Cityofdavid's Posts
Nairaland Forum › Cityofdavid's Profile › Cityofdavid's Posts
 Travel › Re: General USA Student Visa Enquiries-part 15 by Cityofdavid(m): 11:21pm On Nov 06, 2020 |
abicarst:Congratulations man |
| Politics › Which Kind Yeye Revolution Now? by Cityofdavid(op): 4:34pm On Sep 01, 2019 |
Which Kind Yeye Revolution Now? The place was Ajegungle, on a hot afternoon when the blazing ball of the sun shined brightly in the sky. The kind of sun which shined on that Monday afternoon was different; it was the kind of sun that would make Yoruba elders to tell their pregnant daughters to either stay indoors or clip a safety pin to their gowns, to prevent wandering evil spirits from possessing the unborn child. In a large face-me-I-slap-you bungalow down the street, Adamu was peaceably asleep, a swirling ceiling fan humming above his bald head, when a knock came on his door. It was Emeka, Adamu's next door neighbour and friend. Without waiting for response, Emeka shrieked the door, peeped, and found Adamu on the rafia mat on the floor. Emeka tiptoed to avoid stepping on sticks of cigarettes and prayer beads littering the floor. "Wake up, Adamu," Emeka touched Adamu's hands and continued, "NEPA done dey outside want cut light." "Eh," Adamu answered and sprang to his feet like a wild cat. He knew that that day would come and had been readying himself for it. "How many times them bring light last month way them want cut light? I go show them pepper today." Emeka and Adamu hurriedly walked past a long queue of rooms which faced each other like the holes in the traditional Ayo game before they finally arrived the scene - just outside the house.. By now, one of the NEPA officials had climbed to the peak of a silver ladder leaning on the concrete electric pole. Two male NEPA officials stood at the foot of the ladder, their hands firmly supporting the leaning ladder to give the man above the needed confidence. A few yards away from the action scene, under the shade of an elephantine almond tree, a slender-looking lady, an exercise book in hand, stood. Obviously, she was the leader of the NEPA officials. At once, Adamu rushed to the foot of the ladder. "Why una they cut our light? We only get light for three days throughout last month. " We dey cut una light because una no gree pay una NEPA bill for last month." One of the men at the foot of the ladder answered sharply. "Nonsense." Emeka answered. "Pure nonsense. Why we go pay thirty thousand naira for only three days way we see light last month?" "Yes, nonsense." Adamu protested too. "Wetin we dey use for this our house self? Although we get twenty four rooms in total including the boys quarters way dey for backyard, na only ten people get television and radio for their rooms. Na only ceiling fan and bulb the rest of us get for house." "Exactly," Emeka stammered. "If una cut this night," Adamu threatened, "I go cut off una head with my dagger." "Take it easy, my brothers." The woman standing under the shade of the tree said in a fine British accent that made Adamu and Emeka wondered whether she was a Nigerian or an alien from Jupiter. "You know that what we bring here is an estimated billing. So, whether we supply you power or not, you've got a duty to pay your bills. That's the rule. Do you understand?" "Abeg madam," Emeka yelled, "hold am there. I no dey understand nonsense. No be your fault. If no be the yeye country way we dey, shey you go dey talk like this? You think say grammar fit correct nonsense? You dey defend corruption and impunity and your belle dey sweet." "Walai, we die here together if una cut this light," Adamu added, "In short, you fit cut this light o but I go cut person head. Make who want die wait for me." The grammar-speaking woman watched Adamu bolting into the house. At once, she perceived trouble and signalled her boys to quickly vacate the scene to avoid violence. By the time Adamu returned, the NEPA officials had fled the scene, leaving the power supply untampered with. "You see," Emeka smiled at Adamu, "we suppose dey fight for our rights. Why them no wait for you to come back? Na so the government dey fear the people too. Na why them arrest Sowore. Dem dey fear wetin the people fit do. We need revolution for this country now." "Which kind yeye revolution now?" Adamu answered angrily. "Emeka you know wetin them dey call revolution? You even know the colour of revolution? After Sowore done lose elections, him dey call for revolution. Why him no call for revolution before him contest the elections? Na politics Sowore dey play. We no need revolution. Wetin we need na good government. By the time way dem deal with am finish, him go know say khaki no be leather." "Ah Adamu, I no believe say na you dey talk like this. Since way Nigeria collect independence for 1960 till today, wetin done change for Nigeria? Light, we no get. Good roads, we no get. Better hospitals, we no get. Food and water, we no get. Herdsmen and Boko haram dey slaughter our people like chicken. Even SARS way suppose they arrest armed robbers, na innocent citizens them dey shoot. Our senators dey pay themselves elephant salaries but to pay the poor minimum wage na still wahala. Na those things Sowore say must stop. Na the revolution be that." "Which kind yeye revolution?" Adamu and Emeka had by now sat under the shade of the elephantine almond tree that shielded the grammar-speaking woman earlier on. "Sowore just dey deceive people. Him don collect money to burn Nigeria then come run go America. We no go gree make them spoil this country." "See you, wetin better for this country way them never spoil already? We need revolution now." Before Adamu could give a response, his phone had started ringing. He picked it up and broke into the Hausa language for a short while. It was a call from Kano. A group of herdsmen had razed down Adamu's village, killing dozens of villagers including his twin brother, Yaro. As soon as Emeka heard about the untoward incident, he shook his head and said, "Adamu, we need revolution now. This killings must stop." Adamu wanted to say, "Which kind yeye revolution now?" but he couldn't say it. He just nodded his head instead. In memory of all those who have lost their lives to insecurity in Nigeria. #freesoworenow #revolutionnow. David Ademule is a student of human society and crime. He lives and writes from Lagos, where he goes about carrying his magical pen in his pockets. |
| Literature › Killed On Credit - A Short Story by Cityofdavid(op): 6:00pm On May 02, 2019 |
His phone beeped notifying him of a new text message. Stephen Mirror reluctantly picked the phone, expecting nothing exciting. He had graduated from the university since 2014, his tattered shoes being a testament to his numerous, unsuccessful cases of job hunting. While at the prestigious Lugard University, Mirror was a very popular figure. He had boasted on several occasions that his height was an indication that he was destined for greatness. He was six foot and six inches tall, light skinned, with a chubby face. “You’ve been selected for an instant loan…..” were the contents of the text. He sighed and threw his Nokia torchlight phone on the ground. The previous week he had just sold his expensive Samsung Galaxy phone that was sent to him by Uncle Dan. He sold the phone for a meager N30,000. The phone was barely a month old but Charles his friend knew how much he needed money. Uncle Dan had promised him a laptop by month end and it was already two days to the end of April. He would find a way to borrow more money and start up a business centre. At least with that he was sure of a better life. Maybe the sender of that text knew he needed loan. He thought of what to eat and immediately remembered he was owing Mama Ejima, the woman who sold provisions across the street. In fact, there was nobody around Mirror that he was not owing. For instance, Okoro had repaired his Television set and he was yet to pay him. Mama Ejima has a notebook where she recorded his credit; the book was almost filled up. Charles too has consistently lent him money every month since he started working at the bank. The house he was staying was paid for by his parents. As the only child, in future he would inherit his parent’s death benefits. Aside his planned establishment of the business centre, the death benefits would significantly change his life. But the inconsistency in payment of such monies might pose another problem. Mirror's stomach rambled on while he was deep in thoughts. He hoped that the remaining N30 on him would be sufficient. Finally, he decided to visit Charles who must be home by then, as it was already 7.00pm and Charles closes by 6.00pm. He had no airtime to call Charles but decided to risk it anyway. With N30 he was sure to get to Bishop road, where Charles lived. Afterwards, he wore his brown combats and a Barcelona jersy. Outside his door, his phone torchlight helped him to locate his worn out foot wear. He passed the corner of Mama Ejima’s store deciding to avoid her. Hopefully neither she nor her twins Peter and Paul would see him, he thought. But he was wrong. Uncle Mirror! Peter the sharper of the twins called him. He pretended as if he did not hear and then Paul joined in calling him. This attracted their mother who came out. “The children dey greet u na”, she said. “Sorry abeg, I know hear”, he replied. Ejima I dey come back very soon, he shouted back while crossing the road to enter a tricycle. The twins waved excitedly at him as he quickly ran across the road. At the main road, a tricycle pulled over and he quickly jumped in beside a young guy. ”Bishops road" he said to the driver, ”ok oga” the young Hausa driver replied. Three minutes later, he was at Bishops road. He gave the driver the N30, waited for him to leave, before moving to the direction of Charles house which was not far from the junction. There was no light as usual, so there were deafening sounds from various generators, providing lights which helped brighten up the area. After three houses, he got to Charles self contain apartment and to his dismay, the place was locked. "Na wa for bank work" he muttered. He decided to go back to the junction and wait for a while. Charles would be back before long, he thought. At the junction there was a mobile banking shop which had a young lady trying to collect money. She was through in no due time. While trying to put the money that was already in her small purse inside the bag, the purse fell unknowingly to her. She had gone out before he saw the purse. So he picked up the purse, opened it and saw wads of new notes. The money was up to N20,000. Several thoughts ran through Mirror's mind. Nobody saw him while he picked up the money. He thought of quickly hiding the money in his combats and trekking back home. He thought of giving the money to the mobile bank operator. All these thoughts raced through his mind in split seconds. He decided to put the money in his combats and wait for her to come back. And as soon as he had put the money in his combats, she appeared. She came in the company of two men. They were walking straight to his direction but he stood and waited as clear conscience fears no accusation. Suddenly he heard shouts of thief! thief! from every corner. It appeared the mob was coming from his back but he still stood without fear. An object like a stone hit his face, the thrower must have targeted him. The shock made him fall on the ground. Before long a mob surrounded him and started beating him up with all manner of things. The purse fell off and the lady shouted see my purse o! That made the beating to increase. They stopped for a while and the men among them went in search of tires and fuel. He then tried to explain to the lady that he was only holding the purse, waiting for her to come. However, the explanation fell on deaf ears. Charles had arrived at the scene by now but did not recognize who the suspected thief was. Shouts of borrow me tyre! Borrow me fuel!, filled the air. The men needed to borrow the required items needed to burn the thief. "Oga abeg give us N10 make we buy matches," a young man said to Charles. He dipped in his hand in his trousers and brought out N20. The young man collected the money and quickly went to the nearest shop to buy the matches. Before long Mirror was roasting like Salah ram. They had borrowed from all corners, including from his friend, in order to burn Mirror. In the midst of the fire and the pains, however, Mirror's gaze fell on Charles but it was too late. Mirror died shortly afterwards - he had been killed on credit, his killers borrowing the items needed for his death. Ps: this is a typical fiction, depicting the rising wave of jungle justice in Nigeria. It must be discouraged. Jungle justice sometimes might lead to the killing of an innocent soul. This Story was written by Barrister Nabai Inemugha. Source: http://facebook.com/nabaialfredinemughaesq |
