A conversation with some youngsters 

“Children are different these days than in your time.” This little piece of wisdom was delivered on a sigh by an 11 year old as we chatted waiting for a club meeting to start. For once I was more taken with what he had to say than with correcting the Americanism that children in Nigeria seem to have adopted and which frankly gets under my skin. 

When I asked what my impetuous friend meant, what made children these days different ‘than’ in my time? He answered, “Because their parents love them better.” My confusion was apparent so he turned to his sister and said “Sistah, help me out here, you can say it better, make her understand.” That was exactly how he said it “Sistah help me out here … make her understand.” Sistah, a teenager with two years on her brother, two years that makes a world of difference and clearly sets her out as superior, was uncharacteristically willing to help.  I was the ignoramus, the not very bright adult needing enlightenment so they forgot their own raging enmity for a moment to give me a peek into what we as adults either cannot see or just do not want to see. She launched into a convoluted explanation of why they think that they are better loved by their parents than mine loved me. Between them, they were eventually able to help me see that the problem they and their peers have is that they are too well loved.  

As far as these two young people were concerned, today’s parents do any thing, literally anything for their children to show how much they care. Today’s parents care so much about their children’s feelings and opinion that they struggle to stay in their children’s good books. What is worse, the children know it. In their opinion, it is the reason youngsters are so very spoilt that they expect to have everything they want and be allowed to do anything they please. They told stories to convince me that most young people do not need to do very much to earn parental largesse and indulgence. All it takes is to coo a little and follow up with hugs and kisses. If that does not work then they whine a little, pull long faces and go into protracted sulks. There are of course legions of aunties and uncles, related and unrelated, who wait in the wings to just provide and make sure that nieces and nephews get the very best in life without ever having to earn or deserve it. 

“In your time your parents beat you and made you do house work. I would never have survived those things you tell us your parents did to you. And you say they were training you, training you to be what, a slave?” That came from the boy who continued to contradict himself by insisting that parents these days simply try too hard to prove their love and spoil their children in the process. He said cryptically, “we know we can’t have everything but we still ask and the amazing thing is that we get.” 

Their detailed explanations set me thinking that our children are smart, smarter in the ways of the world than we ever were and that they are using us without necessarily loving us!  They know how to get what they want, they know all they have to do is put on exaggerated westernised airs and we are eating from their little hands, falling all over ourselves to make sure that they get what they ask for while they virtually get away with murder!  

Parents, supported by teachers who reel out questionable psychological principles, strive to cover up their children’s bad behaviour, some of which are extreme. The irony is that the same teachers titillate family and friends with tales of the shameful escapades of children of the rich and the trying to be rich who come to their overpriced schools. Bad behaviour is often punished with a school change even when the student has not been expelled. Issues as straight forward as poor academic performance are addressed with transfers to even more expensive schools. And for truly scandalous behaviour, the youngster might even be punished by being sent to school abroad. 

To strengthen their argument, my two companions told me about four separate friends who were transferred to other schools because the children did not want to repeat classes in the same school following poor performance. Their question was how is it possible that a child would be able to dictate terms to its parents? And when I countered by saying they had no proof that this was the case they proved me wrong by saying that siblings of their friends in the examples remained in the schools and that the families had not moved from their old residences. They then wanted to know why the parents did not insist on good performance from their children in return for the scandalous fees paid. They also wanted to know why parents too often shield their children from the consequences of bad behaviour.  

My feeble attempt to defend fellow parents only elicited more stories and they told of a boy, Kelechi, who broke into the girl’s hostel in his school because he wanted to kill Ikuo, his 13-year-old female classmate. Yes o you read right, to kill her. He went armed with a kitchen knife or so they said. Kelechi and Ikuo both attend a highbrow private boarding school in Lagos where word had been going round that Ikuo was a witch. These children, products of a technological age, identified a fellow student as a witch and they determined to have nothing to do with her. Perhaps this was why she was alone in the hostel when the other students were busy with other school activities. She probably took time out to ponder why in spite of very westernised lifestyles, there is an active belief in witchcraft and other formless powers and principalities among their peers whose parents are leaders of industry and are active members of religious institutions. 

Kelechi believed that he had been bewitched by Ikuo and told classmates about the dreams he had in which she featured prominently. He needed to rid the earth of his enchantress and found an opportunity to do so. He was only fourteen and it was fortunate indeed that Ikuo was able to get away before any damage was done. For his effort, Kelechi has been sent abroad to another school where he will be safe from oyinbo girls’ brand of sorcery. If however he becomes enchanted, he might be able to plan and execute his attack better. He may even have learnt to use a gun and might have better access to drugs that will bolster his courage.  

