I
won’t deny the fact that what you are reading now is a facet of that story.</span><br />
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I met <b>Gbenga Awomodu</b>,
online, I can’t recall if it was on Facebook or in the early days of
Naijastories, but we connected online and since we both live in Lagos and
shared an interest in event reviews and journalism, the chances of us meeting
outside of the electronic world of social media was high. We met a couple of
times outside of social media before the <b>Farafina
Trust Creative Writing Workshop</b> brought us face to face again in August
2012. The story of my generation of writers actually played out in that
workshop. Of the 22 participants, I had only ever met Gbenga in person before
the workshop, but <b>Richard Ali</b>, <b>Abdulaziz Abdulaziz</b>, and <b>Samuel Tosin Kolawole</b> were already (Facebook
connected) friends of mine, even though I had never met them in person. I still shiver at that social media strangeness that allows you
know people intimately before you meet them in person. I was also meeting <b>Yemisi Ogbe</b> for the first time, but I
knew her work as a food writer with the now sadly defunct <b>Next Newspaper</b>, where I also had the privilege of contributing
articles, and we happen to have mutual admiration for each other’s work—I discovered that out during the course of the workshop. I summarised my workshop
experience <a href="http://fredrnwonwu.blogspot.com/2012/09/my-farafina-creative-writing-workshop.html">here</a>
and <b>Yewande Omotosho</b> did <a href="http://africasacountry.com/2012/09/11/the-farafina-creative-writing-workshop/">here</a>,
so we can skip all the long <i>tori</i> and
bite into the meat of this one.</div>
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So, <b>Yewande</b> sent
me an email—actually a mail, a twitter DM and a Facebook inbox, in that
order—about the <b>Next Big Thing project</b>.
Since I was ensconced in my ancestral village getting cozy with the spirits of
my fathers, I only got to see the messages after she had posted her <b>Next Big Thing</b> story. Since our mutual
connectivity is still in play, it was natural that one of the persons (Gbenga and Nana) she
handed the baton over to would look my way<span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><br /></span></div>
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So—I so like that word, so <i>tori
tellerish</i>—that is the story of how you came to be reading this, perhaps,
boring narrative.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Anyway, this is supposed to be about my Next Big Thing as <a href="http://1of6billion.wordpress.com/2013/01/02/my-next-big-thing/">Yewande</a>,
<a href="http://adventuresfrom.com/2013/01/09/my-next-big-thing.html">Nana</a>,
<a href="http://gbengaawomodu.com/2013/01/09/my-next-big-thing/">Gbenga</a> and
many others did before me, so let get to it. </div>
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<b>What is the working
title of your book?<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Death is a woman—I know, e no sweet for mouth, but that’s
why they call it <i>working title </i><i><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<b>Where did the idea
come from for the book?<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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I must confess here, and I have <a href="http://gclfph.blogspot.com/2012/11/favourite-five-mazi-chiagozie-nwonwu.html">elsewhere</a>,
that the idea came from <a class="zem_slink" href="http://www.rottentomatoes.com/celebrity/clive_barker" rel="rottentomatoes" target="_blank" title="Clive Barker">Clive Barker</a>’s <a class="zem_slink" href="http://www.amazon.com/Imajica-Clive-Barker/dp/000649868X%3FSubscriptionId%3D0G81C5DAZ03ZR9WH9X82%26tag%3Dzem-20%26linkCode%3Dxm2%26camp%3D2025%26creative%3D165953%26creativeASIN%3D000649868X" rel="amazon" target="_blank" title="Imajica">Imajica</a>.</div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b>What genre does your
book fall under?<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Crime fiction, maybe, I am not so much into labels</div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b>Which actors would
you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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I actually play with scenes from the WIP in my head and try
to see my characters from camera angles, so visualising actors as the
characters should be easy, but it is not <span style="font-family: Wingdings;">J</span>.
