₦airaland Forum

Dr. Chika Ezeanya-Esiobu delivered an inspiring talk during TEDGlobal 2017. She emphasized the importance of Africa's traditional knowledge in the advancement efforts of the region. Great Talk! Click to watch:

https://www.ted.com/talks/chika_ezeanya_esiobu_how_africa_can_use_its_traditional_knowledge_to_make_progress

Aluu 4 and Nigeria’s Search for Dignity and Progress - Dr. Chika Ezeanya Esiobu

October 2015 makes it three years since four undergraduate students of the University of Port Harcourt in Nigeria were, on allegations of mobile phone and computer theft, brutally beaten and set ablaze in a low-income community plagued by unresolved crimes. Circumstances leading to the killings remain unclear, but one clear thing is that there was no form of trial to establish guilt. The killings were carried out by community members on the testimony of one of their own. Mob “justice” is not entirely uncommon within the Nigerian polity. A system where justice can easily be delayed, denied or flipped over to frame the victim as the criminal breeds hopelessness and vendetta. After years of incubation, pent-up aggression finds reprieve in unrestrained and thoughtless actions.

Deeply worrisome still, is that three years after the incident, the Aluu 4 case is yet to make it beyond the initial hearings stages in court. The reason is not for lack of evidence or any legal shortcoming, but because the judiciary of the state where the crime was committed was shut down – until recently- in defense of the governor’s political interests. Due to a lack of faith in the state’s justice system, an angry mob set four – innocent-until-proven-guilty - young men on fire; that same judicial system is living up to the mob’s reasoning by its inability to secure speedy justice for the victims.

Despite acknowledged economic progress made in the past decade, Nigeria can still be largely classified as a society where the leadership class considers as inconsequential, the simple yearnings of the masses for self-actualization, justice, fairness and in the final analysis, a recognition of their humanity. The result is anger, a deep-seated rage that should be directed at an unjust system but which is often misdirected and aimed at easily available targets – fellow citizens. The anger of Nigerians manifests under various guises, sometimes religious, sometimes ethnic, sometimes sectional, but many times it finds raw expression in such barbaric acts as the Aluu 4 killings.

For deep and lasting change to occur in Nigeria, it is necessary for Nigerians to realize that most of us are victims of a degradation of our humanity at several stages of growth and by several individuals. Childhood for quite a few Nigerians was marked by variations of verbal abuse, in the form of discipline, by oftentimes well-meaning parents and relatives who did not understand the impact of their words on a child’s mindset. The educational history of many Nigerians cannot be related without incidents of verbal or physical abuse meted out by ill-motivated and frustrated teachers. Verbal, physical and sexual abuses are dished out by demanding bosses who know an employee will hang on to a job with his last breadth. Widespread disrespect and abuse of citizens is commonplace among Nigerian politicians, police, prison officers and other government authorities. Fellow citizens such as bus drivers, traders, customer service officers, civil and public servants, themselves products of systemic disrespect, disregard and violence, give out disrespect, disregard and violence in their everyday interactions. Nigerians are a people scared and a people scarred. A people whose environment has etched deep in their souls, anger, insecurity, inferiority complex, lack of self-respect and appreciation of human dignity.

Nigerians need morally sound and empathic leaders to guide them out of their present predicament. Leaders are needed in Nigeria across sectors including education, commerce, politics, religion, entertainment etc. But rather than keep waiting in perpetuity, the time has come for Nigerians to make progress by themselves and for themselves, to be the change they want to see in Nigeria. One committed person at a time, Nigerians can take a decision to bequeath a better clime to the next generation than they experienced. That violence and disrespect were bequeathed to one generation does not mean that it must bequeath violence and disrespect to the next generation. By a conscious understanding of the effects of the Nigerian system on the collective social-psychology of the nation, Nigerians can, at formal and informal levels, begin to educate and work themselves out of the cycle of anger and self-rejection in which the country has sunk. Indeed, the better route for Nigerians is the path of individual responsibility for personal and national transformation.