I dismissed the story as rumour and chastised my friends for peddling gossip. How had they come by the story, their own schools are different and are not so highbrow. I was also irritated for a different reason. I had been forced to review my skills as a parent and I was finding that I did not like what I was seeing. I had to admit to myself at least that these children were right if only in part. My life has become focussed on how to make my children’s growing up years the very best it can be. That is not wrong in itself, but the methods I have adopted cannot bear scrutiny. I am the general factotum (read slave) in my house. When the maid goes (and she is always gone), I double as maid, when gardener leaves I become gardener. I am also lesson teacher, cook, valet, washman, and car washer. You name it, I become it for my children so that they do not suffer. I allow no traumatic episodes whatsoever, especially if it will be brought on by hard work or a change in routine. Since they will not have anyone else drop them off at school 27 kilometres away from where I go to work, I do it happily although it means that I sleep less. I pick them up no matter how busy my schedule or angry the client, they just have to understand that it is about my children. I would rather walk up the street to the green grocers at the end of a particularly tiring day than send one of them to pick up potatoes. They are after all only children, they are too tired from their long day and the drive back home through Lagos traffic. Don’t forget that it was me who drove our aging car with transmission problems, soaked plugs, a burst exhaust and no air-conditioning. Clearly, no truck will smoke us out better than we do it ourselves, enough smoke comes through the space between the dash board and the cabin to keep the neighbourhood chemist in business all year round. Then because they prefer fresh potatoes to frozen, I stand at the sink to wash and peel potatoes while they gist quietly around the dining table in the name of doing homework that never get done unless I sit with them to talk them through. Drat! I did home work too when I was growing up and I did it on my own with no prompting from a loving parent. I also cleaned house, cooked for my parents, and was required to remain in the top percentile of my class or be whopped. I can cope now with raising my 3 precisely because there was no slack time when I was growing up. I would never have asked my mother for the whereabouts of my vest at anytime because I was responsible for looking after my own clothes, so I prayed instead that she should not ask to inspect my portmanteau that I had in place of a wardrobe with shelves and hanging space that my children have. But mine dare to ask me for their vest, trouser, shirt, whatever at 5:30 a.m. while I struggle to prepare lunch packs and put drinks of choice with ice in flasks. The errant item of clothing is always in the laundry basket ironed ready to be put away, I just never got round to doing that because I was telling stories or reading the little brat to sleep. He probably walked past the laundry basket on his way to shouting the question at me from the top of the stairs. Tell me how better to love? 

The conversation provided an opportunity for my own teenager to slip in vital information. She was telling me in confidence that Omoyeni was in a quandary because she could not decide whether to wait until Tunminiu goes off to Switzerland at the end of year before she took over her boyfriend. A boy will always be someone else’s boyfriend before he hits on you unless you get him right out of the cradle was my immediate and flip response. But wait a minute, which Omoyeni? Her friend, her 12-year-old friend. What is with you and boys I asked her, the edge in my voice. The quick protest was that it was Omoyeni not her now. My daughter would naturally not admit that she has an interest in boys, not to my face. I am not that indulgent so I told her firmly to tell “Omoyeni” from me that she had plenty of time to explore relationships and that any boy sniffing around her now only wants one thing. She should ask Tunmininu, I was sure that boy must have asked her for sex and been turned down was why he was now dancing  around Omoyeni. “No, he was not turned down”, was the answer that came back accompanied with a quizzical expression like what was I talking about before she went on to say, “Tunmininu does not refuse. She has dropped her pants more than a few times for more than a few boys”.  

The coke I was about to swallow came spewing out of my mouth and on to her face. I spluttered, could not stop coughing and I am sure I would have choked if I had been eating something solid. Wait, wait a minute. We are talking here about your classmate? I gave the boy a baleful glare for daring to laugh at what I thought was a very serious matter, what could be funny to him? My concern was the nonchalant way I had been told that Tunmininu “dropped her pants more than a few times for more than a few boys”. I looked again at the girl as though I was seeing her for the first time and when she showed enough discomfiture, I commanded her to tell me about it in more detail. The time for gist just passed. 

It turns out that Tunmininu is a last child whose older brothers and sisters are already in college abroad and whose parents are highflying executives with very important jobs. Tunmininu has a dedicated car and driver and as much money as she wants. The only rule she has to live by is to be home by midnight. A rule she negotiated with her mother because she has no wish to be home before midnight for the reason that her parents are seldom there and the only company she would have is hired help. So she haunts the hallways of the Silver Bird Galleria and the Palms, shopping till she drops or sitting with boys at the back of the darkened cinema halls where they get to know each other better. She has all the money she needs to buy movie tickets for her friends and then some. The only problem is that her friends, especially the girls, cannot keep the hours she does. Tunmininu has a reputation she likes for now, she is on the roll, she is popular. Well known among the boys because she puts out and envied by the girls because she is way cool and has it all. Omoyeni understands the dynamics of moving in on Tunmininu’s turf by accepting to date her boyfriend. A situation made more complicated because Tunmininu, a sixteen year old has been asked to repeat SS2 and Omoyeni is in JS2. Omoyeni is only twelve years old and is in love with love. She is willing to do dangerous things to get it including jostling turf with her senior. Her friends are urging her to wait in the sidelines until senior goes off to Switzerland at the end of the year. Note, they are not telling her to not date the boy, any boy. They are telling her to chill until her perceived rival leaves town. Meanwhile, we parents remain at sea about our children’s shenanigans while we work till body break to make sure that our ‘children’ get the best experience possible of their growing up years No responsibilities, just endless privileges.  

I sighed because there was nothing else to do for the moment. I had no advice to offer really. I simply resolved not to let my daughter out of my sight for longer than is necessary and thanked God for my limited resources, which meant that her social interactions were also limited.