However, I would love Omotola as <b>Bimbo
Kasim</b>, <a class="zem_slink" href="http://www.rottentomatoes.com/celebrity/idris_elba" rel="rottentomatoes" target="_blank" title="Idris Elba">Idris Elba</a> would definitely fit in as her husband <b>Balogun Kasim</b> and that Dumalo guy from
Ghana would be perfect for <b>Sola</b>—he would
have to lose some pounds though <span style="font-family: Wingdings;">J</span>.
Omotola would be apt because of her
built and her personality—you can say I used her as a model for Bimbo. Idris
has a stern exterior and from what I have seen him do with the roles he has
played, he would perfectly embody a streetwise politician with a taste for
literature and fine women. I don’t really know why I picked Dumalo for Sola,
maybe because I could<span style="font-family: Wingdings;">J</span>.
Thinking about it now, I wonder if he can handle Lagos street lingo.</div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b>What is the
one-sentence synopsis of your book?<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Balogun Kasim, a wealthy street-bred politician discovers
his wife Bimbo is having an affair, consumed by jealousy, he makes plans to
have her killed, believing it’s a justifiable punishment for her betrayal, fate
has other plans and the contract falls into the laps of a gang Bimbos former
boyfriend Sola is affiliated with, then things get very crazy and interesting.
In the end, Bimbo kills Balogun in self-defence and somewhere in the mix they
discover that Sola and the Balogun are actually brothers. Like I said, it is
still a work in progress so...</div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b>When will your book
be published?<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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I hope in 2014. I am doing my best to ensure the story is
captivating enough for publishers to want it, so my fingers are crossed.</div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b>How long did it take
you to write the first draft of your manuscript?<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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I started writing it in 2009. Actually, I wrote the first
three paragraphs in 2009 and later published a longer version in Naijastories
in 2011. I should have finished writing now, as the story is already complete
in my head, but I had several book projects in my head at once—I finished a
short story collection last year and it is already with a publisher, I also
began working on a science fiction short story collection. We have to keep food
on the table—I write for a living, and that is grounds for serious conflict between
personal projects and the day job thingy. However, this book, which is half way
done actually, will be finished this year.</div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b>What else about your
book might pique the reader’s interest?<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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I actually wanted to write a story about relationships,
about the inability for people to break with their past, no matter how hard
they try. With this story, I tried to get into the skin of the individuals and
show why they do the things they do, the reason behind their decisions. It is
more the story of Sola and Balogun Kasim than it is about a man reacting to
his wife’s infidelity. It is also a story of Lagos’s underside, that place
people don’t really talk about.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I don too tuk. I am handing this baton over to two super
guys, two of Nigeria’s brightest literary talents: <b>Emmanuel Iduma</b> and <b>Nze Sylva
Ifedigbo</b>. They really don’t need introduction (Google should have automatic links
to them by now) but formality sake calls for it.</div>
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<b>Emmanuel Iduma</b> is the author of <b>Farad</b>, a novel. A Lawyer by
training, he works mainly as a writer and manager of creative projects. His
first book, Farad, was published in July 2012 by Parresia Publishers, and has
been warmly received across the country. Iduma is co-publisher of Saraba
Magazine, editor of <a href="http://3bute.com/" target="_blank">3bute.com</a> (recipient
of a 2012 Highway Telkom Award for Innovative Use of Media) and content
management supervisor of Invisible Borders Trans-African Photography Project.
