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!

Gratitude

I was walking along the streets of Unilag one day, and this young man approached me. Although I couldn't quite recollect his name, I knew I knew him. He stepped up to me and after all the pleasantries, he said, 'I read your blog, and it was really nice. I was inspired. Please keep it up!' That was like the best thing anyone said to me that day. It's not enough to write and think you're writing good. I think it makes a whole lot of sense, and much difference if someone else is blessed or inspired from your writings.

Another day, as I logged in to facebook, I saw this message in my inbox:

Hey!

I know you have no idea who I am. But I read an article that I believe you wrote about the role that individuals play in perpetuating the corruption in Nigeria by condoning bribery (of police officers).

I thought it was very insightful & well written. So it led me to your blog and FB profile . . .

Thanks for sharing your thoughts.

Wow! I was mega tripped after reading that. And I still am. Thank you, Damie. As M.I. said, God bless you ma!

For all of you guys that take the time to read my ramblings, this is for you. You know how the love songs says 'There'll be no sun without you...etc", well...what's the point of giving, if there's no hand to receive; whats the point of loving, if no heart perceives? You guys are the icing on the cake - the essence. You guys give meaning to everything. Thank you!

Another bunch of people to whom I'd gladly share this gratitude with are those writers who inspire me. The trip here is that these people are everyday people, not superstars or celebs (at least not yet). First on the list is my friend Benita. You should read her Changed Man? and see what an amazing writer she is. Then there is Towun, who wrote a poem for his mum when she died. A heart made of ice will melt at these words, believe me! Towun was my roommate in school oh - one very typical guy with a big head obviously filled with creative genius.

Then there's Zainab. This babe writes, sings, plays the guitar, designs websites and designs space rockets for NASA! (ok, that last one is jara! :) ). Her ingenuity is incredible! Check this out!

Others are bloggers who I stumble upon through my sojourn around the blogosphere.

There's this hilarious babe, who made me cackle with laughter right in my office when she wrote this. There's also Rayo, whose mind I'm in love with btw (shhh! don't tell!).

These people give me the impetus needed to break my literary lethargic moments. Their words stimulate and motivate me intellectually, and sometimes emotionally sef! Thanks guys. May your ink never run dry.

Ciao!

PS: I got tired of my blog's insipid facade and decided to give it a facelift. Lemme know if you like it. It just might change again...

Coherence

I always make it a habit of going through my past write-ups, and I always get astounded at its coherence. Don't get me wrong, I don't gloat in my literary prowess...far from it. I'm humbled at the fact that I can piece these words all together. And I always wonder how I manage it. I can't help but thank God, at least for coherence.

Check out this poem I wrote for my friend Benita during her birthday. She called me during my birthday and sang the happy birthday song to me. And her voice blew me away. So I decided to retaliate :). Here it is. It's amazing (I may be biased. You be the judge). Enjoy...

Happy Birthday
I wish I could sing you a song
And take your breath away
I wish you would sing along
And perhaps, mask my bray

I wish I could wear a thong
And you watch as I sway
Then you'd wish i'd stick to the song
Or flee the scene without delay!

But since I won't dare sing
Or with my dance ruin your day,
I wish just one thing
Just one thing, for you I pray

Faith in the midst of adversity
Hope in the midst of fear
Love in the midst of animosity
Strength, the strength to bear

(c) Jideolat 21092009

Agonies of Love

I remember the very first time I fell in love. I was doing my medicals, at the Medical Centre, Unilag, having secured my admission into school few weeks before. I remember where I sat, waiting for some blood work, or something - my memory fails me in that direction. But what I'll never forget is the person I saw walking up to me. She was of average height, fair and incredible beautiful. She wore no makeup, and had a simple pink shirt on with denims, yet her pulchritudinous demeanor was striking. She walked straight, perfect poise, with subtle strides, each pace bringing her closer to my direction. She was walking towards me. WALKING STRAIGHT AT ME! I braced myself as she stepped up to me. Then she spoke. My God, she spoke! Apparently she needed directions of some sort. She was also a first year student like myself, having come to the medical centre to complete her medicals too. I can't remember what she said, and I hope my response was coherent enough, but I remember her walking away, and I clearly remember that I was holding my breath. Had to consciously urge myself to breathe. As I watched her leave, I knew I had fallen in love.