Innovation, creativity, personal growth and national development are hatched in serene minds that feel respected, secured and valued. Insecurity, anger, a feeling of disrespect towards self and others, and widespread strife do not beget progress, such as we are striving for as a nation. As citizens, one person at a time, Nigerians have to begin to take measures to reverse their thoughts and attitudes towards self and others.

May justice be speedily secured for the Aluu 4, but the greatest of it all is, may we as Nigerians be so deeply transformed that there may never again be another Aluu 4.


Dr. Chika Ezeanya Esiobu is a researcher, writer and public intellectual. She blogs at www.chikaforafrica.com and can be reached at chika@chikaforafrica.com

Mother-tongue, indigenous or heart language is the language of spontaneity, the language of invention and creativity. Bill Gates who dropped out of school was able to build the Microsoft empire, a feat almost practically impossible in Africa, where tertiary education and the mastery of the colonial languages are synonymous with success. In China and other successful economies of East Asia, indigenous languages are promoted alongside other international languages making all members of the society to have a sense of belonging. This also preserves the local knowledge that would have been lost in attempts at translation. Africa, however, is yet to recover from the western imperial powers’ forceful subjection of the continent and the people to its (Western) memory, through imposition of the colonial language.

Read more: http://chikaforafrica.com/2011/10/04/on-language-and-knowledge/

Not every woman is concerned about having her own child. I have never, ever, sat to imagine or visualize what it would be like to have my own child. I try to think about it but it is a thought that has never taken root. I honestly and sincerely don't care. Born and raised in Naija, I used to be worried and wouldn't even mention that I don't care so much about having my own kids, but now I am at a place where I say, "it's who I am, why should I try to please anybody or society?" I am in my early thrities and happily single. Most of my married friends and family members are miserable. They all married early. I am fufilled career-wise and affecting lives positively. Whenever it's time to go home, I will leave knowing that I contributed immensely towards making my world a better place. If I find a man who will make me happy along the way, and add positive values and peace to my life, sure, why not. But if not, I will never, ever marry for the sake of having children - NEVER. For now, I am so focused on making the best out of my life. If I get older I could adopt a lovely girl and make someone's life better. Otherwise, I am introverted, keep to myself most of the time and work, work, work and work. Being a person of strong faith in God helps as well.

The Pressure that Killed Stella Obasanjo

By Dr. Chika Ezeanya

Seven years ago this October, the world woke up to the news of the death of the First Lady of the Federal Republic of Nigeria, just weeks to her 60th birthday. Nigerians most especially, were in shock. Did the elegant First Lady loose her life in the Sosoliso Airlines crash? No. Was she slain in a palace coup? There had not been a coup in Nigeria since June 12, 1993. Was she secretly managing a debilitating illness, or been unaware of some fatal heart disease that must have brought a heart attack? No. Did Mrs. Obasanjo repose in the midst of her slumber, perhaps, the rumors said, attacked by some demonic forces that began to inhabit Aso Rock since the days of the fetish googled General? If that is ruled out as well, then surely, she must have been clubbed to death in the middle of the night by her husband, in a fit of fury perhaps, over her utterances and actions regarding his numerous highly publicized extra marital affairs. Not at all. Stella Obasanjo was aware the day she signed the dotted line, that a crucial sentence, for the sake of decency, was omitted from her vows; “I do accept to share you with as many women as are pleasing to your eyes.”

After the rumour mill had ground to a halt, the truth was revealed; Stella Obasanjo, a healthy woman who had had the very best of life, died as a result of complications arising from a cosmetic surgery to remove fat from her stomach.

Incredible, Nigerians exclaimed. What manner of depravation would lead a 60 year old mother to want a Rihanna, Shakira, or Beyonce’s belly? Was she hoping to invite R-Kelly to perform at her birthday party and have him propose an affair afterwards? Or perhaps P. Diddy or Akon or Jay-Z?

