My Response to Sanusi Lamido Sanusi

I'm largely apolitical. I believe that in a democracy, the people deserve the kind of government they get. I also believe that in an argument, especially one where both sides are largely intellectuals, it would be foolhardy to blindly pitch camp with any side. Truth is, given certain facts, people have a way of viewing it through their own lenses - the half-full/half-empty conundrum.

It is in light of the foregoing that I hardly comment on various opinions flying east and west across cyberspace, especially as regards the fuel subsidy removal. If you stand in the shoes of every debater either pro or against subsidy removal, you will see that a good number of them have solid arguments. I will not bother you here with any of these arguments, but I'm sure you get the point.

But on reading Sanusi Lamido Sanusi's response on subsidy removal, I was amazed by his tone and some of his thoughts on the issue. I decided to address same. You can read it Sanusi's response here. Let me first state categorically that I'm not writing to debunk Sanusi's arguments. I'm certain that deep intellectual thought must have gone into the decision to remove fuel subsidy. Sanusi, in his response, gave reasons why the subsidy removal was the way to go, and his reasons seem very sound. I have no problem with that. My grouse is with the attitude with which this highly placed economist touts while giving his reasons. First, he begins with the faulty premise that PMS is the "fuel used by the middle class and car owners to drive around town and from city to city not to employ workers and produce goods and services." He goes on to say that when the subsidy on diesel was removed, nobody seemed to blink because it only affected the blue-collar workers; and the noise being made in all media now is simply because the rise in PMS price is going to affect the way the middle class fuels their 'smart cars'. The final straw was the plea to stop all ideological pretenses. He says this discourse should be between the elite. In other words, it has nothing to do with the masses.


Shege!

Let's look at those statements closely. Is it really true that PMS does not produce goods and services? What powers the large majority of the road transport system? Diesel? Of course not. Can every business afford the high-powered generators that consume diesel? Of course not. And who says this isn't about the masses? Trust me, when push comes to shove, the middle class will survive, and we would not be having this debate. The brunt of this whole fiasco is borne by our electrician who was booed out of the bus because he protested the fare that had doubled ("Abeg comot for my moto. You no hear say fuel na N145?). The brunt is borne by the factory worker whose lunch of boli and epa has suddenly become pricey. The brunt is borne by the ordinary worker who stays in Festac, works in Ajah and commutes to work via public transport. All these people don't own smart cars, and cannot be said to be middleclass or elite. Yet their lives have been changed dramatically by this very smart economic policy.

This snooty attitude - the belief that the problem boils down to a discussion between the elite - is perhaps one of the reasons why a sound policy like this could be rejected by millions of good thinking individuals. How else would you explain the rationale for announcing the removal of PMS subsidy right in the middle of the New Year festivities? How else could you explain the absence of any palliative measures until the country erupted? Sanusi does not deserve the credit entirely. You see, until we begin to elect ordinary Nigerian citizens into public office, there would always be a disconnect between the policies they develop and the realities of the common man.

And that, my friends, is where the problem lies. Think about it: When these policies were being formed, it would seem that no thought was given to the condition of the masses and how they would be affected by it. Even when every single social medium was overflowing with tales of woe that would befall the masses once the subsidy is removed, my CBN Governor called it ideological pretenses! Amazing! This begs the question: who then do you create economic policies for? The elite? Or the teeming masses? It is this myopic perspective...this seeming inability to look past the economics and see the big picture that has brought us to the impasse we're in now.

I believe we have the intellectual wherewithal to effect considerable change in this country. But I also believe that mind-sets like the one Sanusi portrayed in his statements need to be changed for effective and seamless change to be possible. Nigeria is not just made up of middle-class elite that require an intellectual discourse on the tenets of sound economic policy each time a controversial decision is about to be taken. In fact, the middle class form only an infinitesimal fraction of Nigerians. The majority of Nigerians are people who, on a daily basis, struggle to survive. These people must be made to understand what the future holds for them in light of these policies - communicated to them in a way and manner they understand. Measures should also be put in place to ensure that the brunt is not too blunt that it bruises. I sincerely do not need to say all of these. The simple realization that the masses exist and are affected would create the right atmosphere that would engender the right kind of thinking.

On a final note, compare Sanusi's response to the one given by Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala. You can read it here. The stark contrast between the two becomes apparent. One could argue that NOI understands the role the masses play in an economy, or that she has interacted with more sophisticated economies, or some other delicate arguments. But I'd leave that discussion for another time.

God bless Nigeria.

I'm on twitter: @olatunbode

Life & Times of a Lovelorn Lagos Sisi Part II

This is the concluding part of Somto's ordeal. Thanks to CherryWine for allowing me post this once again. Enjoy!

And so it was that Chyke came to dinner.