She was in my faculty, in a related department. So fortunately we took the same courses. And as you'd have guessed, I always looked for an opportunity to sit close to her, stealing a glance at those feline features once in a while. And to top it off, we had similar friends. So, whenever we meet on the corridor, or something, and she's walking with a friend that I know, I'll stop over and say,

"Hi, wassup?"

Then I'd turn to her friend (my friend too), and say,

"Ah ahn (feigning surprise)...do you know Halima? (let's call her Halima - and of course, i know my friend knows Halima. I've been stalking the two of them from the corners of my eyes all week!)

And then Halima says,

"Jide, you know Wale too? (lets call her friend (my friend too), Wale)

"Of course," I'd respond, patting Wale on the back. "I've known Wale for years!!!" (I actually just met him over the weekend, as a result of my stalking activities). And Wale wouldn't dare saying anything to the contrary. Boys' Honour.

Inevitably, she started warming up to me small small. We started to talk. I sometimes keep a seat for her in class, just, you know...to keep the wheels of our rapport constantly oiled. Things were falling nicely in place. Luck, it seems, or something more potent, was smiling ever so brightly on me that semester.

There's some inexplicable communication that occurs when a guy likes a girl. And girls are so adept at picking up those signals rapidly. In Halima's case, she didn't slack. She knew that I liked her, heavily. And that information proved fatal to whatever hint of hope I had.

You see, when a boy likes a girl, and the girl doesn't like the boy as much, or even at all, the boy stands the chance of being used. Or at best, being taken advantage of. Same thing goes vice versa. I learnt this the hard way. Halima started behaving strange. She began trying hard to make me jealous, for some out-of-this-world reason. And we weren't even dating - still at that look-in-her-eyes-and-get-flutters-in-my-stomach preliminary phase. One particular event stands out in my memory. It was our matriculation and we were all taking photographs. After taking shots with all the other girls, I came over to her side in a bid to snap with her (I saved the best for last! :) ). When taking pictures with friends, you'd normally put your hands around them, or hold their hands, or do something crazy, just to make the whole process fun. But this girl, this girl who always got visits from me every evening in her hostel, this girl who I always surprise with gifts at regular intervals, this girl whose presence makes my heart palpitate, this girl whom I'd gladly stand in front of a speeding truck for, this girl. This girl said I shouldn't hold her!

"Just stand beside me", she said.

Her friends around were alarmed.

"Halima, what is wrong with you," they asked.

She didn't bother responding to them. She was the tiger, and I was the helpless bleeding zebra in between her jaws. I was in love.

And in spite of all that, in spite of the embarrassments and pain, in spite of the bruises and heart aches, I still gave excuses for her.

"She'll come to," I kept telling myself, "She's just immature."

I was the immature one.

It went on for a couple of months until I decided to bone. I realized that falling in love makes you susceptible to a lot of pain. It opens your heart wide and positions you for a fall. The only person who you can safely fall in love with, is someone who is also in love with you. But the question is, how do you figure that out? And how certain can you be? Another of life's paradoxes.

But the pain made me grow up. It changed my perception of life and love. And according to Nietzsche, what cannot kill me will only make me stronger. Truth is, the feelings associated with falling in love is ephemeral. It's the aftermath that really counts. Countless of stories have been told where one falls for the other and everything is perfect for a little while. Then one of them changes, and the supposed love turns to something cynical, or even sinister. Falling makes you see your partner through rose-coloured glasses. You don't see her faults, you see her strengths. In fact, her faults is the main reason you're falling anyway. You love the way her eyes look when she's angry at you...or the way her backside sways each time she walks out on you in public. And you'd probably think she hangs out with all those guys because she's a very friendly person.

What arrant nonsense!

Halima's episode made me realize that I could simply skip the falling in love part and jump straight to loving - jump straight the real thing, and see the person for who she really is. And love the person for who she really is. This way, they wouldn't be surprises in the future.

But until I fell in love again, before I put the whole tripping thing behind me. This time, it was a girl in my class, who taught I was getting my bread 'buttered on both ends'. But that's another story for another time.

I'm still carrying a flag for Halima. A small one. I guess that's why they calling it 'falling in love'. You never can't seem to be able to completely stop once you start, until, well, you hit solid ground. And die.