Check out his blog <a href="http://www.mriduma.com/">here</a>. As for Emma’s
Next Big Thing, with a TEDx event and another, hopefully crazily brilliant, book
in the works...I can only say wait and be wowed. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><a href="http://www.nzesylva.com/">Sylva Nze Ifedigbo</a> </b>prides himself as
being a core Nigerian. He hails from the east, grew up in the north and now
lives in the west of the country. He is an award winning fiction writer and
essayist whose works has appeared both online and in print. Nze, as he will
prefer to be called, trained as a Doctor of Veterinary Medicine at the
University of Nigeria Nsukka but today pursues his other interests in writing
and public relations. He has written for a number of online platforms including
NEXT, Nigeria Village Square, and Daily Times. Last year he served as
ambassador for the Coca-Cola Nigeria “A billion reasons to believe in Africa”
campaign. He has two published work; <i><b>Whispering
Aloud</b></i> a novella (Spectrum Books 2007) and <i><b>The Funeral Did Not End</b></i> a stories collection (DADA Books, 2012). Nze is working on a full-length project, a novel that will
tell in part, his Lagos story and his fascination with death.<br />
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Come January 23rd, Emma and Nze will blog about their next big thing. expect to be captivated.</div>
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Mazi Nwonwuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858603354130809374noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9094967168893725553.post-85217238449530426932013-01-07T01:26:00.000+01:002013-01-08T07:19:43.852+01:00Of traffic snarls and the land of the rubber men<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv7jSPbmo51HquPzVOucTZc6CVFdIZAexyoVpajVeaEWbgh7WcVGYVHJpYjpzBBAK3mXr5WqoA5diy4wR93SJi5MNUHrVLYMqXUZ8-61vQqrQMuvSg7srUzfsqKINXIBjTityFmBZ4ZfFe/s1600/Lagos+Traffic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv7jSPbmo51HquPzVOucTZc6CVFdIZAexyoVpajVeaEWbgh7WcVGYVHJpYjpzBBAK3mXr5WqoA5diy4wR93SJi5MNUHrVLYMqXUZ8-61vQqrQMuvSg7srUzfsqKINXIBjTityFmBZ4ZfFe/s320/Lagos+Traffic.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
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It is a hot day. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Another of those days
that traffic stretches as far as the eyes can see causing people in cars to share something other than the unity of crawling traffic and sweltering
heat: short fused temperament.<o:p></o:p><br />
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This is Lagos, the
heat and traffic snarls are constant realities that we have learnt to live with,
no matter how hard that is. Nigerians, we are special breeds, rubber men that
defy the laws of elasticity—we are yet to find that elastic limit and we
continue to adjust to constantly shifting challenges. Nothing seems to shift
more constantly than our traffic laws. Perhaps they don’t really shift, change,
rather the government finds new way to express them. That way they keep us on
our toes, sweating in choking traffic.<o:p></o:p><br />
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We do have constants,
those things that remain the same year in year out. The danfo bus, a modified
Volkswagen van that perhaps ferried goods from one point to another in the
European country that hosted its first incarnation, is one of the things that
remain the same. A testament of our dump mentality, the danfo, like millions of
other automobiles in Nigeria, comes second-hand: Europe’s discard serving
faithfully here, still.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There is little to see
in the scrap-like drabness of the danfo bus I boarded in the hope that their
street and alley meandering ability would perhaps shorten the time I would
otherwise spend in the traffic snarl—a vain hope. The clammy intensity of the
heat that comes from within and without did not gift concentration, so
Binyavanga Wainaina’s <i>One Day I will
Write About This Place</i> rests in its place in the side pocket of my
well-used bag. Yes, I had discovered that the three hours spent in traffic
heading to work and the three hours spent on the way back is a good time as any
to catch up on reading. Before <i>One Day I
Will Write About This Place</i>, one of those Ikeja-under-bridge-paper-backs—a
novel by John Varley—occupied the space in the bag. Victor Ehikhamenor’s brand
new book <i>Excuse Me!,</i> a testament of
where Nigerian literature is headed, will replace Binya’s in a few days.</div>
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<a name='more'></a><br />
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My BlackBerry—a mobile
phone that typifies the Nigerian experience: expensive, problem prone,
essentially not worth its hype, but a must have for any forward thinking
hustler—had already exhausted its morning charge, so social media exerts no
pull. In search of somewhere, something to lay my eyes, I turn outwards,
looking across the young lady between me and the window, away from the drab
interior, the equal drabness of my fellow sardines-in-scrap-metal-confine.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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In the close past, the
view would be of hawkers darting between
the traffic, Okada’s snapping side
mirrors as they sweep through and drivers leaning out of windows to hurl abuses at
their receding backs. Now all one sees are cars, cars and more cars. The new
view is a thank-you-Lagos-for-for-the-second-term gift from erstwhile man of
the people, Babatunde Raji Fashola, governor of Africa’s most populous city.