Throughout dinner, I was looking for somebody, anybody, to do a drive-by and kill us all, mum inclusive. How could she? How could she be so desperate for son-in-law and wedding party as to agree to let me be hooked up to this pig hovering up akpu at speeds hitherto unknown to man? Stop the press! I just remembered the chief culprit: Aunty freaking Jo. She is definitely, definitely dead to me from now henceforth. Is she for real? Is this all I’m worth? Is this what they will sacrifice me at the altar of marriage for? This….thing??? Really????????

I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me tell you how dinner went.

So I asked Chyke to come in when what I should really have done was slam the door in his face whilst yelling ‘wrong number’ (or is that only for phone calls? At this point, don’t know, don’t care) He was so oily and greasy; from his activator laden hair to his shiny palm oiled face and his greasy attitude. Instead of walking in, he all but slithered in and he was immediately being over-slimy, instantly calling my mum ‘mummy’ pronounced ‘mohmi’ not the usual ‘momeee’. Mu…what? Looking around this house, I don’t see your picture anywhere. Mummy gini? Abeg o.

My son-in-law starved mother too was beaming from ear to ear, basking in the adoration of being a random boy’s mohmi.

‘Ah, Chike. God bless you. How was the journey? How is everybody in America? How is Obama and Michelle *pause…insert the requisite dry joke laughter here* Welcome to my home’ and on and on. The two of them were having a swell time gisting about all sorts, leaving me looking like someone that had sucked on a lemon. Not that I even wanted to be a part of the gist or whatever. I still don’t know the first thing to say to Chyke. Then as if out of a trance, my mother looked up and gave me a look like she just caught me defecating in the corner of the living room and said ‘will you not bring refreshments for our guest or you want him to go to kitchen himself?’

I didn’t see why not, actually. But I dared not say that aloud to my mother.

‘What would you like?’ I asked in my best long-suffering-polite voice ‘There is coke, juice…’

‘Ah ah, Somtochi’ butted in Chyke’s new mohmi ‘Bring everything then he can select’.

Msscheewwwwww. See me see wahala. Did I invite him here? Why am I the one serving him refreshments? Which reminds me, there is a maid, why isn’t she serving this pompous maggot looking at me in an affectionate ‘little air-head’ way with a stupid, smug smirk on his face and telling his mohmi to ‘leave her’? I’m sure left to my mother, while serving the coke or whatever, I should kneel down; wine carrying style, and put the cup to his lips all in the name of serving. Rubbish. Where was my dad when I needed him so desperately? That’s right, he went to the village. Crafty mohmi, orchestrated this visit to coincide with when my daddy would not be at home. Drats!

Nothing doing, after he had downed the entire pack of juice, it was on to the dinner specially prepared for him. And that’s when the conversational (barely) beast in Chyke was let loose. In between hefty morsels of akpu and 25 licks of hand per second, he asked

‘Somtochi’ the nerve of some people sha ‘how old are you?’

“28. She’s going on 29 actually’ added my mum, helpfully ‘but she looks so young for 29 don’t you think?’

I mean, what next? Will they open my mouth and inspect my teeth or something abi which one is this ‘final sales’ schpiel mohmi Chyke is doing?

‘28. Fine gyal like you, why have you not married now?’ the ever tactful Chike asked

‘I haven’t been asked’ sez I.

‘You know all these young girls and their yanga’ again, mohmi, finishing off with an uncomfortable laughter.

‘So’ I said, in an attempt to drown my mother out of the conversation ‘what do you do?’

‘I have a Nigerian food stuff store in Oklahoma’

‘Ah, that’s a very good business. You can never go wrong with anything the mouth eats’ my mum, refusing to be drowned out. ‘All the young women there must just be chasing you. A young successful man like yourself.’

‘Well, American girls are too exposed for me. I prumize myself that when I am ready to marry, I come back home and pick a girl with little exposure and take her over there with me so she can bear and raise my kids.’ Said Chyke in his ‘Iboricana’.
Over where? Who told this moron that I was not exposed? Is the burial-style material fooling him? Or is it that he can’t hear my over-cultured English (made even more so because I was trying to prove a point to my mother as to our English disparity) See how men put themselves in trouble. Coming home to pick random girls you don’t know to be baby making machines=gross stupidity. All the while, my mother was encouraging his nonsense and punctuating it with the occasional ‘that’s right’.
‘Somtochi, are you working?’ he asked

‘Yes. I am an accountant with Akintola Delloite’ I replied.

‘Working class woman ehn?’(does he even know the meaning of working class?) he chuckled with my mum joining in. ‘Me, I don’t like women working and working o. Who will raise the children? When we reach Oklahoma, you will just be helping me in the store. I have plenty money and I can give you everything you need and even be sending money home to them mohmi’ he decreed.
‘Yes. A woman must do as her husband says’ replied my mother.