Musings of a 1st Class Graduate

And here I was, thinking that all I need to do is to graduate with a 1st class, and the world would be at my feet! You can imagine my shock (and disgust) when I finally finished with the first class and nobody was calling. OK, just a few called, but with the silly emphasis we place on a first class degree, you'll think that Multiple MDs would come knocking at my door.

Now, don't get me wrong. Interviewers are always wowed at first class graduates. These guys seem to have an edge when presented amongst their peers. But the truth is, does that edge guarantee a job? Or what's the use of the interviewers drooling all over you and licking your feet, saying you've got the best grade/qualification for the job, and yet you don't get the job? Call it the paradox of the Nigerian job seeker. So, I'm thinking: there has to be something else...an extra quality that stands one out.

At the end of the day, I finally got 2 appointment letters in my hands. Just two!! Imagine! I know there would be some people who would call me greedy and say that there're are million of people out there who would give their right leg for just one letter. Well, those millions of people didn't make a first class degree. I'm not proud; I'm just frustrated. And annoyed.

And then, there would be the other group of people who would say, "Ah ahn...Jide, thank God for the two you have nah!! Some have food but cannot eat..." To those ones, I'll say that I didn't work my a$$ off in school literally only to get two letters. Once again, don't misconstrue: I'm grateful to God. Eternally! Who helped me with the first class in the first place sef? It's Him. I'm just venting my frustration. And, well, annoyance.

Funny how life turns out.

Twas when I had the two letters in my hands that it hit me: none of these people employed me because of my class of degree. Sure, they knew I made a 1st class, but they hired me because of particular set of skills I possess and a particular set of attitude to my job. In fact, I never even wrote tests. I was cut off from the hiring process and went straight to the interview phases and bam!

I then realized that employers would prefer first class people to first class degree holders. In other words, it's your person that counts, not your kpali!

So if you didn't make a first class and you're beating yourself up, pls stop. Develop yourself personally and morph into that first class person employers would live to have. And don't mind starting small. Make the best of small, and watch your small grow.

And to you my first class mates, your cardboard paper can only take you this far. This where the rubber meets the road. We're forever doomed to proving our worth in the midst of others. But nothing do you. You have what it takes. Show your colour!

Bound In Freedom

On one interesting Wednesday evening, I was reading my friend’s note “Insomnia, Thoughts on Home”, and what he said there touched me deeply. I’d suggest you read it too, before reading this. You’ll get a clearer picture of this note. I wanted to comment immediately on his note, but I decided to comment by writing a note of my own. Wanting to give it some thought, I deferred writing the note to a later date.

The next morning was my Community Development (CD) day, where all corpers all around Awka assemble at their Local Government Secretariat. So as I kitted up in my loose khaki pants and fitted white t-shirt, my mind drifted through the would-be contents of my note. I thought of how much my country meant to me and what could be done to make it a better place. Top on my mind was the issue of corruption. I bordered mainly on the ideal and on how disappointed I was with our current leadership. I intended to do a good job intellectually blasting them to smithereens. Weren’t they to be blamed for the sorry state our country is in, I asked myself. Couldn’t all these leaders be like Prof. Dora Akunyili, who stood her ground and spat on the hideous face of corruption. Or like Babatunde Raji Fashola, who is doing a great job revamping Lagos State? I certainly was going to give all who cared to listen a piece of my mind. I was fed up, I mused. Little did I know that pretty Miss Serendipity had interesting eye-openers in store for me that morning.

I came out of my apartment and hailed a bike because I was running late. On our way, just outside my street, we met a police checkpoint. And since my okada man wasn’t wearing his helmet and, as it turned out, didn’t have his license with him, we were told to stop by one lanky cop. After the usual, “Where is your license?” and “Why are you not wearing your helmet” from the cop, which was met with blank stares from both the okada man and myself, I was told to come down from the bike and step aside. As I alighted, I tried to plead and beg the policeman, after all I was government pikin! I shouldn’t be kept waiting like this. But alas, my pleas met with deaf ears. As I calmly stepped aside, trying to put the little remaining pieces of my pride together, the policeman whispered to the bike man and moved away.

Curious, I walked to the bike man and asked what the policeman said.

“He say make I give am two hundred naira, and I no get anything. I just comot”

“Two Hundred Naira?!” I asked in alarm. In this part of Nigeria, the customary bribe given by the men of the wheel to the men of the force was N20. And I use the word “customary” as literally as possible. This point was made clear to me one day when I entered a bus headed to Awka from Enugu. The driver had a stash of N20 notes in one corner of his dashboard. I wondered at its purpose, till I saw him give it out one by one to men in black carrying guns at each police checkpoint. And were there so many checkpoints! So I understood that the N20 bribe was status quo.