The Road Use Bill he signed into law a few months ago is said to have brought
sanity to the roads, but that remains debateable. Who decides what sanity is? I
guess the people in the cars with humming air conditioners would call this
sanity. I stare at them, in their choice brand new cars—not for these ones the
more common second hand cars we call tokunbo—that seemed immune to the dents
that are the lot of any lesser-priced car on a Lagos road. I could spy an
executive kind reading a newspaper in the owners corner, a suited banker type
working on his laptop, and a couple of youngish professionals watching a movie
on a backrest screen. These ones, the ones that have connected with success,
can afford to call this traffic, devoid as it is, of hawkers and okada
operators, sane. They are immune, with drivers to do the driving, with ACs to
keep the air western-cool, with music, probably indie rock, or jazz, or
R&B—not the shrieking fuji in the danfo—to help them coordinate money
making thoughts. I wonder if their thoughts go to the man who only recently
saved enough to buy a second-hand motorcycle, only to find that its engine
capacity falls below the 200cc that the new traffic law demands for motorcycles
before they can cruise hundreds of major highways in Lagos.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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Yes, the rich own
motocycles, the type we call power bikes, mostly above the 200cc engine
capacity. They can still ride the forbidden roads. The law has a way of
protecting the rich. The poor can go to blazes.<br />
<br />
Hence, the executive type reads
a newspaper, suave-like, in real-leather interiors. For these type, it is super
cooled office to super cooled car, to super cooled home, an Island of opulence
within the oppressive heat of the tropic. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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It is when I look away
from these ones, the comfortable, that I see her, no it is they, they are two,
similarly dressed, but one more eye catching. It isn’t the garish colours that
call attention—I have already gotten used to the colour blind madness they call
colour blocking—it was the hips of the plump one.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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Turned into an
unsightly <i>8</i> by jeans obviously meant
for some flat assed chick, with the part that spilled out of the jean flapping
with each step she took, it should serve as a bum lover’s nightmare. Grotesque;
that’s the word that came to mind. As I pull my eyes away, I wonder where her fashion
sense came from.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My eyes wonder still,
searching that which will hold my fancy. <o:p></o:p><br />
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We crawl away from the
expressway. We attempt the meandering that I had hoped for. We don’t get far.
The gridlock in the side streets of Mushin is worse than what we left in the
expressway—there we crawled, albeit very slowly, here we are stagnant. The
driver cuts the ignition, to conserve fuel.<o:p></o:p><br />
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This is an old
neighbourhood. The heart of the city in the days that white lords walked this
city, when our allegiance was to a king, then a queen, from lands across seas
our ancestors feared to sail. Now we pledge allegiance to a two colour flag,
but in our hearts wonder what that means. Feeling no strings pulling at our
heart, we wonder what it means to be patriotic, to love ones nation. Same way
we wondered what the chant of God bless the King/Queen meant in the days when
concrete forests sprouted here for the first time, replacing building of raffia
and mud, replacing forests of lush green vegetation and the abodes of proud sons
of the earth.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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I see men, beaten men,
devoid of the pride that was their ancestor’s mien. They stare at the cars, at
the sweating passengers, catching eyes, their body language suggesting shared
understanding, all hope faded in the face of stark reality. There is no future
here, only a cyclic hopelessness. The staring eyes, the aged eyes, they know
this for sure, they’ve seen it before.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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On the wall of one of
these buildings, a poster, A5 paper, announces a welcome back party for “Iyabo
Martins, USA returnee”. I stare at it, wondering why visiting or living in the
United States of America is worth a party, but I understand, I really do.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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Somehow, we are on an
expressway, another one. Beyond the front windscreen, Oshodi looms. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Here, far away from
the officious nature of Ikorodu Road, the atmosphere is relaxed, lower class
friendly. A few hawkers now dart among the cars, ears, eyes and nose flaring
alertness as they quench thirst here and assuage steaming body heat there. As I
pour ice-cold bottled water down my throat, I wondered what we would do without
these hawkers and why the government thinks they do not provide essential
services.<o:p></o:p><br />
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The hawkers scatter.