Is this woman kidding me? Husband??? Btw did my father tell her to quit nursing for him? She raised me to be a strong woman and all for the sake of marriage, she wants to dumb me down. Are they both normal? The only way I’m following this creep to America is if I’m in a body bag, stone cold dead. All my ACCA will be used in asking whether people want yam or plaintain. God forbid. I’m not interested in having his oblong headed, short arsed babies either. How revolting.

The dinner dragged on and eventually, it was time for Chyke the gross to go. Hallelujah…Hallelujah…Hallelujah…Hallelujah…Halleeeeeelujahhhhh. The only positive side to the dinner was, Chyke and my mother got on like a house on fire. They got on so well, I thought they would be great for each other. She could follow him to Oklahoma and sell yam and ogiri with him. Mscheeeeeewwww. When he was leaving, my mother made me walk him out of the house to his car. Her way of giving us some ‘alone’ time. I wish she hadn’t.

‘Mehn that was a good food. It has been long since I have home cooking. This is why I need a wife to come over there and help me out’

I think he just needs a maid.

‘Out of the laundry list of duties your wife will perform and what she will be like, you didn’t talk about love or companionship once. Why’s that?’ I asked.

He laughed a long, hearty laugh and said 'Women and their love.*punctuate with more laughter*Right now, love is not really important for me. I just wanna have a fine, strong wife who will bear and raise my kids. Love will grow eventually’

*buzzer sound* wrong answer.

‘Well, it was nice to meet you Chike’ Not. ‘Take care of yourself’.

Then it happened. Chike actually…..puckered up!!!! Eeeeewwwww. Like I was going to let his Vienna sausage lips touch mine. And he kept advancing with his eyes closed and mine wide open in horror.[Now, this is Bomb!'s insert - I would've slapped the living daylights outta the guy's oily hair! What nerve! This can't even be described as kissing on the first date. Pity Somto's more culture than I] Eventually, I gathered my wits and almost at the last minute, I turned my cheek to block the onslaught. You could see his confusion that I wasn’t ready to jump on his all giving gravy boat kissing band wagon. He eventually drove off after giving me his number and eliciting a promise from me that I would call.

Walking back inside, my mum was all lit up like a Christmas tree. ‘so?’ she asked knowing what response she wanted to hear
‘Oh mother, he’s the man of my dreams. I’ve always wanted a Neanderthal to whisk me far away from my family, from all I know and love. Also, I can’t wait to give up my lifelong dream of being an accountant for being a trophy, child bearing, food stuff sales assistant. I’m getting merrhid!!! Quick let’s start making plans’ I replied.

‘Somto, be serious now. He’s a good prospect o. He can take care of you and you will be living in America’ my mum replied
‘Mum, I’ve already lived “over there”. You do remember that I lived in England AND I came back of my own free will, so this America thing doesn’t score him any brownie point. How can you even see me and that boy together? He can’t even speak English. See how….’

‘SHUT UP’ my mother thundered. ‘English? What do you want to do with English? Is the one you are speaking not enough? Your mates are married and you are here nitpicking, talking about English. You better be wise’

I looked at my mum for a while and I said in my calmest voice ‘nothing recommends Chike to me. So, no. Thank you’.

Just then, the phone rang and it was the harbinger of Chike, Aunty Jo. The first thing my mother said was ‘she said she doesn’t want o. That he can’t speak English. Jo, save me o’.

Aunty Jo asked to speak to me. ‘Somtochi, this boy is a very good boy from a good family. He can take care of you very well. Also he is an American citizen. I wouldn’t want us to lose him’.

Lose him???? Take care of me???? What were all these stupid buzz words? I decided to be politely frank with Aunty Jo, after all, she was dead to me. ‘Aunty, thank you. But maybe another girl will like Chike. He is definitely not for me. AT ALL’ I answered.

Excuse me for wanting to make a sensible choice in marriage. Chike was no prize. He was an uncouth idiot, with archaic ideas. They just want me to get married. Nobody was looking at the eventual trouble that will arise when I refuse to give up work, when I show the level of my exposure, when I refuse to be the quiet wife in the backroom of the foodstuff shop quietly doing the stock taking, who only spoke when spoken to, when I could no longer veil my disgust which was just about thinly veiled right now cos I know I never have to see him again. I’m a modern woman. I have a job I love and I live in a country I like. I would love to get married but to the right person who is not trying to morph me to the woman he thinks is ideal. I am ideal enough as I am and even if I have to make changes to accommodate a man, they will have to be subtle changes that I would be happy to make because I love him and nothing will be too much trouble for the man I love not these types of changes for a guy I can’t even stand.