Yet this officer of the law, whose name was boldly written across his chest, had the guts…the effrontery to ask for a two hundred naira bribe!! What nerve! My head puffed up with indignation as I strode to where the rotten cop stood.

“Sir,” I said, “please let us go. I’m sure the bike man has learnt his lesson”. (Halfway through my walk to the cop, I reasoned that any acrimonious display would be unwise. This man had a gun.)

“I have told him what to do,” replied the cop, whose real name is Ifeanyi something…. “Let him do what I told him to do”.

At this point he decided to give me a lecture, seeing that I was educated.

“You see,” he said, “it is people like him that give us policemen a bad name. He knows what to do, but he didn’t do it. Simple license he does not have. I have told him what he is supposed to do. Let me tell you something Corper: I am corrupt. And I’m not ashamed to say it. He is not going anywhere until he does what I asked.”

His last few statements were like a slap to my face! I felt dazed. I walked subconsciously back to where the bike man was, gave him a N50 note and told him to go and pay up. As he stood up to go pay, the Oga of my self-proclaimed corrupt law enforcer came up and said,

“Corper, who stop you?”

Sensing a little ray of hope, I pointed.

“Ifeanyi, why you dey stop corper? Allow corper, make corper go.”

Feeling a little sense of relief, I was about to call the okada man back, hoping to retrieve my 50 bucks when Ifeanyi retorted.

“Oga, corper wan pay oh.”

“Corper wan pay?” the Oga said. “Oya make corper pay quick quick, make corper go!”

Unbelievable!

The man paid, I got on the bike and we left.

I was mad. I felt raped…felt victimized by the same set of people who were supposed to protect me. As the bike took me to my destination, my mind replayed what just happened, and I related it to Jide Amole’s note. This is exactly what we’re talking about, I thought. How can this country be any better when people like this still prowl the streets? They ought to be disciplined! Punished!! Killed!!! Didn’t someone rightly say that desperate times call for desperate measures?? Well, if this ain’t desperate times, then what is?

But this bout of righteous indignation didn’t last long, thank God. Blessed, as I was, with the gift of foresight and with a knack for introspective thinking, I started to ask myself some questions: why did I give the bribe? Couldn’t I stand for what I believe was right and demand that the cop did the right thing? Was my desire to get to my CD on time greater than my desire to see a better Nigeria? And as Coldplay rightly put it:

Am I a part of the cure
Or am I part of the disease?
- (Coldplay, Clocks)

I realized that by succumbing to the pressure and giving the bribe, I inexorably made myself an intricate part of the malignant tumor plaguing this country. I imagined 10 years from now, when I’ll probably be holding one post or the other; if I encounter a tight spot like this, would I give in, and give (or receive) the bribe? It starts from giving N50 bribes and quickly escalates to N50million. Who says every corrupt public office holder assumes office with corrupt intentions? More often than not, these men go into office with the bid to ‘change’ things, but get sucked into the black hole of corruption. If you can’t beat them…you know.... Would I become like them, I thought? I have started showing promising signs already: giving N50 bribe just because I didn’t want to miss my CD!! And here I was thinking of writing a note, trying to point the finger at the people presently in power! Who was I kidding? Their eyes housed a speck. Mine, a NEPA pole!

At this point I had to be completely honest with myself. And I decided that when next I’m faced with a decision that would question my integrity in any way, I’d stick to what’s right. I won’t give the bribe. Neither will I take it. This is no longer a case of espoused theory. I have been there, done that. I know what it feels like feeling trapped and thinking there no way out, save the easy street. Next time it will be different. I made the promise to myself.

And this is my plea to all youths all over this country, whether you’re serving, or still in school. Make up your minds to stand for what is right. Get ready to sacrifice that CD, that event, that position, that amount of money, whatever. This way, ten years from now, twenty years from now, a new set of political leaders would emerge – a new breed of incorruptible people impervious to all the antics of men of the earlier years. This set of people, you and I, I believe, would move this great country to where it belongs.

