12 Jun 2009 |
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Ifeanyi is my favorite CD seller at Dugbe market, Ibadan. He is an epitome of a hardworking young Nigerian. At 23, he can boast of a thriving business that attracts customers like me, and a stable relationship with his supportive and pretty girlfriend, Nkechi. He stays in his own rented apartment and attends Winners' Chapel, Bashorun, Ibadan. Ifeanyi is a jovial and easy-to-approach person that is down-to-earth and knows a great deal about CDs. As far as I was concerned then, all is well with my friend. In the course of one of our innumerable chats, he informed me of his search for a huge sum of money to enable him meet a lot of needs that he failed to tell me upon all my mounting pressures and that got me thinking. I wondered what challenges my brother from another mother is facing but couldn't find answers right away. But an avenue came in late 2007 when the rise and tides of time associated with the potential minefield status of Nigeria, that can erupt anytime, took me from Ibadan to Owerri, the ancient Igbo town in South Eastern Nigeria. I had the opportunity to reject the change but couldn't resist the opportunity to demystify the riddles of Ifeanyi, like others Igbos in different parts of the world. To someone who is not an Igbo and has never been to an Igboland before, the Igbos are business-minded people who love money too much. The popular myth is that an Igbo man can do anything for money hence should be handled with extra precautionary measures. According to the myths, while a Hausa man is described as the easiest and safest business colleague, the Yoruba man is the nosy partner that loves to party and enjoy himself, a true picture of what Fela meant by suffering and smiling. These myths, although can not be easily determined, without doubt go a long way in determining our interactions with others from different ethnic backgrounds. I can still vividly remember the numerous sermons, lectures, admonitions, and the likes that I got when leaving my beloved ancient city of Ibadan to yet another ancient city, though several hundreds of miles and rivers away. My first induction into the Igboland experience was at the Ibadan terminus of Imo Transport Company (ITC) where I met co-travelers, majority were Igbos on the way to their respective villages. I’ve never heard a language that I can’t comprehend freely spoken with wreck less abandon, throwing all cautions into the thin air like that day. Words like ego le? (How much?), ele bi no? (Where are you?) Chere godi (be patient), Onye? (Who?), abolachi (good morning), O gini? (What is it?), anumabia (I’m coming), the list is endless. The only word I could say was biko (please). The journey started with a long session of praise songs (mostly in Igbo), warfare prayers, sermons and we almost paid our tithes and offerings. With these, I was shocked that the Igbos can reverence God with such a long presence in His presence, a long session that ate deep into what I planned use to read my new John Grisham’s The Chamber. While the prayers lasted, I took a look into what lies ahead for me. Neighbors that spends hours praising and praying? Please God was all I could mutter in the prayer-soaked atmosphere. As if God was listening, an unusual quietness fell on the entire air-conditioned bus after the spiritual exercise. The only sounds were the humming sound of the engine and Sunny Bobo’s music filtering into the air through the car’s sound system. And because I couldn’t comprehend all Sunny was saying, I created my own music, thanks to my iPod shuffle, now of fond memories. The journey was quite a long one that made me critically analyze my life so far, how the Nigerian factor had made me spend more years in school than I’m supposed to, my past mistakes, missed opportunities and plans for the future. It got to a time that I had to drop both music and the novel to really reflect on how my life has been so far and how I have to reposition myself for the challenges ahead. Many co-passengers were nudging themselves while others were itching for a bite but I was deeply engrossed in plans for the future. It wasn’t that I didn’t have a plan before, only that my plan A never gave room for Nigerian factor; it was just me and God. The plan didn’t fail but there was the need for a modification. On arrival in Owerri, I was tired but fulfilled so I faced another mountain of locating the contact address that my dad arranged for me. After asking, I got a bike and had the first experience of motor bike operators in this part of the country. At a particular T-junction, there was a long traffic jam and on enquiry, we learnt that the governor and his convoy were passing by. Normally, I expected my bike to follow suit and wait till the coast is clear but events that followed shocked me beyond reasonable doubts. In the twinkle of an eye, he left the queue and jumped into the main road right in front of the convoy. In an attempt to get him (us) off the road, the policemen gave him a hot chase that had my adrenalin firing at high decibel levels. When the coast looked clear, I asked for the reason behind what he just did. In response, he said that they do such on a frequent basis without which we and other road users would be stranded for so long and somebody needs to do something, that night he felt it was his turn. I was short of words. On arrival at my destination, he asked for The events of that night made to confirm the myth that Igbos are always in a hurry and love money. Maybe it’s too early to conclude.
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