| Politics › Action Alliance Is Still In The Race by Cityofdavid(op): 9:43pm On Feb 15, 2019 |
The attention of the top hierarchy of Action Alliance in Ondo State has been drawn to a mischievous publication to the effect that the party will not be presenting any candidate for tomorrow's general elections. We use this opportunity to state unequivocally that the party will be fielding candidates in all the voting categories tomorrow. Therefore, we advise the general public to disregard the misleading information and come out end masse to vote the Action Alliance for the good and progress of Ondo State. The mischief makers will not relent in their efforts to sabotage our noble plans for Ondo State but we will not relent. We remain devoted to our plans of bringing the dividends of democracy to Ondo State. Aluko Abiodun for Abayomi Solidarity Movement 08066631174 |
| Literature › The Nigerian Wing Of Heaven - A Short Story by Cityofdavid(op): 6:27pm On Feb 03, 2019 |
You're now dead. Poor Nigerian. You died last night. The hospital has killed you. No, the government has killed you. You died in a government hospital, your life lost to fever. The doctors at the government hospital were on strike over unpaid allowances. On the afternoon of your death, poor Nigerian, your idle son, who now keep keys for neighbours because ASUU had embarked on an indefinite strike, had hired a keke to bring you to the government hospital where you harvested your death. The rickety gates of the hospital were crowded, crowded with other unfortunate Nigerians who had come there to receive treatments. Your son stretched you out like a log of wood at the gates of the hospital. He didn't mind the crowd, didn't even mind whether a stampede could erupt. Your son was optimistic. He wished the government would answer the prayers of the doctors and the lingering strike would immediately come to a halt. But your son's optimism was quenched at sunset when the melting candle of your life burned out. You died. Your son was furious, furious that you died for nothing, that you would have survived if you had lived in a country where the lives of the masses mattered. As your son cried over your lifeless body, the stories of politicians and children of politicians who flew abroad for medical treatment crept into his mind. He thought about the son of the president, how the two-headed lad bought a power bike worth twenty million naira and was flown abroad when the bike revolted. And your son became more furious. I will put an end to this nonsense if I had the chance to rule Nigeria, he vowed to himself. Poor Nigerian, your body is now being carried to the mortuary and your family members have several things to worry about before your burial. They have to worry about the epileptic power supply in the government mortuaries, whether there will be enough power to preserve your body before burial. Also, they have to worry about ritualists who scavenge the mortuaries, looking for body parts to harvest. They hoped you would be intact at burial. Well, whatever happens to your poor body in Nigeria is no longer your business. All that matters now, poor Nigerian, is the destination of your soul. You have been told that only the righteous will inherit the kingdom of heaven. There, they will walk on the streets of gold, play with lions, eat fresh fruits, and shout hallelujah forever and ever. Not only that, you have been told that heaven is a place of bliss, a place where there will be uninterrupted power supply. There will be plenty water and food. There will be plenty clothes and shoes to wear, good roads to ride the ecclesiastical horses and the chariots of fire. No Agberos and Jagaban, except the Almighty, to dictate the affairs of things. It was these heavenly promises, poor Nigerian, that didn't make you to fight for your rights and hold your government officials accountable. You refused to protest. You sold your votes. You celebrated and condoned corruption. You collected bribes to attend political rallies, to validate the politicians who have destroyed Nigeria. Now you're dead, poor Nigerian, and the stark realities of heaven have confronted you. To your greatest surprise, you found that there were different wings of heaven. There was the American Wing. The Russian Wing. The Canadian Wing. The German Wing. The Nigerian Wing. And so on. The Nigerian Wing of heaven, you were told, has two large villas - The Fela Villa and the Abacha Villa. The glowing winged angels who ushered you through the Nigerian Wing led you to the Abacha Villa, the place where Nigerians who refused to hold their government accountable are everlastingly lodged. You were led through a long passage that stretched into an eternity of rooms. After a long walk, the angels who led you stopped at a door and showed you the room you have been allotted. "You're welcome to the Abacha Villa of the Nigerian Wing of Heaven." One of the angels smiled at you. "Please make yourself comfortable. You may call us on 777 if you have any emergency." You smiled and walked into the room, ready to catch the thrills of heaven, the place you had dreamt to be all your life. The white walls of the room glittered as the rays of the bright bulbs in the room fell upon it. As you marvelled at the beauty of the room, you remembered that the battery of your cellphone was running out. So, you decided to charge it. Afterwards, you would iron your white garment for the next day's service before the white throne of the Almighty. As you pressed towards the electric socket in the room, nevertheless, the light bulbs suddenly went off. There was total blackout. "What?" You shouted, terrified. "What's happening here? No constant light in heaven?" You quickly put on your phone's torchlight to scare the thick cloud of darkness in the room, hoping that the quenched bulbs will resurrect again. In the meantime, you decided to explore the kitchen. There you found a tap. You twisted the neck of the tap but it refused to vomit water. It was as dry as harmattan. No water in heaven? This cannot be the heaven my Sunday School teachers taught me, you thought to yourself. Still battling with your disillusionment, your eyes fell on a refrigerator resting at the corner of the kitchen. You opened it, hoping to find some water or even a glass of juice. But there was nothing, nothing except some wandering cockroaches. "What kind of heaven is this?" You screamed on top of your voice. You would call 777 immediately. You couldn't bear the chaos of this new place called heaven. You grabbed your phone and dialled 777. The network didn't connect on time. You considered sending a mail but there was no network. You tried 777 again. And this time your luck came alive. "Hello there," you cried. "Is that the reception, the reception of heaven?" "Yes. Who am I speaking with please?" "It's me. Me the Nigerian man that came in a few moments ago." "Thousands of Nigerians die every hour. Sir, can you please tell me your name." "Oh sorry. I am the new man in room F2019." "The one that died in a government hospital a while ago?" "Yes. It's me. There is an emergency here. No light in my room. No water. No food. Cockroaches everywhere. Please tell me this is not heaven. Tell me it is hell." "Sir," the angel coughed. "We are deeply sorry for the inconveniences. But may I ask you a question, is there uninterrupted light in Nigeria?" "No, madam" you answered. "Is there enough food in Nigeria and does everybody in your country have access to good water? "No, madam" "Are your internet services reliable?" "No, madam." "Did you protest against your government?" "No, madam." "So why are you disturbing our peace because you don't have light and water in your room at the moment?" "But I expect heaven to be a perfect place," You stammered. "There should be basic amenities." "Shouldn't there be basic amenities in Nigeria too? Can't your government and people make the kind of heaven you seek out of Nigeria?" "Eh," "You heard me. Go and demand your rights from those to whom you pay your taxes, not us." The angel hanged up. "Wake up daddy. It's half past seven." Jeered your son who now keep keys for neighbours due to the ongoing ASUU strike. You jumped to your feet, terrified. "What a horrible dream!" Your voice shook as you spoke. Afterwards, your eyes fell on the bags of rice you have received from the Broom and the Umbrella parties. You charged towards the bags of rice, ready to burn them to ashes. You didn't want to go to the Nigerian Wing of Heaven, if there was any such place, when you die. David Ademule is a student of human society and crime. He lives and writes from Lagos where he goes about carrying his magical pen in his pockets. Source: http://facebook.com/enigmaticgandhi |
| Politics › Between Buhari And Atiku; Between Six And Half A Dozen by Cityofdavid(op): 6:00pm On Dec 27, 2018 |