An AK47 wielding police officer, riding home on a motorcycle, one of the
outlawed variety, waves at them. <i>Don’t
worry.</i> They return, nervous. I smile.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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I wonder about my
country, this rubber society. What would happen if we ever reach the breaking
point? Would we turn on these ones in cars whose price can build three to four
health centres in the ancestral villages of their owners, ancestral villages
they don’t visit anymore? Would we replace what we have for something worse or
like the Egyptians, trade a secular tyrant for a religious one? Would we like
the Libyans destroy our country and become the client nation of a super power,
all because we hate the guts of our leader? Would we learn to trust the voting
process enough to become a real democracy?<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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Thoughts, near and
far, new and old, flow through my mind as the Danfo jerks as if in time to the
beat of the raunchy fuji song that blasted from ill-tuned car stereos. Two
hours have gone by; I am not even half way home. I lean back, avoiding seeing
the same scene that have become a constant feature, seems a good idea. From
further back comes the sound of sirens, an oga type using the power of the
lords of the land to break through the gridlock, wanting to spend as little
time as possible on the road. Looking around, seeing the intense tailgating, I
did not even bother to question how they would get through. Though it seems
impossible, they always do. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">A nation of rubber men, Nigerians are very
amiable to change. Stretch us all you want, we just adjust to accommodate the
extra strain and soon that becomes the normal from which further stretching
emanates. We're super elastic. Dr. Reed Richard has nothing on us. This is a
survival skill that allows our continuing rape. I am scared of what would
happen if we lose this power to adjust, to stretch, to accommodate.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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The sky is turning
cobalt. Rain looms in the horizon. The traffic continues to crawl.<o:p></o:p><br />
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A version of this article was published in <a href="http://www.ngrguardiannews.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=109033:of-traffic-snarls-land-of-the-rubber-men&catid=181:cityfile&Itemid=708" target="_blank">The Guardian</a></div>
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Mazi Nwonwuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858603354130809374noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9094967168893725553.post-30661143437124966122012-12-19T13:53:00.000+01:002012-12-19T18:20:02.315+01:00Omawumi: Wonder woman?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_g5SXUBdLMuyznX87FtKGYTrfp9m69NE5nyP18zjKkUt0sQN7DMqf5owi8JqFUCVoeaNt5trvYxJOdIqW4Y_CmM2ngSjn8xrWphnJtJ1jAjnlud3hvMWIu6-lhON1c8Xu7jPACtb4oNVO/s1600/Omawumi-wonder_woman%5B1%5D.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477434085662262722" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_g5SXUBdLMuyznX87FtKGYTrfp9m69NE5nyP18zjKkUt0sQN7DMqf5owi8JqFUCVoeaNt5trvYxJOdIqW4Y_CmM2ngSjn8xrWphnJtJ1jAjnlud3hvMWIu6-lhON1c8Xu7jPACtb4oNVO/s320/Omawumi-wonder_woman%5B1%5D.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 320px;" /></a>
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The intro for Omawumi’s debut album ‘Wonder woman’ was supposed to show off Omawumi’s humorous side but it did not really work; as the humour is not immediately obvious.