Some people would argue, albeit correctly, that the problems of the nations have nothing to do with me and my miserable N50 bribe. There’s a lot more at stake. People at the top echelons are siphoning billions every day, right before our very eyes! The problems originate from the top, and therefore the solutions should come from there. I agree. This is a matter of a problem having two or more solutions. For instance, 2 plus 4 equals 6. Also 3 plus 3; and 1 plus 5. All are correct. If we look our problems in a top-down fashion, then the only solution would be like one proffered by one Ghanaian leader, who literally killed everybody in power. In spite of the brutal effectiveness of that solution, two wrongs can’t simply make a right. Ask that particular Ghanaian leader who is in some asylum somewhere. But I prefer to consider our problems using a bottom-up approach. It starts with me. If I change, only then can I effect change.

Look at it this way: the Minister for Education that my friend, Jide Amole was talking about cannot be the minister forever. One day, it will be you Leke. It will be you, Femi. It will be one of you reading this. At that point, will you throw your own N500bn party for your son’s graduation from Princeton, and spur a fresh round of denunciation, complaints, objections, newspaper columns and Facebook notes?

I’ve listened to some of my colleagues who have voiced out their opinions that if they get ‘there’, they’ll chop their own! As Asa creatively put it:

I hear my baby say
I wanna be president
I wan chop money
For my government
What he don’t know
What he wouldn’t know
What he can’t know
Jailer, jailer…
- (Asa, Jailer)

With this kind of mindset, we’d just be going round and round in this vicious cycle. We have to pause, really think deep, and make up our minds as to what our decision would be when we get to that crossroad. Will we be like me on that Thursday morning, and give/take the bribe? And then blame it on the corrupt system? Or would we have the guts, the temerity to stand up for what we truly believe in? As someone said, only time will reveal the true threshold of our tenacity.

I’ve written too much already. As Asa ended that song, be good oh, be good oh, be good!

We come into power
Into a place yet unspoiled
then it all becomes sour
no thanks to our lack of toil

We steal, we kill, we plunder,
We get away with silky smooth lines:
"No dull youself oh, I tell you, my brother.
You better make hay while the sun shines!"

How long shall these vices last
I observe with disdain
The labours of our heroes past
Shall they now be in vain?

Yet amidst the dirt, the soot, the grime-filled fiefdom
Still, what can I see?
One great nation bound in freedom
Peace and unity!

We will get there! Amin.

©Jide Olatunbode 2009

My Book

Have a book coming out soon titled "5 Points Strategies: Keys to Academic Success". The books tells the true stories of several undergraduate students, why they succeeded and why they failed. First draft of the manuscript is out already. Trying to dot all my i's and cross all my t's. I'm also looking at building a website for the book too...lets see what happens. For that I'm employing the expertise of my very good friend, Zainab Sule of Pishon Design (http://www.pishondesigns.org/). It's going to be a blast!

Stay tuned!

Growing Up

I'm a bit sad when I think of all the pleasures I had growing up. Now, I'm not talking about sweets and biscuits, those are ephemeral. I'm talking about the feeling of having no care in the world. That youthful, unrestrained, exhilarative sensation that makes you do whatever you want, however you want, at whatever time suits you. Money was designed to be spent. Life was a very big amusement park, and time was the giant Ferris wheel. Tomorrow was a never-to-be-used term, never to be given even a passing thought, until it becomes today (except of course, when tomorrow was your birthday…).

Then, life was really good. Too bad I had to grow up.

I think growing up was like a slap on my face. All of a sudden I was expected to save??? I was expected to see what tomorrow was going to be like before tomorrow even comes? As if it isn’t hard enough thinking about the next half hour. I was expected to spend my time wisely? I was expected to work; to strive; to labour; to sweat!! Jeez!! I didn’t bargain for any of this. Really! Can’t I just remain a kid? I want to remain a kid. Now I know what Peter Pan must have felt like.

I need my kid years back. Now!

Why ?

“Hey, you...stop there!”

The man who barked walked towards me. I couldn’t see him in the poor light, but his figure became clearer as he approached, and I noticed he was holding some large item slung across his right arm. As he drew nearer I realized with trepidation that he was carrying a gun. A submachine gun. My body went into quick alert, my brain racing faster than the speed of light. Are they cult member? Armed robbers? What?