Stella Obasanjo died under intense pressure. The pressure to conform to some standards she had convinced herself she needed to attain and maintain. A highly placed government official of an East African country related her experience during a visit to Aso Rock as part of a government delegation. Mrs. Obasanjo personally conducted all the visitors round exhibition stalls of women traders who sold gold and diamond jewelry, Swiss fabrics, shoes and bags etc. According to the lady, her head did a summersault at the price of the numerous articles on display. “one shoe could have bought my flight ticket,” she exclaimed. What got her sad, however, was the First Lady’s comment that she changed clothes, shoes and accessories, sometimes three times day and that she never repeats an outfit.

It was that pressure to live up to some opinion of how a First Lady should dress and look that led Mrs. Obasanjo to Spain from where she could not return, but in a box. In those days – yes, seven years ago is now those days - the manner of the First Lady’s death was largely unfathomable to the Nigerian culture, which despite the onslaught of several negative Euro-American values, still held out a measure of respect for women regardless of the size of their bellies, buttocks and upper arms. Unfortunately, this culture is fast being eroded across the country. Nigerian women are now under intense pressure from themselves, their peers, the men in their lives and the general society to conform to a certain standard of outward beauty in order to feel fully accepted by society.

That pressure that killed Stella Obasanjo is gradually leading several Nigerian young girls and women to their untimely deaths. This is a pressure that shines out of that box called cable television, from MTV, Channel O and E! and such shows as the Kardashians (whatever it is called), choreographed and severally rehearsed Reality TV Shows and other crap presented in the name of entertainment. It is the pressure that is churned out in movie after movie produced by Nollywood, and these days, in several songs produced by highly talented Nigerian musicians. It is the pressure that oozes out of what Nollywood stars portray as a fulfilled life – designer clothes, shoes, bags, make-up, looks etc. It is the pressure that the tabloids and the numerous fashion magazines - on sale across Nigeria - present to citizens as the ideal, the lifestyle that all people must aspire towards.

The pressure that killed Stella Obasanjo is exactly the same pressure that our male folk in Nigeria today are increasing bringing to bear on the women in their lives. Pornography is now free and just a click away so men feed their eyes on plastics and return to call real women fat, shapeless and old. Women are increasingly snubbed and sneered at for not taking on the shallow, cosmetically procured likeness of Mariah Carey, Jennifer Lopez and Naomi Campbell. This is the pressure imposed on young university students by shameless sugar daddies who lure children, young enough to be their granddaughters, away from their academics into a materialistic lifestyle.

It is scary that there appears to be no safe zone from this pressure across the country. In offices - managers, supervisors, officers, youth corpers, interns, messengers, cleaners are all involved in a race to outdo one another. In religious organizations and social groups, one’s acceptance is based on one’s car, dressing, place of residence, how westernized one’s accent is and other shallow yardsticks.

There is a race towards the elusive across the country; a generally accepted desperation to be anywhere, but where one is, to be anybody, but who one is. The pressure manifests in Brazilian wigs, Peruvian extensions, shopping on Oxford Street or New York, owning the latest iPad, Blackberry, latest model cars and all other false trappings of modernity that have kept Nigerians and Africans as the hewers of wood and the drawers of water in global political economy.
The resultant effect of this pressure is a younger generation less concerned with building character, but under intense pressure to measure up to vain standards. Who cares who you are in Nigeria these days? When people meet you for the first time, they want to know what you do before they ask your name. Even if you have the most beautiful heart, are serious minded, intelligent, humble, respectful and mindful of the feelings of fellow human beings, the sad reality is that you might not be hired by corporate Nigeria if you do not present that false image of a “happening chic or Big girl”. You are shunned socially, and even in the religious institutions you will hardly be recognized as a member of worth.

The quality of Nigerian marriages are at an all time low due to this same pressure. The pressure to travel to the United States to have children, to go shopping in Europe for one’s wedding, to look 16 after four children, to wear the latest and most expensive ‘stuff’, to speak with a European or American accent (note : the Chinese and Indians hardly speak English and they are taking over the global economy, by the way). Shallow children without values are now being raised across the nation, children who are more concerned with their next summer vacation or designer outfit than about being good, respectful and studious.