In the build up to the 2015 presidential elections, I wrote an article wherein I advanced the view that choosing between the former President Goodluck Jonathan and the incumbent President Muhammadu Buhari (then an opposition candidate) was like choosing between two evils. I went further, however, to argue that, when contrasted with Jonathan, Buhari was the lesser evil because of his seemingly towering anti-corruption image. By so doing, I implied that Buhari was the better candidate. And quite regrettably, the past four years had only proven one point - that I was wrong. Buhari has by far turned out to be the greater evil. Buhari, the Making of a Banana Republic Buhari, packaged in a shiny suit and riding into power on the horseback of change, only succeeded in returning Nigeria to the Stone Age. The vehicle of our nationhood was put on an economic reverse and it will take great efforts to return Nigeria to where it was before Buhari came to power. The indicators are very clear. With an average annual economic growth rate of 7.4%, Buhari was in 2015 handed a country that could boast of being one of the fastest growing economies in the world. It is no news that Nigeria's economy plunged into recession shortly after Buhari assumed power. Today, Nigeria has overtaken India as the country with the highest number of people living in extreme poverty in the world. Not only that, Buhari has turned Nigeria into a banana republic where court orders are disobeyed and elections are rigged. Although, freedom of speech remains guaranteed, what happens after expressing it remains unguaranteed. I can go on and on but I will save that for another day. The Candidates of the 2019 General Elections The drums of a general election are now beating on the Nigerian soil and we have seen diverse politicians throwing wonderful dance steps to entice the electorates. Jostling for the top job of the country, are two major candidates, the incumbent president, Muhamadu Buhari, and a former Vice President, Atiku Abubakar. Although there are several other presidential candidates such as Fela Durotoye, Omoyele Sowore, Oby Ezekwesili, Kingsley Mogalu, Donald Duke, etc, only Buhari and Atiku stand a chance of winning because of the highly monetized political climate in Nigeria. Unfortunately, neither Buhari nor Atiku, methinks, has what it takes to set Nigeria on the path of progress and happiness for the good of all. In short, choosing between Atiku and Buhari is like choosing between six and half a dozen - the only difference is the nomenclature. I have already hinted on Buhari's woeful performance as incumbent president and why I deeply believe that he cannot take Nigeria to the promise land. Consequently, it will be unfair if I conclude this article without expressing my views about Atiku Abubakar and why I think he is no different from Buhari. I now turn attention to Atiku Abubakar, the self acclaimed highest employer of labour in Nigeria. Atiku and the Integrity Question To begin with, Atiku is arguably one of the most corrupt politicians in Nigeria's history. As the Vice President of Nigeria, Atiku was in charge of the privatization of public assets during the Obasanjo administration between 1999 and 2007. Atiku cleverly used this opportunity to corruptly enrich himself. Today, he is worth over 1.5 billion dollars. On top of that, a US Senate Committee report revealed that Atiku was deeply involved in the Halliburton scandal that saw him wiring over $40 million through offshore companies to his American wife, Jenifer Douglas. Consequently, in 2004 the then President Bush barred Atiku and other corrupt politically exposed persons from being issued visa to the United States. To this day, Atiku has not been allowed to enter the US although his apologists have continued to make laughable excuses. We Know That Atiku is Corrupt But He is More Competent Than Buhari I have read online some disgusting comments from the apologists of Atiku who claimed that, though Atiku was a corrupt politician, he is more competent than Buhari. And on each occasion I asked, why should we entrust a yam to a goat? Why should we entrust Nigeria to Atiku? Unfortunately, Nigeria cannot be entrusted to Buhari too. How can we entrust Nigeria to a man who, due to gross negligence and incompetence, not only returned Nigeria to the Stone Age but gave political appointments to dead people when the living remains jobless? It is clear that neither Buhari nor Atiku has the capacity to achieve the dream of a new Nigeria where the pursuit of human progress and happiness will overshadowed political greed and incompetence. A vote for either Buhari or Atiku is a vote for another four years of disaster and backwardness. Looking at the smaller political parties, it appears they have some exceptional candidates who, if given the opportunity, have the brilliance and courage to rescue Nigeria from the current mess made of it by the crop of recycled political class. Nigerians must refuse to choose between six and half a dozen in the forthcoming presidential elections, refuse to choose between the devil and the deep blue sea. We need to breathe fresh air. And, of course, the air of Buhari and Atiku are toxic for the progress of Nigeria. David Ademule is a student of human society and crime. He lives and writes from Lagos where he goes about carrying his magical pen in his pockets. Source: http://Facebook.com/thesocialmicroscope |
| Business › Re: If You Are Uber Partner In Lagos, Please Share Your Experience Here by Cityofdavid(m): 5:19pm On Dec 15, 2018 |
An experienced Uber driver is needed to drive a very clean 2004 Toyota Corolla. Drivers living in Ikorodu have an added advantage. You may contact the vehicle owner directly via 08172604661. Thanks. |
| Business › Re: If You Are Uber Partner In Lagos, Please Share Your Experience Here by Cityofdavid(m): 3:16pm On Oct 10, 2018*. Modified: 6:13pm On Oct 11, 2018 |
Experienced Uber & Taxify driver needed Vehicle model: Toyota Corolla 2003 (very clean) 30k weekly...no stories 2 verifiable guarantors needed Transmission: Automatic Location: Lagos. Driver living within IKORODU axis will be preferred. Thanks. |
| Literature › Africa Is Not A Dark Continent: Racism In Haggard's King Solomon's Mines by Cityofdavid(op): 12:32am On Feb 04, 2018*. Modified: 1:17am On Feb 04, 2018 |
For centuries, Africa was considered a dark continent by the imperialist Europeans who enslaved it, colonized it, and exploited it. The African culture was regarded, sadly, as barbaric and crude, needing European emancipation from the shackles of primitivity. The African skin, too, was seen as an empty shell needing European refinement. As a matter of fact, the first Europeans who set their feet on the soil of West Africa came armed with these prejudicial beliefs. Let it be known that the Eurocentric and misleading assumptions about Africa and its people have littered the pages of popular European literatures since the beginning of the 15th century. As a way of protest, the prominent African writer, Chinua Achebe, had already Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness, a famous British novel which painted a dark image of Africa. Another version of Conrad's novel, however, was H. Rider Haggard's King Solomon's Mines set in Kukuanaland, an 'undiscovered' part of Africa and published in 1885. In the short novel, Haggard craftily tells the adventurous story of how Allan Quatermain, a white hunter based in Africa, and his white friends visit Kukuanaland in search of King Solomon's mines believed to be the richest precious stone treasure in the world. To sell his book (a book that was written to win a bet) Haggard ends up telling a fine story which, at best, oiled the enduring lust of an European mind for cheap superiority and dominance over the African people and culture. In several instances, Allan Quatermain, the character Haggard employs to tell the story in a first person narrative, portrays the people of Kukuanaland as barbarians who have no basic knowledge of science and technology; as a people who do not know what guns are, even though guns had already proliferated Africa at the time the novel was set. Here is what Quatermain writes when his party enters Kukuanaland: "As I looked an old, soldierly-looking man stepped forward out of the group, and, catching the youth by the arm, said something to him. Then they advanced upon us. Sir Henry, Good, and Umbopa had by this time seized their rifles and lifted them threateningly. The party of natives still came on. It struck me that they could not know what rifles were, or they would not have treated them with such contempt." Again, Haggard's King Solomon's Mines paints a picture which suggests that the people of Kukuanaland are savages, subhumans. To drive home his point, Haggard describes an aged African woman using the pronoun "it" instead of "she" .Consider what Haggard writes while describing Gagool, the oldest woman and witch in Kukuanaland: "As he did so I observed the wizened, monkey-like figure creeping up from the shadow of the hut. It crept on all fours, but when it reached the place where the king sat it rose upon its feet, and, throwing the furry covering off its face, revealed a most extraordinary and weird countenance. It was (apparently) that of a woman of great age, so shrunken that in size it was no larger than that of a year-old child, and was made up of a collection of deep, yellow wrinkles...." What could be more racist than the description above? It will interest you to know, nevertheless, that Haggard did not stop there. In fact, Haggard wants us to believe that it is a horrible thing for a white man to marry a black woman, regardless of the woman's beauty. Therefore, Haggard celebrates the untoward death of Foulata, a young black woman with whom Captain Good falls in love, because it will end the complications that may arose from such interracial marriage. This is how he puts it: "I am bound to say, looking at the thing from the point of view of an oldish man of the world, that I consider her removal was a fortunate occurrence, since, otherwise, complications would have been sure to ensue. The poor creature was no ordinary native girl, but a person of great, I had almost said stately, beauty, and of considerable refinement of mind. But no amount of beauty or refinement could have made an entanglement between Good and herself a desirable occurrence; for, as she herself put it, "Can the sun mate with the darkness?" Lastly, Haggard portrays Africa as being incapable of governing themselves. For him, African government can only be successful and utilitarian when such government is installed and legitimized by the European powers. To achieve this objective, Haggard's novel intentionally set up a character named Umpoba, a black guard who accompanies Allan Quatermain and his friends into Kukuanaland. Umbopa is installed as the rightful king of Kukuanaland after Twala, the former king, is beheaded in a duel (another show of white might) by Sir Henry Curtis. In the end, the white men leave Kukuanaland with a new government headed by Umpoba, a black puppet and friend who is ready to hand them the whole of King Solomon's mines if they wished. I will conclude this essay by reemphasizing that Africa is a great continent and the centre of human civilization. There are historical facts to prove that Africa had made significant advancement in diverse areas before the advent of the Europeans. Therefore, writings such as Haggard's King Solomon's Mines are racist and ethnocentric, merely written to justify the racial, colonial, and imperialistic climate of the time. Africa was never a dark continent and a thousand lies by Haggard would not make it be. David is a student of human society and crime; he writes from and lives in Lagos where he goes about carrying his magical pen and change (since the APC government has refused to bring it) in his pockets. [/b]
|
| Literature › Re: The Gospel, According To Nigerian Pastors by Cityofdavid(op): 8:07am On Dec 25, 2017 |