I'm even more upset about the changes I am seeing in my mother with regards to this marriage thing. My mother who has raised me to be a self-sufficient woman, within the blink of an eye wants me to forget life long lessons just so they can say her daughter is married. Wow.

Anyways, they may be right, maybe I’m too picky and that’s why I’m not married. I left the sitting room for my room with my mother bellowing ‘ I WILL NEVER INVOLVE MYSELF IN YOUR MATTER AGAIN. IF YOU LIKE MARRY, IF YOU LIKE DON’T MARRY. UNGRATEFUL GIRL!!!!!!!’Yeah right mother, until the next opportunity presents itself then?

Somto

Chai! May God help us all. Thanks again to Funto , for bringing two bloggers togerra

Where is home?

I had a little argument at work today. The minor dispute was between me and some of my colleagues and the issue was about the concept of home. Diran, who is one of the most verbally constructive person I've ever known, was of the opinion that home is a psychological phenomenon. Using his quick command of the English language, he put it straight forward that where you call your home doesn't have to do with who or what is in there, but how you feel. And I totally agreed with him.

Arinze on the other hand, who is one very brilliant chap and who calls everybody 'fellow' ("Why is this fellow parking here??", "When is this fellow coming?") objected vehemently. He said, "How on earth can your home be a thing of the mind? That's not possible!"

Odunsi, also, who is my boss, joined the Arinze train. He said that there's no where on earth that can be compared to his village, in spite of any dearth of social amenities. "I feel totally at home in my village", he said.

The argument spanned our entire break period, and even spilled into our work time. Arinze was busy spilling words like 'roots', 'origin', 'family' etc. "Your home is your connections to your roots," he argued. "It has nothing to do with the mind". In fact he gave a very funny analogy. He said when one goes to the toilet and feels at peace, does that make the toilet your home? I couldn't help laughing, in spite of the jab towards my argument. In a little while the row subsided, and we went back to work.

On my way home, I had to reflect further on our heated conversations. Who exactly had the right definition of home? Was I wrong? Or was Arinze just bamboozling everybody?

Having looked at both sides critically and objectively, I came up with one conclusion: we were both right! The home has both concrete and abstract elements. Concrete in the sense that a proper home, in the ideal sense of the word, must consist of your parents (or children), or other memorable elements. It could be your favourite tree in the centre of the garden, or the smile on your grandmothers face when she sees you - something tangible should be part of what we call home.

But on the other hand, if we isolate these physical components, on their own, they'll mean nothing! What is there in a bloody tree surrounded by weeds?? Or in a crooked old smile with brown dentition having one or two teeth missing?? These by themselves don't have any special meaning, except those we give to them. In other words it's the feelings we associate with these things and people that make them special. It's the artifacts, and the emotions they effuse in us, that make a home a home.

Having established that both reasoning are sound, there is now the question of superior argument. Which of these two logically sound arguments is superior to the other? Two arguments may make sense, but one has to make more sense. To me the one which makes more sense is...(yes, you guessed it!)... Diran's argument - what i'd like to call the psychological logic!

It would be severely limiting, not to talk of unfair, to link the word home with family, or roots, or origin, or any of those other sentimental phrases my friend Arinze was touting. What about those with no family or no clear discernible roots? What happens to the orphan whose first conscious moments were in arms of an angry and dissatisfied social worker? Where would the orphan call home? Under the bridge where he was born and discarded? Or should the poor thing, in his quest for home, go looking for his parents who abandoned him?

Why am I even going too far sef? What happens to the regular kid who has strong roots, and origin, but who is grossly maltreated, or simply misunderstood 'at home'? The only place he would likely call home is the little corner of his room where he retreats to each day.

Or consider someone like me who has never been to his village before. I'm Ekiti, and proud; but if I get Arinze and Odunsi right, when my parents dies, then there's no where I can call home again. Kai.

Odunsi said whenever he goes to his village, he is thrilled, happy, content, in short, he feels 'at home'. But if I dare venture into my village square, I'd feel lost, confused, dejected and severely unhappy. What's missing from these two seemingly similar experience??

Let's look from another perspective: If home is about ancestral roots and origin, then half the population of the free world would come and celebrate Christmas in Africa, just because their great-great-great-great-(perhaps, even another great)-grand parent was an African slave. In fact, Malcolm Gladwell, the bestselling author of Outliers traced his ancestry through his Jamaican mother, through his slave grandmother, down to his 'roots' to some certain Ibo tribe of West Africa. I wonder why I don't see him carrying his backpack and mosquito net every winter on his way to Naija looking for home.

I think I've written enough. And I'm sure you catch my drift. Home is where your family is; the place where your fondest memories exist. But more importantly, home is just where and what you make of it!