The existing reality in Nigeria today is a radical departure from the ideals subscribed to by the different societies that make up the country today. Pre-colonial Hausa, Igbo, Yoruba, Ibibio, Tiv, Nupe, Ijaw and others were communalistic societies where the African Ubuntu philosophy was enthroned. Self-respect, character, values, community ideals and other positive attributes were upheld. Human beings were respected for being human beings, plain and simple.

As Nigerians, we must as a matter of urgency depart from this overriding Western philosophy that is only skin deep, vain, selfish, highly individualistic and devoid of any depth. This is not an exercise at pontification to a supposedly condemned generation, but a clarion call to every Nigerian to immediately begin to take decisions to reverse the same mindset that killed Stella Obasanjo. Otherwise, there will soon be an epidemic of emotional, psychological, intellectual, biological, institutional and systemic deaths, all brought about by that same pressure.

www.chikaforafrica.com

‘Madam, you fit comot fish from peppersoup put inside Okro soup for me? The man spoke in the general direction of the counter as he relaxed back in the white plastic chair with his friend.
‘I no hear you,’ the restaurateur responded, adjusting her scarf, made from the same Ankara fabric as her Buba and Iro.
‘I want chop Semo and Okro soup, but na fish from peppersoup dey hungry me,’ replied the man, unzipping his blue overalls stained with black grease in several places. Must be a mechanic, I thought. The CEO of that workshop, for that matter, for he carried himself with an attitude. The type who turns back certain grade of cars from his workshop, taking pride in the fact that he repairs cars for ‘big men’ only. Woe betide the motorcyclist who strays into his workshop for any reason at all.
‘We no dey sell like that Oga. If you wan buy Okro soup na meat from the soup go dey inside am. If you want fresh fish peppersoup, one plate na N1,500.’ Madam replied, while folding, unfolding and refolding her hands across her chest.
‘Aagh aagh Madam! Na wah for you o! You sef no dey do pesin customer, abi?’ He spoke as he washed his hands inside a red plastic bowl with water from a clear plastic jug held up by one of the service girls.
‘Oga no be so o! If I comot all the fish wey dey the peppersoup, how I go take cover the cost wey I carry cook am?’ Madam threw away her face as she spoke. The sun reflected the rainbow that is her complexion. Dark brown around the eyes, pink, no, almost red around the cheeks, fiercely yellow on the forehead, black on the upper lip, indiscernible mixture of colors defined the rest of her face and neck. Years of application of My Fair Lady, Snow White, Topiclear, Stainless Beauty and other whitening gels and creams have rebelled and started an Occupy Movement on her skin. Poor thing.
‘Ok, my friend here wan drink water from fish peppersoup but e no wan chop fish. You fit comot small water from peppersoup give am? E go chop Ofada rice,’ continued the customer. His friend seemed pleased and proud to be hanging out with him. He was short, stocky and dressed like a local government office clerk. Severally-washed blue satin tie with a faded picture of Obama hung loosely on his short sleeved it-was-white cotton shirt. Red, blue, and green pen covers perched atop the pocket of his shirt. I imagined him proudly signing acknowledgement receipts for the DHL or other delivery man - with such pride and authority - as if without him, the whole Local Government would come to a standstill.
‘Oga abeg no vex. We no dey comot anything put inside anything here. Talk wetin you want chop make we serve you.”Madam could no longer hide her agitation and indignation.
‘Wetin you no mean, Madam? No be you mix soup for that person there.’ The mechanic pointed at the guy hunched over his plate of food two tables away. I looked at the plate and realized that I could not discern whether it was Egusi, Okro, Vegetable or Bitter leaf soup the man was eating.