CHAPTER THREE 1. And it came to pass on the first Sabbath of the seventh month of the second year of the reign of Bubu the king that as the Lord was leaving his office a certain widow named Mumunus pressed towards him. 2. But the Lord's bodyguards, wielding guns and ammunition and bomb scanners, shoved the woman away, suffering her not to see him. 3. Seeing the woman, the Lord had compassion on her and told his bodyguards to withdraw their guns and weapons. Knowest not that those who live by the sword shall die by the sword? 4. And Lord said unto the woman, daughter, what troubles thee? 5. And the woman looked up and said, Good master, I have been in thy church for two scores and one dozen years and have been faithful in tithes and offerings: for I sold my late lord's estate for thy sake and for the sake of the gospel, and dropped the money at thy disciples' feet. 6. Now my only son is sent out of school because of the war waged by the sons of ASUU against the government and my indebtedness to money lenders. 7. Therefore, I pray thee to allow my son attend one of your private universities on scholarship, so that thy handmaid may have rest. 8. But the Lord sparked up in rage, saying, woman knowest thou not that private universities are run with money and not bread? 9. Verily, verily I say unto you except a child be born of a wealthy family he cannot attend a private university, 10. For it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a poor man to afford the tuition of a private university. 11. Go up therefore with your son and be prayerful, so that the sons of ASUU would trouble not your government and that they might give free education to the poor. 12. And those who heard these sayings were grieved in their hearts, for the Lord regard not the prayers of the poor woman. 13. The was a certain philosopher named Satireus, the same came unto the Good Master at night saying, 14. Good Master, tell me, how shall I protect myself from the wickedness of this world and the arrows that flyeth by day? 15. And the Lord answered him saying, thou shall be steadfast in prayers and must possess my mantle and anointing oil with thee anywhere thou goeth. 16. But Satireus, being tormented by devil, answered saying, but thou protect yourself with bodyguards and policemen who wield guns and other dangerous weapons. Where is thy mantle and thy anointing oil? 17. And the Lord rebuked Satireus saying, get behind me Lucifer, for it is written thou shall not tempt thy Lord and thy God. 18. So Satireus departed from hence and the Lord continued his good works and teachings throughout the land but would not allow himself to be crucified. 19. Now there are also many other things that the Lord did. Were every one of them to be written, I suppose that the world itself could not contain the books that would be written. Amen. N.B The use of the word "Lord" does not suggest Jesus but men who are now being worshipped by other men. Source: http://facebook.com/enigmaticgandhi David Ademule is a student of human society and crime; he lives and writes from Lagos where he goes about carrying his magic |
| Literature › Re: The Gospel, According To Nigerian Pastors by Cityofdavid(op): 8:05am On Dec 25, 2017 |
CHAPTER TWO 1. In those days, during the reign of Bubu the king, the children of Nigeria faced great tribulations: for there was perilous hunger in the land and the youths could not find hirers. 2. And recession took over the vast land, so that the prices of goods and services soared like kites until a bag of grain was sold for over twenty thousand naira. 3. And the hearts of the people were sorrowful and heavy because King Bubu and his party would not deliver the change they promised. 4. So the people came to the Lord, that he may pray his heavenly father to make light their yoke and deliver them from the shackles of recession. 5. Seeing the multitude, the Lord had great compassion on them. So he opened his mouth and taught the people saying, Blessed are those who pay their tithes and bringeth their offerings to the store house for they shall live above recession. 6. Blessed are the widows and the homeless and the jobless who pay their tithes, for my heavenly Father will give them golden rooms in heaven. 7. Blessed are the corrupt politicians who loot the treasury and oppress the poor and sow their seeds in the kingdom, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. 8. Blessed are the Yahoo boys who taketh from the gullible and honoureth my house with their substance, for they shall obtain mercy. 9. Blessed are the money launderers and bribe collectors who faileth not to bring their seeds before me, for they shall find favour in my father's sight. 10. And it came to pass after these teachings, that a certain OAP and Twitter warlord named Freezeus, who had multiple followers online, came on air and on the social media, saying, 11. Pay up not your tithes unto the Lord and his disciples; it is unlawful to do so in this age and time, for the Lord is not from the tribe of Levi. 12. The same Freezeus will not hold his peace day and night, insisting that it was unlawful for the Lord to receive tithes in this age and time. 13. And there was great controversy, such as had never been before, amongst the congregation of the people, 14. Such that Facebook and Twitter were put asunder. And there was great division: some for the Lord and some for Freezeus. 15. Howbeit, Freezeus, being vexed, challenged the Lord to show scriptures that tithes was lawful in this age. 16. But the Lord did not provide scriptures to discredit the words of Freezeus. 17. Instead, the Lord laid a curse on Freezeus and the congregation of the people who would not pay up their tithes to the treasury. 18. And the Lord said to the congregation of the people, do not be deceived, knowest thou not that thy tithe is not for you but for thy children's children up to the fourth generation? |
| Literature › The Gospel, According To Nigerian Pastors by Cityofdavid(op): 8:02am On Dec 25, 2017 |
CHAPTER ONE 1. And it came to pass in those days that the Lord's ministry had come of age, so that he desireth to preach in a yonder country; to do the works of his Father when it was day, for the night cometh when no man can work. 2. And it pleaseth the Lord to journey by air: for it was fast and convenient. 3. But the Lord suffereth not himself to fly in first class nor business class, as earthly men do: for his heavenly father is rich in glory and majesty. 4. So the Lord called his disciples to himself and told them to gather from the tithes and offerings of the congregation of the people; that they may buy him a jet. 5. Therefore, the disciples went up to the people and told them the word of the Lord. And the people were greatly moved. 6. The rich men and corrupt politicians and Yahoo boys brought forth tithes from their blood money and laid them at the feet of the Lord's disciples, 7. The same was done by poor men who gathered all they had and laid them on the disciples' feet. 8. And there was a certain widow named Mumunus who sold all the plots of land of her late lord, and gathereth the whole money, and laid it at the feet of the disciples; 9. And the disciples returned with great joy and said, Good Master, we have gathered from the congregation of the people, fourscore and ten billion naira; after thy word. 10. So the Lord instructed his disciples to buy a private jet: that the words of Isaiah the prophet might be fulfilled, saying, who are these that fly as a cloud, and as the doves to their windows? 11. So the Lord and his disciples flew by private jet in the clouds of heaven, in glory and majesty, to America and Asia and unto the uttermost parts of the world. And the Lord performed great signs and wonders in those lands. 12. There was a certain man in the gatherings of Asia who was named Nairalus, the same was blind from his mother's womb and had come to receive his full sight. 13. So Nairalus, after filling the protocol forms, was brought before the Lord by his disciples at a crusade ground, and the Lord laid his hands upon Nairalus and he received his sights immediately. 14. And the Lord, knowing there could be great doubts, brought three handkerchiefs made of different colours from the pockets of his Italian suite and blandished it before Nairalus. 15. And it came to pass that Nairalus, who had been blind from birth, recognized the colours of the handkerchiefs and there was great jubilations from the crowd. 16. But the Pharisees and the Scribes and the men of press murmured wildly, saying, lo, this man scammeth us, for it is impossible for a man blind from birth to recognize colours at the same hour he was healed. 17. Howbeit, the Lord perceived the body language of the Pharisees and the Scribes and the men of press and said, O ye generation of little faith and fools, for ye have sight but do not see; ears but do not hear. Are the ways of my Father not different from the ways of man? 18. And a great controversy was stirred up amongst the congregation of the people. 19. So the Lord finished his good works and miracles and wonders in America and Asia and flew back to his home town in Nigeria; the land where skillful youths cannot find hirers and good wages. |
| Literature › Death By Dusk: A Short Story by Cityofdavid(op): 10:37pm On Dec 10, 2017 |
It is a cold evening here in Texas. Alone, I am sitting on a dark cane chair at a corner of my little room. There is a big, shiny wooden table before me, a portion of it bearing the weight of some scattered text books, a bottle of sedatives and all manner of useful rubbishes. I am holding a pen and a green diary crested with the Nigerian coat of arms is opened before me. Behind me, my bed rises like a sleeping elephant. There are pictures of Banjo, pictures of Benedicta, pictures of Mama and Dada scattered all over the bed, where I had sat a few moments ago crying and staring at the pictures. It is now three months since I arrived America, the land of dreams and opportunities. But I am yet to start dreaming, yet to start dreaming because I have not overcome my gloomy past in Kingida, Bauchi. Although America has plenty of sleep in the air, I have not been very lucky to pluck enough without swallowing some sedatives. Banjo is the cause of these calamities but Benedicta and I warned him sternly. Banjo would never listen to anyone; he follows his own mind, now to our destruction, to his own destruction. I see Banjo in the pool of his own blood now, a hefty dagger left in his hairy chest. I now turn to this green diary to tell the tales of why I cannot pluck enough sleep in America to this day: One remarkable Friday morning, while Dada and Mama were away at the Kaka Market in Kingida Bauchi where Dada had a big provision store, Banjo rushed into the sitting room. He was panting like a water-starved deer. At once, I knew that he had been running. I rose to my feet, peeping through the window to see whether a masquerade was pursuing him. "Sam, Sam," Banjo coughed, "you would not believe what I heard on my way to the field." "What did you hear, Banjo?" Benedicta who was reading a novel, answered. "You are always full of stories." "What did you hear?" I asked eagerly, returning to my sit. Banjo shut the door behind him, calling Benedicta and I to himself. I felt the weight of Fear on my shoulders. Banjo was naturally a lousy person; it was therefore strange that he did not shout what he wanted to say from the door where he stood, sweat gathering on his bearded face. "Listen carefully, Sam and Benedicta," Banjo whispered, bending himself, "I overheard two Hausa speaking boys, whom I suspect to be Boko Haram members, saying that they would bomb St. James church in two days. One of them suspected I heard them, so they stopped me and spoke Hausa to me. I pretended not to understand, telling