“What is in your bag?” the man asked. And as he did, another dark figure quickly approached me. And he too was carrying a gun! Jesus! Now I started sweating in the evening cold. This second person came to me rather quickly and grabbled my back pack. I started to protest. I held my backpack firmly. These guys were not as big as I am, neither were they as built. So in a normal contest, I could best them easily. But this wasn’t a normal contest. They had an undue advantage. They had guns.

“What?? What is the problem”, I asked feebly...with a hint of plea in my tone.

“We’re anti-cult officers,” the first man explained. “Don’t be afraid.” I could see his face clearly now, and on an ordinary day, he’d go for a nice young man, without the gun, that is.

“We’re anti-cult officers,” he reiterated. “Some cult members exchanged bullets with my men this evening. What is in your bag and where are you coming from at this time of the night?”

As he was speaking, his brother, who did not bother to say anything to me, finally seized my bag, opened it and started grabbling the contents. By this time, my head was cooled a bit. They weren’t robbers. They were more like police men, without the badges, without the uniform...and of course, without the twenty naira question hanging in the air.

I stay in Awka, in Anambra state. Here, we hear the sound of gunshots almost on every other day. Where my apartment is used to be the headquarters of cult members, until some vigilante group were employed as watchmen. So since I arrived here, I haven’t had any dealing with any cult member or seen anything suspicious, hence my moving around at night. This night I had to surf the net urgently and I took a while to finish. So here was I, strolling down on my street, humming Cold Play when these gunman approach.

“I’m coming from the café, and I have my laptop in my bag,” I replied him, with a bit of forced confidence appearing.

“Don’t you know where you’re living?” Gunman Number 1 asked. “How can you be carrying your laptop at this time of the night around?”

I was silent. At this time, Gunman Number 2 was still searching every hidden crevice in my bag, looking for a hidden weapon. When the search was finally over, I was handed over my bag and told to leave.

“Be careful not to stay this late next time oh!” Said Gunman Number 1, who I was already starting to like.

Getting to my room I heard the story from my flatmates how bullets from both cultists and vigilante were pouring down the streets like raindrops, and the sound of them like incessant thunderbolts; how the vigilante guys weren’t they bit afraid of the cultist, and how they finally put them at bay. It made me wonder what the world was turning into.

I remember a friend telling me of his armed robbery experience here in Awka. He and his colleagues in the bus were asked to get down by these eleven men with guns, and after he explained that he was a Youth Corper serving in Anambra State, he was told to step aside. “Don’t worry,” said one of the robbers. “I’m a student too like you. A medical student. It is the government we’re after. Not you”

Granted, my friend wasn’t hurt in any way, (grateful too), but it was the robber’s words that had the most impact. He was a Medical student!!! You’ll think that people who carrying guns and raid innocent victims are illiterate degenerates, but these people were educated. Very educated. So I asked myself , why? Why? Why would a human being wake up in the morning and decide to pick up a gun to threaten and perhaps shoot another human being? Is it hunger? Vengeance? Thirst for blood? What exactly? The more I ponder about it, the most the answer eludes me.

Who do we blame? The government that is busy creating the good roads, building schools and subsiding school fees (at least here in Awka that’s what the government do? Or should we point the finger at the parents who sent these kids to school? Or the society? I’m not too good at playing the blame game, sadly.

Here in Awka, robbers are the ones in charge. I wanted to go to the bank the other day, and I was told the banks were closed because some robbers sent a message that they were going to strike that day!!! It was such a funny occurrence, yet it wasn’t funny at all.

Picture this: a typical village square where men go about in shorts hanging their hoes from their shoulders, and the women go about in wrappers and beads around their necks. All of a sudden, the town crier bursts into the village beating his gong.

“People of Awka!! Great people of Awka!!! I bring a terrible message from the armed robbers who came last week. They said they are coming again tomorrow oh!! They are coming again tomorrow oh!!! So please be on your guards!! A word is enough for the wise! A word is enough for the wise!!!!!!””

Incredible, isn’t it!! But that’s just the way it is here. And I’m thinking: is there a solution to all these mayhem and infraction?

I’m still thinking.

And we begin...

Why on earth am I writing another blog?? I ask myself. Well, the last one I wrote was kind of private. Only available to one person alone. I deleted that blog today. Dont ask why. So, In order to vent my writing urges in some other direction, I decided to write another blog. This one will be available to you and me and you and you. I'll be writing about life in general. My life. Love in general. My love. So explore my world, our world, with me. Enjoy...