‘I fit mix soup, but na only that. I no dey mix fish and meat,’ concluded Madam as she started to send one of her workers on an errand in an intentionally loud voice.
“Abeg come make we comot from here.” The angry customer and his friend staged a proud walkout. Grandly holding their shoulders high, snubbing Madam and her snobbish attitude.
‘Madam, extra soup abeg,’ requested the man whose soup was mixed as he circumvented his brown colored glass soup bowl with his index finger.
‘Which extra soup? Egusi or Ogbono?’ Madam asked, still irritated by the last botched sales.
‘Wetin you mean by which extra soup? Mix am as you do before.’ The customer responded, smacking his lips.
‘Oga we no dey mix extra soup or we go charge you for that one.’
‘Madam Quick-quick! Madam Quick-quick herself.’ I heard his voice, beheld his belly and gaped at the size of his lips. He stood by the door as Madam Quick-quick heaved her weight up and raised her multi-colored right hand to her forehead in salute.
‘Oga mi, Sir! I remain loyal. Where you come go, Oga? Na Amirika abi na London?’ she asked, obviously elated at what I suspect must be the prospect of selling several bottles of beer and plates of fish peppersoup on a hot afternoon.
I ignored Madam and her customer as I heard the man say; “Na Ghana here o! Common Ghana o! My level never reach that one wey you dey talk.’
I surveyed the restaurant. Poorly kept and poorly lit. I had been asked to wait there by my cousin who had an asoebi to give me for another cousin’s wedding taking place the coming Saturday. Having been consistently ‘disappointed’ by JAMB for the past five years, she now works in a factory behind the restaurant, she informed me over the phone. She would meet me there during her lunch break, she said, as the Chinese factory owners did not tolerate visitation of any kind. In fact, the security men would manhandle me, being a lady, should I as much as draw near the gate and mention a worker’s name.
‘Good afternoon.’ I turned towards the direction of the voice to see a dirty looking girl of about 8 years holding a yellow metal plate chipped in several places up before Madam Quick-quick. The girl’s left hand held the skinny, scaly hand of a boy whose age I could not immediately place. By his face I would say 7 years, but the body looked 2, or 3 years at most.
‘My Mama say make you put beans N10, Spangetin N10, Macromi N10, Kpomo’ the girl began.
‘No be here your Mama send you.’ Madam Quick-quick interjected as she placed fat, pudgy fingers on the girl’s shoulders and turning her around, pointed at the Mama-put across the street from her.
‘Oya, dey go, dey go’ Madam Quick-quick shooed.
The girl obeyed and was half way through leaving the shop when her brother began to cry. She spoke something in quick pidgin to the boy, but he opened his mouth and wailed even more; taking a break only to suck in mucus from his nose, relish the taste, and resume his wailing. The girl pulled at him, but he stood still, and instead turned to gaze at the soup plate of a man seated at the table directly across from him.
The customer, noticing the stare, extended his right hand towards the boy. The thumb and index fingers held a piece of meat. The part of the meat that faced the boy showed that the customer had chewed from it. The boy violently yanked his hand off his sisters’ and ran towards the meat.
Madam Quick-quick acted fast. Drawing the boy back by the shoulder, she shouted “Alhaji no, abeg, no be for my shop. Almajiri dey outside, if you want do Zakat. Go outside go do am.’
The phlegmatic looking Alhaji slowly withdrew his hand without a word of protest and threw the half chewed flesh inside his mouth.
The boy stood wailing in front of Madam Quick-quick, refusing to move.
‘Ugbong! Ugbong!’ screamed Madam Quick-quick.’
The sound of pestle pounding on mortar ceased momentarily as a young boy of about 14 emerged with sweat drenched skin. My eyes immediately went to the pounded yam Alhaji was swallowing and imagined that Ugbong’s sweat would have gone a long way in giving it such a malleable texture.’
‘Abeg carry this shildren comot from here.’ Madam commanded.