them to speak English. So, they left me alone but they were suspicious. "Jesus, Jesus Christ," Benedicta screamed and staggered backwards. "Jes..." "Hold your peace," said I, moving forward and covering Benedicta's mouth. "What shall we do now?" We were Catholics but St. James was not our parish. We worshipped at St. Augustine, opposite Kaka Market. "I want to inform the police," Banjo said. "I want to drink water." "Never," Benedicta and I chorused simultaneously, as if we had rehearsed our answers. "Don't inform the police. They'll twist the story. They'll implicate you and even tell Boko Haram whom the whistleblower is" I held Banjo by the shoulders. "Let us tell Dada and Mama, so that they will tell the priest in St. James and his congregation to watch and pray." Benedicta added. "Good advice, big head." I teased Benedicta. "You made sense." "I will tell the police. Police is our friend." Banjo insisted. "There is nothing the priest can do if the police does not help him. I will tell the police." "Don't tell the police" "I will tell the police." "Don't tell the police." "I will tell the police." "Stop these arguments," Benedicta came between Banjo and I. "Please, don't tell the police. I don't want trouble." "There will be no trouble. I will tell the police." Banjo left Benedicta and I, his white kaftan flapping in the Friday morning wind. Mama and Dada did not return from the market before we ate supper, the last supper. But unlike the Last Supper, a cup of wine and bread, that was ate by the Lord and his disciples, ours was a plate of delicious rice and chicken. Benedicta cooked the meal excellently; the chicken was so delicious that I chewed and swallowed the bones. Banjo ate in silence. He did not say anything when I asked him whether he told the police anything or not. Dada and Mama had not returned home before I went to bed. I was really tired. It was a few minutes past eleven when I heard heavy footsteps and woke up from sleep. I jumped to my feet and crept towards the window in our room. Shocked, I saw a group of about twelve men alighting from motorcycles. They spoke in hushed voices for a short while and then they started to scale the tall walls of our compound with a ladder they had come with. I could not see their faces because they were buried in the dark but I saw flashes and heard clanging daggers. The end has come, I thought. I crept back to the bed, held Banjo's shoulders and started shaking them as vigorously as I could but Banjo did not answer me. He laid still like a log of wood. I slapped his hairy chest severally but he still did not wake up. He was a terrible sleeper. Mama used to tell us the amazing story of how she and Banjo, then five, had visited her sister, Aunty Nene, in Abeokuta. Mama and Aunty Nene caught some fun in the verandah well into the night. And when it was time to sleep, they realized Banjo was missing. After a thorough search, Banjo was found asleep in the boot of Aunty Nene's car which had been left opened during the day to dry from the rains of the previous night. How did Banjo get into the dammed boot? Dada would ask and everyone, including Banjo, would laugh gleefully. I ran to Dada and Mama's room and knocked hard but there was no answer. I also went to Benedicta's door and knocked violently. There was no response. Just then, I heard a loud, crashing noise. The door of the sitting room downstairs had been overwhelmed. I knew I had to run for my life. So, I ran into the kitchen, climbed our standing fridge and disappeared into the ceiling. The cry of "Kashesu gabadaya, Kashesu gabadaya, Kashesu gabadaya" kill them all, filled the air. The voices became louder and louder. Soon, I heard a loud noise in the direction of Dada and Mama's room. Their door had been overwhelmed, too. Screams followed. And then Benedicta's door shrieked loudly. Screams followed. "Kashesu gabadaya" The beasts roared again. I did not hear any noise from the direction of my room. Banjo would have been stabbed in his sleep without any resistance. "Infidels have no place in Paradise," a voice which, I suspect, belonged to the leader of the group cried in Hausa. "Infidels have no place in Paradise and here on earth in the midst of Allah's children." "Alllah aku ba" the crowd roared. At last the voices started to fade until I could hear nothing. So I climbed down my haven. Confused, I ran into our room. There, on the bed, Banjo was in the pool of his own blood, a dagger pinned to his chest like a school badge. I staggered backwards and ran into Dada and Mama's room. There, on the tiled floor of the sprawling room, Dada and Mama were, dead. A deep cut was left on Dada's face, face that smiled even in death. I did not even have the courage to look at Mama's lifeless body. Immediately, I ran into Benedicta's room. There, lying still and naked on the bed, was Benedicta. Her throat had been slit open, blood streaming from the cut. There was a blood soaked novel, partly covered by a pink gown, beside Benedicta and the title of the novel read, DEATH BY DUSK. I fainted. David Ademule is a student of human society and crime; he lives and writes from Lagos where he goes about carrying change (since APC has refused to give it) and his magical pen in his pockets. Source: http://ezekieltrisler.com/death-by-dusk |
| Literature › The Ticket: A Short Story by Cityofdavid(op): 1:59am On Aug 25, 2017 |
The Ticket: A Short Story Lucky, you were confused the first time your short, unemployed legs found itself at the little bet shop across the street, the street which sees you caressing Nnena on moonless nights near an abandoned Dangote truck. The pretty attendant, who had her pretty face buried in a desktop computer, looked up and smiled at you. You smiled back and looked away. You didn't know what to say, what to do. The heavy presence of numberless boys outside the shop irritated you. You didn't want anyone to know that it was your first time at a bet shop. You had heard several incredible stories about how young boys and old men staked football matches with a token, with 100 naira and won 10 million naira; stories about how 500 naira transmogrified into 18 million naira. You even read in the newspapers the story of a university professor who, employing complex matrix and permutations, predicted a long list of soccer events and won over 20 million naira - a sum huger than a pension earned in 35 years of toil, of speaking big grammars. Still, you felt these stories were fabricated to sell sport betting to greedy people. However, your perception about sport betting changed when you saw a living testimony, when your "korokoro" eyes witnessed how Folabi, your neighbour's stubborn son, changed the destiny of his family forever. You still remember how the story happened: One cold evening, while light rains knocked the earth, Baba Folabi, a chain smoker and Danfo driver at Apapa garage, called Folabi to himself and said, "My pickin take this 200 naira; buy me cigar and Schnapps make I sama am for this cold weather kia kia." "Yes sir," Folabi smiled. He collected the money and walked away hurriedly. Baba Folabi, resting on his rickety cane chair, waited for hours, all in vein, for his son to return. But Folabi did not return. Baba Folabi soon lost his patience, grabbed his "koboko" and dash into the dark to look for his son. After several minutes of search, Folabi was found in a bet shop, where he had staked 25 football matches with the whole money. That night, Baba Folabi tied up his fifteen years old son, placed him inside an empty sack of garri, clung it to a ceiling fan and flogged the sack until the whole town overpowered him. Baba Folabi didn't want his son to become a gambler like him. He wanted his son to go to school like you. On the next morning, the news broke that Folabi had won 7 million naira from the games he staked the previous night. You nearly fainted. The following week, Baba Folabi bought three "tokunbo" buses and moved his family from the face-me-I-slap-you apartment where he had been your neighbour since you arrived Ajegunle. "Bros, what games do you want to stake?" The lady at the bet shop asked you. "Eh!" "I say which game you want play?" "Em, em play Barcelona win. Play Manchester win and play Cork City to win for me." "Just three games?" "Yes. How much will I win if I play with 500 naira?" The lady entered the games into her computer system and then looked at you, "Bros, the three games are 8 odds. You will get back times 8 of your money." "You mean 3000 naira?" "No. I said times 8. That will be 4,000 naira if you stake 500 naira." "Okay," you said. You paid and left, your ticket tucked in your back pocket. Lucky, you won on your very first attempt. You won 4,000 naira. And you made up your mind to win bigger money like Folabi, like the professor, like all the heroes whose winning tales you have heard. Deep down within, you knew that gambling was bad, was unscriptural, but you didn't mind. You have been pushed to the wall, the thorny walls of unemployment. This year made it exactly four years since you graduated with first class honours, becoming the overall best student of the Faculty of Engineering at the University of Benin. You started looking for jobs before several barren women became desperate to have babies. These women have landed miracle babies and you're yet to find a job. Just any job. You have lost several jobs because you didn't have the right connection. You even lost out in the police recruitment because your name was not on the governor's list. Escaping stampede by a stroke of luck at the immigration recruitment, you made up your mind never again to apply for any government job. Your whole life has been in shambles because your country does not have unemployment benefits, does not care about the future of her youths. You have several wonderful dreams, Lucky, dreams you wish to bring to pass when you one day win a jackpot, say ten million naira. You would travel to Canada for your masters degree, bag a first class again, obtain a scholarship for a Phd, get a job as a research fellow and then return to Nigeria, to marry Nnenna whom you always caress on moonless nights. You would then bulldozer your mother's hut in the village and build for her a twin duplex where you would always spend the holiday when in Nigeria with Nnena and the smart kids God would give you. And now, and now, six months after your first bet and winning, you're at the verge of winning a jackpot, a whopping fifteen million naira with a 100 naira stake. You are lying down on your little bed, your Techno android phone held in firm clasp. You're browsing Livescore.com and monitoring the last game on your ticket of 32 matches. Your hands are trembling; you felt like your legs are soaked inside a bowl of hot water. Your head is heavier than ever. You're just five minutes away from victory, five minutes from becoming an overnight millionaire. You're waiting for the fulltime whistle. Your stake and last game is under 2.5, meaning there will be less than 3 goals in the match between Eyimba and Kano Pillars. And it is now 89 minutes and the scoreline is 2 - 0 in favour of Eyimba, the home team. You hold your breadth and close your eyes. The few minutes to the full-time will be the most important moment of your life. You're just few minutes away from becoming a millionaire and fulfilling all your dreams in a country which kills dreams. You imagine yourself in a Canadian university, attending a lecture with friendly white faces dotting the walkaway. You imagine yourself in an aeroplane flying over several continents of the world. And then your phone vibrates. You open your eyes and briskly drive them towards the scoreline. Ah, Eyimba has scored a 90th minute goal to seal a 3 - 0 victory. Your heart stops momentarily and then coughs back to life. You reach for the unfortunate ticket and chew it, your dimming eyes falling on the bottle of "Otapiapia" near your bed. You grab it and cannot decide which is better: to be dead and rotten and forgotten in the grave or to be alive and remembered as an hopeless unemployed graduate who may never become the leader of tomorrow. David Ademule is a student of human society and crime; he lives and writes from Lagos where he goes about carrying his magical pen in his pockets. http://facebook.com/enigmaticgandhi |