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‘Ma fi mi shere’ feat Eldee is the first song. The vibrancy of Omawumi’s voice is comes through in this track. But, both beats and lyrics are a little too high tempoed. The song flitters by before it can be assimilated (yes, even after several replays). Eldee delivers his lines too fast, as if chasing the quick beat and his short verse is not enough to convey his usual dexterity.
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Whatever misgivings the previous track might have caused were cured by ‘today na today’. This is definitely Omawumi at her very best. The beat is again high tempo, with a techno feel, but unlike in the previous track it works here, the lyrics really get to you. Heads are definitely going to bob to this one.
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‘Love nwantinti’ may not appeal to teenagers, but the older generation will have a blast rocking to the highlife flavour. Omawumi’s vocals in this track sounds one somewhat like that of Nigeria’s old school Diva, the Late Nelly Uchendu, yes, she has that kind of voice.
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‘Love it’ featuring Shank does not quit cut it, the tempo, fast and unfocused, drowns out Omawumi’s voice most times. Shank, known more for his hit dancehall single ‘julie’, did not bring the captivating flow he is popular for into this track. In all Omawumi’s strong voice is the only redeeming feature of this track, once again she showed she can sing very well, even in an average song.
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One of the best songs in this album is ‘when breeze brow’, a sultry love song about heartbreak and cheating spouses that incorporates a clever use of a popular Nigerian adage “when the breeze blows the anus of a fowl will be exposed”. Omawumi really expressed herself here. This song might not get the hype of some of the other tracks in this album, but it will surely outlast many others, a candidate for any soul lover’s collection of timeless love songs.
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‘The way that I feel’: Though with a catchy and rhythmic tone that can get one dancing, this song still suffers from the ills that have marred some of the songs in this album, the overshadowing of her powerful voice by instruments that are supposed to accompany her singing.
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‘chocolata’ feat Naeto C is another good song, the cadence is infectious and Omawumi is clearly in the driving seat directing things with her vocal controls, Naeto C did not disappoint, enough for none rap heads to feel his flow. This is one of the songs that shine through.
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The skit ‘stand’ should have being the intro; it has everything that is Omawumi.
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‘In the music’ is another very good song. With South African pop style sound, the song incorporates Nigerian pidgin lyrics to provide a very danceable tune that also spreads a very powerful message, music is all there is.
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Omawumi went the reggae route with ‘brighter day’ and actually pulled off a commendable performance.
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‘I miss my baby’ took Omawumi back to her comfort zone, those songs that give her control, devoid of the interference of loud beats. Expectedly, she made it rock, enough for one to want to go back again and again, just for the love of it.
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‘As I dey’ is another good one. It is a love song, sort of, that implores the need for people to be accepted the way they are.
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Like most Nigerian artists are inclined to, she went back home with the song ‘Niger delta’, another good one. Here she preaches the peace message, calling the people of Niger Delta to work together towards the uplift of the troubled region.
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‘Same guy’ features waje and Kel , and showed the vocal dexterities of Omawumi and Waje singers and then Kel spiced things up with her cool rap style.
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‘Blessing flow’ is the last track before the outro and she didn’t save the best for the last. Good enough beat, good flow. Not a powerful song but all together ok, for a gospel song.
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Then came the outro and it was a wrap.
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For a first offering, Omawumi did a very good job. Though, she should stick to songs that allow her express her vocal prowess. Songs must not get played in the clubs to be relevant.
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Omawumi sings more about relationships than anything else though one will notice that she dwells more on loneliness and problem prone relationships.
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Many of her songs are laced with underlying humour and she seems to be having a good time singing them.
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For a new artist, she appear well rounded, experimenting with several genre in one album, but her mainstay appear to be R and B soul. She will go far, but needs the input of good song writers.
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Her next offering should make for an interesting wait.
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D’lameone 2010-02-21
Mazi Nwonwuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858603354130809374noreply@blogger.com1