Ugbong grabbed the boy’s both arms and dragged him shrieking and kicking, to as far as the other side of the road, as his sister followed meekly.
He returned and the sound of pounding resumed. This second batch of pounded yam will be much softer for I noticed he was sweating even more profusely after dragging the poor wretch out under the hot sun.
‘Madam, you don wait for this person tire o!’ It was Madam Quick-quick addressing me. ‘You no want chop?’ She continued.
She eyed my empty bottle of Tonic Water discontentedly. I had occupied a table to myself for almost one hour for a mere bottle of Tonic Water. Not only that, the other seat at the table, I had also colonized with my bag, anticipating the arrival of my cousin.
I did not know what to say in response to her comment; she relieved me of that burden.
‘If you no want chop, I fit bring another Tonic Water for you. Or Malt self, we dey sell Malt and we dey sell fried goat meat and snail’ she said, pointing at a glass shelf. Inside the shelf sat two white plastic plates the size and shape of President Jonathan’s hat, but white in color. One was piled high with something black and shiny while the other had a mound of something of the same color, but with white streaks. Raw onion rings, bell pepper and tomato slices advertized the scary looking things as edible.
Embarrassed, I asked for a snail, intending to leave it for my cousin to eat when she comes.
‘Ugbong! Ugbong! Come serve pesin.’ Madam screamed.
Ugbong looked fresher than when he last emerged. The sound of pounding had long ceased, and the interval must have afforded him a quick shower.
‘Give am one snail.’ Madam Quick-quick said, in-between shelling Egusi seeds.
As Ugbong made to open the shelf, Alhaji called on him and whispered something in his ear. He went back to the showcase and reappeared in front of my table with five pieces of snail and four goat meat piled high on a plate. His other hand held a bottle of Heineken.
‘Alhaji say make I give you.’ Ugbong said.
‘Yessoooo! Correct babe! Na better sister you be.’ That was Janet throwing one goat meat inside her mouth and reaching for one snail simultaneously, even before seating down.
‘Madam Quick-quick na my cousin be this.’ She said throwing my bag on the table together with a black nylon bag containing a red and gold colored Ghana woodin fabric.’
‘Aaaah How you no tell me say na Janet you dey wait for? I for no disturb you naw. Janet na my better customer.’ Madam Quick-quick sounded apologetic as she spoke.
‘Good afternoon Madam.’ The crispness of the voice interrupted her.
The man, dressed in a well ironed light blue shirt, navy pants and pink and blue striped tie held up an ID card inches from Madam’s face.
‘Oga which kind thing be this naw? I don settle una last two weeks.’ Protested Madam.
‘Madam, please show us your Sanitary Clearance Certificate.’ The man, carrying himself with all the seriousness demanded by his profession, spoke firmly.
‘Oga, which receipt? No be last week your people came here from NAFDAC, I settle them and they know me well, well.’
‘Madam, I am not from NAFDAC, I am from the sanitation task force in Abuja. We need the Sanitary Clearance issued by our state representatives from the Ministry of Health.’
‘Oga, I no get that one. No inspectors came here.’ Madam was aghast. She looked about to cry.
‘Then I am afraid we will have to close this shop right now. There is a possibility that you are endangering the lives of innocent citizens.’ The man responded impersonally, turning to face the four policemen with him.
‘Oga, no naw. Abeg siddon make we talk. Wetin you go drink? Star dey, Heineken dey.’ Madam Quick-quick was trying to lighten up and sound cheerful.
‘Babe make we clear abeg. Matter don enter arrest, I no want go Kirikiri.’ That was Janet speaking to me as I stared at what was going on in front of me. She hurriedly retrieved the asoebi from the nylon bag, shoved it inside my bag, emptied the remaining goat meat and snail inside the nylon bag and dragged me out of the restaurant.
Chika is the author of Before We Set Sail www.beforewesetsail.com. She blogs at www.chikaforafrica.com