| Politics › Gani Fawehinmi: When Freedom Wears A Skirt by Cityofdavid(op): 7:52am On Apr 02, 2017 |
Gani Fawehinmi: When Freedom Wears a Skirt "I came into the practice of law with anger, brutal anger, with a bull-dog determination...." Gani Fawehinmi, quoted in p.g 131 of the book, Gani: Crusader For Justice by Prof. Akin Ibidapo-Obe. The name 'Gani Fawehinmi' like the 1000 naira note needs no introduction on the soil of Nigeria. Consequently, I do not intend to write the biography nor chronicle the great deeds of Gani in the crusade for public justice in post-colonial Nigeria. Permit me to say, nevertheless, that Gani, very dogged and brave, fought with his blood and sweat against injustice and oppression of the powerless in Nigeria. If injustice was a thick cloud of darkness, then Gani was the narrow light which pierced like a sword through it. And may the efforts of our heroes past never be in vain. And may the efforts of the great Gani Fawehinmi never be in vain. And it was not surprising that when Gani joined his ancestors, hundreds of groups and thousands of individuals decided to honour and immortalize the late sage. The result was that streets, roads, parks, buildings, etc were named after Gani. Today, I still wonder why no single paper note or even coin, that is if coin still exists, in Nigeria carries the useful head of Gani Fawehinmi. In Lagos, the reason for which I am now writing this essay, there is a popular park in Ojota named after Gani Fawehinmi. The park is known as "The Gani Fawehinmi Freedom Park". And indeed, the statue of Gani, a fine gentleman attired in glamorous legal gown and wig, has become a strong symbol of liberty and defiance against all forms of lawlessness and political recklessness against the masses. As a matter of fact, one of the largest protests in the democratic history of Nigeria, the Occupy Nigeria Protest led by the Save Nigeria Group of Pastor Tunde Bakare, took place in the Gani Fawehinmi Freedom Park. From that historical moment, the park became the convergence point for civil disobedience. And our democracy came of age, giving room for freedom of expression, expression of opinions and thoughts. However, and sadly, the statue of Gani Fawehinmi, the symbol of freedom, the tower of strength, the tree of liberty, is now shrouded in a piece of white, unbefitting veil and skirted without any explanation by the Lagos State , I suspect. In the past one month or thereabouts, I have been shuttling around Ojota and noticing the vicious veil on the statue of Gani Fawehinmi. At first I thought it was due to some routine maintenance by the Lagos State ministry of environment but I fear this is not the case. Perhaps, there is a clandestine plan to silence the statue of Gani and even, if possible, rename the park. On this note, I use this opportunity to call on the officials of Lagos State Government and other constituted authorities to urgently remove the veil across our beloved Gani Fawehinmi, and spare the park if there is any attempt to rename it, so that the labour of our heroes past shall not be in vain. Veiling a statue of freedom is, methinks, an assault on the collective conscience of all the lovers of freedom worldwide. Freedom should be left naked, without a skirt or any form of trousers. David Ademule is a student of human society and crime; he lives and writes from Lagos where he goes about carrying his magical pen in his pockets. Source: http://facebook.com/thesocialmicroscope Cc lalasticalala, seun, ishilove, etc 2 Likes 1 Share
|
| Celebrities › Re: 2face Idibia, His Baby Mamas And The Forthcoming Nationwide Protests by Cityofdavid(op): 8:35am On Feb 02, 2017 |
2baba
|
| Celebrities › 2face Idibia, His Baby Mamas And The Forthcoming Nationwide Protests by Cityofdavid(op): 8:33am On Feb 02, 2017 |
2face Idibia, His Baby Mamas and The Forthcoming Nationwide Protests “The man dies in all who keep silent in the face of tyranny.” – Prof. Wole Soyinka. You can trust 2face Idibia with everything in the world but not with anything in skirt, not with your own sister. In fact, to trust 2face with a woman, is to trust a cat with a roasted fish. Of course, you don't need me to tell you that 2face Idibia, fulfilling the prophecy given to our father, Abraham, has indeed become the father of many nations. The pop legend now has, as a matter of fact, about seven children from four women, namely a wife and three baby mamas. At a time, 2face was so notorious with women that he could impregnate as many women as possible with a single handshake. In case you don't know, 2face once boasted in a famous track, "enter the place if you no go carry belle too.." No one could be more confident in the science, if you like call it an art, of impregnating a woman than 2face Idibia. Sometimes, I wonder why we still have barren women in this country with men like 2face Idibia. Nevertheless, to say that 2face Idibia is very proud to have multiple sons and daughters from multiple baby mamas, is to be unjustifiably unfair to the great musician. In the timeless track, Raindrops, 2face laments the travails of having many baby mamas and children, the travails of coping with the pen and mouths of rumour mongers and advised young men against indiscriminate sex. In his words, "young man be careful and think it twice before you choose to use your device so that you don't have raindrops falling through your eyes." In that remarkable track, 2face admitted to have made a mistake and to have learned from it and to have moved on. It understandably, therefore, provoked a wild social media outrage when one Professor Akindele Adetoye jumped from the fence of the unknown to attack 2face over the latter's intention to lead a nationwide protest scheduled to hold on the 6th of February 2017. The Professor's grouse was that 2face lacked the moral right to lead a protest against the Buhari led Federal Government because 2face was an illiterate who did not know how to padlock his trousers when it mattered. How can the father of many nations lead a protest? The drunk Professor, for that's the least one can call the said professor, quickly got relieved from his tipsiness and had tendered an unreserved apology to 2face for his unguarded, maligning utterances. This was, perhaps, because the Professor realized very quickly that 2face had no criminal records and was entitled, like every other Nigerian, to the fundamental human rights of peaceful assembly and association which are guaranteed by section 40 of the 1999 constitution. Well, I can only hope that aggrieved Nigerians and 2face Idibia would forgive Professor Adetoye and let the sleeping dog lie. We want peace in this nation, after all. However, it will be a great injustice to the reader if I should conclude this article without taking a firm stand on whether or not I support the forthcoming protest. My stand is simple and it is the stand I expect from every levelheaded Nigerian youth. I support the protest on the grounds that it must be peaceful and we, the protesters, must resist and disown hoodlums lurking in the dark to hijack the protest. Again, I support the forthcoming protest on the ground that we, the protesters, should only cry about the real issues hindering our progress as a country. The forthcoming protest must not be the regular jamboree of crying over "normal" problems like skyrocketing prices of goods and services, corruption, abject poverty, epileptic power supply, unemployment, Boko Haram, etc. These problems have become part of Nigeria and we must just try to live with them. Instead, the protest should be about agitating for true federalism and the overhauling of the entire legal frame work on which Nigeria hangs. It is time for us to protest for the restructuring of Nigeria or forever remain silent and melt under the inhuman, staggering weight of this APC government and the flimflam called one Nigeria. “The man dies in all who keep silent in the face of tyranny.” – Prof. Wole Soyinka. David Ademule is member of Amnesty International, a student of Crime and Human Society, who lives and writes from Lagos where he goes about carrying his magical pen in his pockets. Source: http://facebook.com/thesocialmicroscope |
| Politics › Re: Burial Poster Of IPOB Member Shot Dead During Trump's Solidarity Rally(pics) by Cityofdavid(m): 8:26am On Feb 02, 2017*. Modified: 10:13am On Feb 02, 2017 |
Bolustic:People like you who see death as a big deal are the reason why we can't progress as a country. Are you even better than the dead? 4 Likes |
| Christianity Etc › It's Time For Christians To Watch And Pray: Beyond The Words Of Apostle Johnson by Cityofdavid(op): 10:00am On Jan 29, 2017*. Modified: 11:23am On Jan 29, 2017 |
It's Time For Christians to Watch and Pray: Beyond the Words of Apostle Johnson Suleiman “This New Nation called Nigeria, should be an estate of our great grandfather, Uthman Dan Fodio. We must ruthlessly prevent a change of power. We will use the minorities in the North as willing tools, and the South, as conquered territory and never allow them to rule over us, and never allow them to have control over their future.” ---Sir Ahmadu Bello, Sardauna of Sokoto in THE PARROT of October 12, 1960 If there is a single receipt Nigerian Christians must not misplace from the "Shoprite" of History, it is the receipt detailing how Uthman Dan Fodio, an ordinary Fulani immigrant and Islamic teacher, waged a bloody Jihad which conquered the whole of Hausa land, converted its people to Islam, established the Sokoto Caliphate, and handed over its rulership to his sons and the generations yet unborn. Permit me to say that the jihad succeeded largely because Dan Fodio and his forces refused to be diplomatic - it was either a conquered people allowed their hearts to be sliced by Islam and Sharia or the sparkling swords of the jihadists. Of course, these made most of the locals summit to Islam to stay alive. It is true that Uthman Dan Fodio is now dead. It is even true that the whole of Northern Nigeria, conquered by the Fulani forces of Uthman, was later amalgamated with Southern Nigeria by Lord Lugard, a British imperialist, in 1914. It is also true that the Independence Constitution of 1960 proclaimed Nigeria a secular state, giving every citizen the rights to freedom of thought, conscience and religion. However, it is not true that the Jihad has ended in Northern Nigeria and that the sons of Usman Dan Fodio are pleased to see the victory of their great grandfather slide into secularism, slide