15 Apr 2007 |
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Time tells its own stories
Many years ago, Wole, a friend of mine told Emeka, another friend and me in an argument that it was better sticking with our own kind: meaning staying in Nigeria when we expressed the desire to travel overseas. It has been many years since he made the statement; many Nigerians are increasingly deserting their own kind in droves. It was revealing seeing that Nigerians were the largest applicants in the latest American lottery applications coming from Nigeria. Obasanjo’s kids are living overseas. It is safe to conclude, one of them abandoned the country completely, when she married a white man. Atiku’s wife is American; at least, I can also say he has a retirement home when his party ends in Nigeria. The rich send their kids abroad permanently; the poor scrounge for borrowed funds to send their kids abroad. Some are desperate that they go through the desert to reach the white mans land to chart a new future. So much for sticking with your own kind! Many years later, I remembered my discussions with Wole and Emeka on getting out of Nigeria after seeing someone that looked so much like Wole. It was the same music accidentally that played the night of the discussion that juggled my memory, it brought back the memories of my friend and the problems of Nigeria. I was in a night club to compensate myself for a busy week and I had decided the weather had gotten better, and it was time to loosen up in anticipation of another week. It was an interesting night. It was filled with booze, lust and temptation, the wine I took had heightened my consciousness, there was an increasing female odour and the excitement of silly thoughts. I knew I could not continue my visual escapades with the stimulating bounties of female contours in the club without ending up with a foreigner in bed the next morning. I knew finally, the alcohol was taking its toll, and I was gradually loosing it, so I decided to leave without finishing the half empty glass of Don Perignon. As I made for the door, I could feel the wobble in my knees, and a new sense of consciousness came over me while I surveyed my environment. The club was filled to the brim with a bundle of happy people, an eclectic mix of races, yet there was something strikingly familiar and similar in each one. My head ached a bit, as I struggled with my memory. I wasn’t giving up as I struggled to remember what had eluded me, yet I still failed again. On stepping out of the club, the gush of breeze delivered the light, now I knew it was their sense of community, a shared sense of purpose. And the contentment someone was looking out for you. The flirting, the gregariousness and their contentment struck a chord in my core. I had wanted similar things in Nigeria, this type of social security was elusive, Nigeria couldn’t offer it; the promises of politicians had made me grow weary. It further hit home, it was the reason I left my home country, I left out of fear, and out of desperation, out of hunger for something to do with my life. I reflected back again on the scenes at the club. It was so damn different. Right before my eyes, it was an exuberant performance that fully played out, as I watched bodies with their shuffles on the dance floor and their animated conversations, I could feel their healthy sense of kinship, it got me excited and my mind animated, the quality almost eluded me for a moment, but it was always there. But, how did a country and a people so diverse culturally, and so fiercely individualistic find this common ground? Yet there were still more tales to tell. It wasn’t the accent, the quality was something more flattering, now I knew what it was - it was the sense of human dignity that this society was willing to let its people have, irrespective of race. It was the individual choice the society was willing to let its people make, irrespective of birth, and it was the promise that awaited anyone bold enough to dare, irrespective of education. The society gave them tools and enough materials to better their lives. And in that moment of insight I lost all giddiness, and I felt a new sense of apprehension for Nigeria. It was in this state that it dawned on me that I had been cheated of my heritage. The banters I would have loved to have on this very night had been missing. I longed to chat in Yoruba, I longed to be amongst classmates, and I wanted to discuss Nigerian politics. But can I? Nigeria had pushed me out of its borders permanently to co-exist amongst strangers, yet I am contented. The country’s inability to give its people a common ground, its inability to provide the basic necessities of life flooded pessimism upon pessimism, it flooded ethnic disagreements. The roll call of ethnic militants produced an environment laden with lawlessness, despair and dysfunction; the OPC’s , the MASSOB’s, the MEND’s, and the APC’s – bred hopelessness and confusion. The lack of vision of the leaders had created a riotous mix of ethnic intolerance, kidnappings, religious riots, and armed banditry. In this odious mix, it was hard to have a public space that catered for love where the commons have a shared sense of purpose, or a healthy sense of kinship. But back here (Canada), and right now the environment was different, it was refreshing and filled with flirty escapades of men and women and people’s self actualization. I was angry that I had missed this for so long, the important years that I would never claim back. Nigeria had in the past denied me the pleasure of growing into my own. I knew the die was cast, I would never go back - This was my apprehension, five years was already gone in this country and I still had some work to do to reclaim back my dignity as human being – my self respect. Nigeria robbed me of that. Poverty and lack of opportunities had robbed me of my self worth; the need to genuflect to big pot bellied men, many of them shady characters that have no value for hard work or the ideas of building a fully functioning nation messed up my growth in the country. This makes it my third year in this fast changing city and I can reel out my achievements in these years; just like the city, my career was taking shape amidst its new found prosperity, freedom and wealth. The year before the premier had paid down the provincial debt, and there was galloping prosperity, this place, Calgary was fast becoming a city of more than mountains, Chinook wind, its cowboys and it’s Stampede. Similarly, I had paid my debt to this city too in my own little way and it was time and my turn for prosperity. I was firmly in balance in the stampede of wealth, oil workers, fortune seekers, artisans, professionals and entrepreneurs coming to a city in search of fortune, fun and a future. And for a moment I had a vision, I saw the bodies and the racial varieties again, but something in my head silently told me, in future this eclectic mix might have been condensed into just a race, a new kind of people, so what is in a race? The tragedy of desire can be found in my initial romanticism with the Nigeria, it hurt so bad when I discovered there was nothing left for me, but my new country brought back hope – my dreams were becoming reality. I had crossed the Rubicon; I wasn’t going back to the filth of elusive ideals. I couldn’t but remember Emeka’s ominous warnings when I craved and worshiped at the altar of ideals.I wish I knew, I was born and I fled a country of same race, although different languages. I knew if I didn’t leave I would be consigned to a life of misery and penury. I still remembered vividly, we had gathered on a Saturday night at the club and we talked a lot about the future and evaluated our strategies for getting out of Nigeria. His voice was barely audible above the sound playing in the background, but still firm and determined, he said, “if my little brother could die like a chicken because of typhoid, even though my parents slaved hard for this country, if my mother could retire penniless, even though she worked her butts of for the civil service, if I still have to live with my parents to afford bare necessities, even though I have a university education, what exactly do you think there is for me in this country? I remembered Wole that believed there was still hope, in spite of the increasingly difficult environment. He forcefully made his case, it was with religious zeal he said it was better sticking with your own kind, and he said it held so much hope and better promise.I thought about where Wole was now? He had lost his father, and was now surviving on the rent of the house his father left in his will. He had been out of job for almost three years. Wole for all the seeming failure was the best graduating student in his class. He deserves better. I thought of Emeka he was a now successful accountant in California and recently talked about going into property development. He was happy, very happy. And here I was gradually going through my career development many years late, but still worth it. It is challenging, yet exciting. Maybe Emeka was right, time indeed tells its stories. Life is how you view your lenses. I pray reader and if you are young and still in Nigeria, if you can get out of Nigeria, please get out; it is a devil’s world out there! Deola.Ndanusa@gmail.com
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