Interesting article on the United States troops in Uganda and Central Africa : http://chikaforafrica.com/2012/01/06/the-looming-united-states-invasion-of-central-africa/

Very funny and engaging article about someone's arrival experience at Murtala Muhammed Airport: http://saharareporters.com/article/arrival-murtala-mohammed-airport

Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him - Proverbs 20:30

For a hilarious write-up about how the name Nigeria came into being, see: http://chikaforafrica.com/2011/09/15/i-am-proud-of-naija-2/

I wish to use this medium to humbly beg the West African Examinations Council (WAEC) to kindly release my results. My name is Innocent Odogbe. I sat for the last GCE exams at Oturkpo Senior Grammar School in Benue State. My number is 587321098762 and my seat number is 079.

I have no other means of appealing to your goodselves, my most blessed WAEC officials, than by writing to the media. I beg you to please release my results. This is my 6th time of writing GCE, and honestly sirs, I know what I wrote. You had seized my result three times in the past. The fourth and fifth time you failed me in English. But this last time I was well prepared; I went for extra classes where I studied English very hard.

Please release my results. I swear that I did not cheat. I know those who cheated and I have some of their names. Even the invigilator who supervised us, I have his name. I have everything and I am willing to talk.

I will not mention names here, but I know what happened during that examination. Even the candidate who sat beside me came into every exam with answer sheets filled with correct answers.

“Bros, you need assistance?” he had asked me the very first day I wrote a paper.

“Assistance how?” I replied.

He had strolled in casually minutes after the invigilator announced that we had only 15 minutes left to turn in our papers. His black t-shirt shirt was drenched with sweat, black fez cap and very dark sunglasses supplemented his dressing; a huge silver plated chain adorned his fat neck. He did not cut the image of a serious student and he was not. He greeted the invigilator familiarly and they stood conversing for about five minutes before he walked to the empty desk beside me, stopping now and again to greet his friends. Sitting down, he dipped hands inside his crotch and retrieved answer sheets, identical to the one I had in front of me. It was already solved. That was when he asked if I needed assistance.

“I get bullet here. Correct one.” He went on.

I searched his eyes to meet him eyeball to eyeball, but only my image reflected on the large, black screen covering his eyes.

“No, thanks.” I responded curtly, trying to focus on revising my answers.

“Na from the University I just dey come. Na Professor of Geography do this one. I no dey carry Felicia. Dem know me well for this center. Na your first paper be this?”

“Bros, how much?” The guy behind me interrupted the conversation.

“Na 15k per one paper. Last. If you want arrange more than one paper shaa, we fit go outside go yarn well well.” The two of them left the hall as the invigilator began to shout for the rest to submit their papers.

This trend continued with all the papers I wrote and it turned out that several candidates in the class were involved. The invigilator had been conveniently settled to cooperate. Those of us who did not settle were treated with a different yardstick. Our papers were collected on the time and we dared not hold conversations while writing the exams.

I did not set out to bore you with all these stories, dearly beloved WAEC officials. But perhaps, by my writing, you might be inclined to release even if it is only my English language and Literature in English results. I am inclined to think that this letter will stand as testimony of my good command of the English language, and my literary prowess.

I am not denying that there was cheating in my center, but I swear again, I was not a part of it. If I am lying, let a truck hit and kill me as soon as I step out of this cybercafé. Sir, I did not cheat during the last WAEC exams.

By writing to the press, please do not label me an arrogant candidate in search of sympathy and publicity from the general public. I am simply your humble son, a patriotic Nigerian, desperately, but honestly seeking better life for myself and 9 other orphaned siblings, the last three of who are HIV+. I am distressed, please show tender mercy on me.

I can be reached at innooturkpoforchrist@livemail.com or call me, if you may, at 08036745126. It will take about four days for me to check and respond to your mail, but please know that I will eventually respond. If you call and it does not go through, it means I have not been able to charge my phone. Kindly leave a text message with your number and I will surely get back to you in no more than two days. I trust in the Almighty who we all serve in this country that your good hearts would be turned in my favor. Long live WAEC, long live the Federal Republic of Nigeria and long live all suffering Nigerians like me.
Thank you and God bless.

This is a work of Creative non-fiction.