into a branded phrase of religious tolerance. The subjects of Dan Fodio and some who have the blood of Fulani following in their veins have a plan to re-islamize the whole of Nothern Nigeria and then move southwards, disguising as normads during the day and wielding AK-47 at nights. The agenda of these mindless jihadists has manifested as Boko Haram, a group fighting against western education, and the rampant murdering and maiming of Christians in several parts of Northern Nigeria by purportedly faceless Fulani herdsmen who are never arrested. The most recent of this barbaric act of killing Christians is the genocide presently going on in Southern Kaduna. So far, independent sources have put the death toll at over 300. May the soul of the dead rest in perfect peace. Nevertheless, what worries the wakeful mind is that so far no single arrest has been made by the security agencies neither has the Fulani Governor of the state, Mallam Nasir El Rufai, declared a state of emergency in the affected areas. What then is the worth of the life of a Christian living on the conquered soil of Usman Dan Fodio? Five naira or less? Very recently, the controversial and daredevil Apostle Johnson Suleiman charged his Christian members, and by extension the Christian community in Nigeria, to behead and bath with the blood of any Fulani herdsmen who attempt to attack them. The Apostle also admonished Christians to stop becoming widows and widowers by defending themselves from Fulani attacks, of course not with bare hands and sticks like Samson, but, if you like, with guns and knives; with daggers and diggers. Perhaps, it is now time for churches to budget a portion of their tithes for the procurement of arms and ammunitions for self defence. Apostle Johnson Suleiman has been heavily critized for inciting violence and shunning the message of Christ which admonished Christians to always turn the right cheek to those who slap them on the left. However, these critics have forgotten that the Lord himself also charged Christians to always watch and pray. What does it mean to watch? To watch means to be ready and not be caught unawares - in this case by the devils masquerading themselves as Fulani herdsmen. Christians are quick to forget how Apostle Peter went about with sword and caught off, in self defence, the ear of one of the servants of the High Priest who came to arrest Jesus. It is now time for Christians to truly watch and pray. While this work is not an ode to Apostle Johnson Suleiman of the Omega Fire Ministries International, it is a call for Christians everywhere in Nigeria to be vigilant, to resist any force that would not make them worship their God, to exercise their legal rights of self defence which exempts them from criminal responsibility according to section 286 of the Criminal Code 1990. It is not a call for Christians to be violent but to peaceably put a licensed AK-47 and the Good Book under their pillows at night. That's how to watch and pray. After all, did the fearless Okonkwo, in defending his own clan, in Achebe's Things Fall Apart not say, “If a man comes into my hut and defecates on the floor, what do I do? Do I shut my eyes? No! I take a stick and break his head. That is what a man does. These people are daily pouring filth over us, and Okeke says we should pretend not to see.”? Indeed, it is now time for Christians to break the heads of any one, whether Fulani or otherwise, who would not peaceably allow them to worship their God. David Ademule is a student of Human Society and Crime; he lives and writes from Lagos where he goes about carrying his magical pen in his pockets. Visit and like my page @ http://facebook.com/thesocialmicroscope |
| Literature › The Head Of John The Baptist: A Short Story by Cityofdavid(op): 2:18pm On Jan 26, 2017 |
The Head of John the Baptist: A Short Story A few weeks ago, I was gulping down a cold bottle of big stout with a plate of 'Nkwobi' when my phone vibrated like the tail of a scorpion. Behold, it was the DPO. "Inspector Say-the-Truth, where are you?" the throaty voice of the DPO blarred from the other end of the phone. "Where are you, Say-the-Truth?" And without waiting for a response, the big man told me to report at the station immediately and ended the call abruptly. "Say-the-Truth," the DPO rose to his feet, placing both hands on his table, as soon as I entered into his office. "A signal came from the Force Headquarters some hours ago to the effect that I should deplore my men to carry out stop and search on the Ogoni Express Way." At once, I knew the DPO wanted me to lead the stop and search squad. And my guess was right. "Say-the-Truth, my Oga continued, "ritualists want to overrun this town and I will never allow it. And I know that you will never allow it too. You must have read in the papers some days ago the gory story of a Unilag 'Olosho' whose eyes and private parts were plucked out like mangoes some suspected ritualists. That 'Olosho' could have been your sister. She could have been my daughter, too. Enough is enough. This madness must stop." I shook my head and felt my pocket whether my pistol was still there. "Now, I want you to mobilize your men starting from tomorrow," the DPO took his seat and adjusted himself. "Comb the express ways; comb the cars and every corner of this city. We must apprehend all the ritualists in this town. You may now take your leave." "Say-the-Truth," the DPO whispered, as I turned to leave, "I want you to say the truth in this matter like you have always done in every matter." "Yes sir". For three days and nights after my meeting with the DPO, my boys and I, Ak-47 trapped between our sweaty armpits, stood in the scorching sun, stood on the Ogoni express way, stop and search on ransom, suspicion-arousing vehicles. But we found nothing. Nothing. No traces of ritualists on the road. On the evening of the third day, Corporal Musa who had a reputation for smoking gum and drinking rum and eating " Goro" came to me and said, in a strong Hausa accent, "Oga Walaitalai I no go see any ritual people for here because them already know say I dey here wan catch us." "Shut up, and go back to work," I yelled. Musa was losing patience because my presence would not allow them collect 'raba' from the motorists but I didn't care. On the fourth day, Musa would pee in his trousers from his own discovery. On the evening of the fourth day of our stop and search, I was sitting under the shade of a dwarf iroko tree, soft wind curling round and round my head, when Musa screamed, "Oga Say-the-Truth where I dey? Where I dey? Come see wetin I dey see with my 'korokoro eyes'. At once I rose to my feet, grabbed my rifle and walked as fast as I could to where Musa and eight of my men stood, confused. When I got very close I saw a motionless white jeep with the inscription " clergy " written on it in bold red letters. An elderly man clad in long, flowing white agbada knelt before my boys swearing by Jerusalem, by Nigeria and then by the head of the president. He was sweating and stammering. My boys had not opened their mouth before I knew that the man was in a big mess. "Oga Say-the-Truth," Sergeant Obinna saluted me. I stared at Obinna whose stomach looked like ten juicy water melons merged into one, the results of drinking too much beer. "We see human head inside this man boot." "What! What nonsense?" I screamed, noticing that Musa who made the discovery, as I would learn later, had wet his trousers. The next moment I was led to the boot of the white jeep and there, just there, inside the comfort of a black bag was the black head of an unknown man. The head was big and fresh; the owner of the head must have lost it some hours ago. Anyway, it was now too late to return the head to the owner, so I asked the clergy, the custodian of the fresh human head, from where he plucked it. "Mr. Man, where did you find this human head in your custody? Whose head is it?" Musa felt his own head, as if the head in question belonged to him. "Answer me now,". "It is the head of John the Baptist," the clergyman stuttered, "I am on my way to Jerusalem to return it." I did not believe my ears, "which John the Baptist are you talking about?" Said I in disbelief. "The same John the Baptist who was beheaded in the book of...." "Shut up," I left a hefty slap on the tribal marked face of the clergy and ordered my boys to handcuff him.. "I will ensure that you are prosecuted and sent to jail. You bloody ritualist." However, before my boys and I got to the office, a call had come from above instructing the DPO to immediately free the suspect without any documentation whatsoever on the crime diary. Afterwards, the DPO blamed me for being incompetent and being unable to identify properly the head of John the Baptist. "What kind of Christian are you?" Two days later, my deployment letter came from above. The reader would have guessed where I was posted. I was to report at Chibok with immediate effect. "Inspector Say-the-Truth, you can now say the truth as it is to Boko Haram," the DPO at Chibok taunted while receiving me. David Ademule is a student of crime and society; he lives and writes from Lagos where he goes about carrying his magical pen in his pockets. http://facebook.com/thesocialmicroscope |
| NYSC › Accommodating Madness: Remembering My NYSC Days In Okposi by Cityofdavid(op): 4:57am On Oct 11, 2016 |
Accommodating Madness: Remembering My NYSC Days in Okposi "The lunatics may be outnumbered but they own the place" - Chinua Achebe It is now nearly three years since I completed my national youth service in Ohaozara, a small town in Igbo land. I have written, and quite successfully too, a handful of ethnographic articles capturing the strange moments and interesting experience I had as an alien Yoruba youth in Igbo land. These articles, woe unto a boastful man, has broken the internet and bursted several big blogs, becoming one of the most widely read articles about Igbo culture, about the people of Okposi, on the internet. Three years, one would assume, is such a long time, long enough for a newly born baby to learn how to walk and talk, long enough for an addicted "Baba Ijebu" player who has never won a meaningful amount of money to quit. Yet, my friend, three years has not been long enough to wipe out the memories of the strange and sweet things I observed while in the beautiful village of Okposi in a local government known as Ohaozara, sitting in the silent state of Ebonyi. Three years have been incapable of swallowing the hospitality I was shown in Igbo land; to stamp out the memories of the green snakes, forbidden to be killed, which visited me in the bedroom; to dustbin the beautiful voices of the villagers who gleefully roared "Copa Shun" whenever I marched down to the market with my black Baco bag trapped beneath my armpit. Three years have not been able to dig into my mind and shovel away the normal madness I observed during my NYSC days in Okposi. Any reader who is fortunate enough would, perhaps, have stumbled on my previous articles which gave a lucid description of my journey from Lagos to Igbo land, to Okposi. Here is in fact an extract from one of the articles I wrote on July 3rd 2013: "We arrived Okposi few hours after midday. The town seemed to be the most developed region in Ohaozara local government. The town has motor parks, restaurants, two or more hotels, a police station, churches, markets, petrol stations, amongst others. The roads within the town were motorable, the people were Igbo speaking and quite industrious." But there was one aspect of the Okposi life I skipped, perhaps due to absentmindedness or out of the risk of being labelled a tribalist. It was the scary, heavy presence of mad men and women everywhere like anti-riot policemen. For the about 18,000 hours I spent in Okposi, for I was not a ghost corps member, I witnessed the aimless parade of mad people across the streets. Sometimes, I see up to twenty or more mad persons daily each of them displaying a different shade of madness, to the extent that I started to doubt my own sanity. There is a Yoruba proverb which, when interpreted loosely, says - it is pleasant to enjoy the acrobat of a lunatic but nobody wants to give birth to a lunatic. And indeed some lunatics performed distinctively on the streets of Okposi. Very prominent was a man who was widely known as Man-must-wack. This Man-must-wack man was remarkable for whistling unnecessarily like a drunk football referee. He whistled hard all day, smoking cigarettes - hailing and cursing passersby. Man-must-wack, a friend to corps members, told us severally that he graduated from the university in the year nineteen ninety "gro-go-dom" whatever that meant. We gave him money and, if he was happy, he fetched us some water from the well. He was a normal mad man. Then, there was another mad man who was known as Patrick. He could quote several verses of the Good Book. Patrick's best attire was a yard of garri sack which barely covered the dangling "Gala" between his legs. He was mildly hefty, his yellow head sitting firmly on his thick neck. We were told that Patrick was a fervent prayer warrior before he ran mad. Too much prayers? Patrick was one of the most favourite mad men in Okposi. This was because he was a good labourer , one who did not know the proper price of his labour. He was, thus, taken to large farms by greedy sane persons to make long ridges and get paid an insane sum of just 20 naira. These land owners did profit from the madness of Patrick, and they profited abundantly. Although I do not intend to write the biography of mad persons, permit me to mention another distinguished normal mad woman I observed while in Okposi. I cannot remember her name presently but her deeds were worthy of note. She had rough ringlets, pointed nose, different straps of clothes running around her waist. She spoke Igbo always and threw Igbo dance steps whenever she heard good music. The red tubby intestine which flowed from a part of her stomach could not kill her, could not stop her from throwing Igbo dance steps. My curiosity about the pervasiveness and accommodation of mental illness in Okposi pushed me beyond mere observations to making clandestine researches about the subject. A number of villagers with whom I developed acquaintances, for reasons unknown to me to this day, were reluctant to speak on the subject. I nevertheless gathered that some of the insane persons littering the streets were not Okposi indigenes but fugitives from other ethnic groups who learnt to speak Igbo in their madness. Some villagers also claimed that some of the insane persons I observed were dumped at Okposi by relatives and family members who became fed up after several years of coping with the excesses of madness. Is Okposi then a psychiatric home to insane persons? I do not think so. I can say, however, that Okposi showed hospitality and humanness to those suffering from mental illnesses. The mad persons in Okposi, unlike you would find in Lagos and other big cities, have human rights and are seen as normal human beings. This, I think, the Okposi people believed would help the mad people quickly come out of their insanity. The warm treatment of mad persons in Okposi is strange, indeed, but it is familiar. It is familiar because every citizens of this nation have learnt to cope with madness, political and economic madness. We have learnt to cope with the madness of spending four or more years in the university and returning home to keep keys for neighbours, jobless. We have learnt to live with the madness of buying foreign goods while our Naira keeps drowning. We have learnt to cope with the chains that have come with voting for change. We are a nation that copes with too many madnesses, to the point where the few who have dared to come out of their madness are seen to be insane. Did we not bite those who said the president does not have the capacity to make one naira equal to one dollar? The accommodation of mental illness in Okposi is justifiable and excusable but the madnesses in our own national life should not be tolerated any further. Ademule David is a student of human society and crime. He lives and writes from Lagos where he goes , mostly at nights, carrying his magical pen in his pockets. Visit http://facebook.com/thesocialmicroscope for more articles 1 Like |
| Literature › Re: Dust: A Short Story by Cityofdavid(op): 4:49am On Oct 11, 2016 |
Cece23:Thanks. you're a good reader too. |
| Literature › Re: Etisalat Prize For Literature Flash Fiction Award For Short Fiction Writers by Cityofdavid(m): 3:51am On Sep 02, 2016 |
Isomerizm:Thanks bro. Regards. |
| Literature › Re: Etisalat Prize For Literature Flash Fiction Award For Short Fiction Writers by Cityofdavid(m): 4:10am On Sep 01, 2016 |
Please, I need someone to help me post the direct link for flash submission here. Let's clench this prize together. |
| Literature › Re: Dust: A Short Story by Cityofdavid(op): 6:31pm On Aug 29, 2016 |
K9blunt:Thanks friend |
| Literature › Re: Fulani Herdsmen And The Lady In Red Skirt: A Short Story by Cityofdavid(op): 5:40pm On Jul 31, 2016 |
PWEETYWIZZY:Thanks friend. |
| Literature › Fulani Herdsmen And The Lady In Red Skirt: A Short Story by Cityofdavid(op): 12:09am On Jul 31, 2016 |
Fulani Herdsmen and The Lady in Red Skirt: A Short Story When the Holy Bible was handed me to swear by it, although I would have preferred to swear by Sagbona or Ayelala or Asanda because the Christian God, unlike the African God, is too quiet and merciful - not-a-wait-and-get-God, I held my breath. The Christian God very rarely strikes liars; and this perhaps is the reason why corrupt politicians hardly die in office these days. Facing the slender, stern-looking clerk who stood before me, I raised my right hand high in the thick, suffocating air of the courtroom and placed my left hand, the bible held in firm clasp, on my pulsating chest and then I repeated the following words after him. "I, Gandhi Green, the son of S. J Green, do solemnly swear to tell this noble court the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the whole truth. So help me God. Amen." The oath sworn, my breath released, and then I started: My Lord, although the media and the spokespersons of the broom and of the umbrella have given different accounts of this story, each party twisting the truth like the neck of a tap to soothe or incite the public, I shall now give this noble court an unbiased, eyewitness account of what is now known in the whole of Afikpo, and indeed Igboland, as the story of the Fulani Herdsmen and the Lady in Red Skirt. My Lord, the tides of fate is strong and mighty. It sweeps man directionlessly, often against his wish, on the vast ocean of life. It was the tide of fate, my Lord, through the NYSC, that swept my Yoruba feet some years ago across the Niger, to Igboland. It is on this strange ground that I became eligible to give this testimony before you. Ah, my Lord, the Igbos are a great people. They have great cities and their hands are not weak in tilling the red earth left behind by their ancestors. They are not slothful in business, proud possessors of pretty ladies, too, and many big bars where bottles of brukutu and Isi Ewu pepper soup are mouthwateringly served to those who can pay. And permit me to say, Your Lordship, that my service year was full of awe and splendor, awe and splendor from the many parties I attended. The people of Afikpo have the custom of celebrating weddings towards the December and the January of every year. During this period indigenes gather from far and near like ants near a cube of sugar to celebrate the marriage of their loved ones. Whether these marriages are endogamous or exogamous do not matter, My Lord, the celebrations are usually matchless, marked by plenty fufu and vegetable soup with goat meat and untainted palmwine. The story which was told in Achebe's Things Fall Apart (Chapter Five) of a certain wealthy man who set before his guests a mound of foo-foo so high that those who sat on one side could not see what was happening on the other, and it was not until late evening that one of them saw for the first time his in-law who had arrived during the course of the meal and had fallen to on the opposite side. It was only then that they exchanged greetings and shook hands over what was left of the food, is very true. As a matter of fact the testimony I now give before this noble court took place in one of those wedding ceremonies where Pounded Yam and Goat meat were ridiculed. One Saturday afternoon, the party virus planted in my Yoruba blood led my feet to a colourful wedding ceremony which I learnt afterwards was between the daughter of a former Minister and the nephew of a former Governor of Enugu State. My Lord, I cannot tell the colour of dress the groom and his bride put on during the matrimonial rites conducted in the big Anglican church near the market place. But, My Lord, I was at the wedding reception which took place on the open field of St. Augustine Missionary School, where two parallel queues of white canopies faced each other like two wrestlers ready for a fight. At the far end of the two long queues was a magnificently built canopy standing on sprawling yards of red carpet with two high, golden chairs, the bride and the groom sitting on each, smiling. The local band played eagerly and, from the table I sat which was shared by a lady in red skirt, I laughed wildly at the neck of the trumpeter which kept contrasting rhythmically like the throat of a python swallowing a goat. When the black-and-white-wearing waiters came to our table, I ordered four wraps of fufu each as large as the head of that lawyer sitting over there.... "Objection My Lord" "Objection overruled, go on Gandhi Green." Yes My Lord. I also ordered for some goat meat pepper soup tinged with the local leaf Yorubas call Efirin. The lady in red skirt, which I had never met until that day and would never meet, ordered a plate jollof rice and chicken and a bottle of soft drink. The orders arrived concomitantly and the waiter, who had just noticed the NYSC cap on my sloppy head said "Copa Shun Kedu?". I smiled and he walked away. As I settled to eat, My Lord, I noticed for the first time that herds of cattle under the command of some Fulani herdsmen were gazing far far away, about 1500 metres away. At once my heart trembled, trembled for no apparent reason. So I pounced on the wraps of fufu, my eyes colliding with the eyes of the fair lady in red skirt across the table. And then My Lord it happened, it happened so fast. Raising my head, a lump of fufu trapped in my throat, I saw a hefty white cow with a cleft horn charging madly towards the canopy under which I sat. Ah, raw fear flowed through my veins and I sprang to my feet at once, esteeming my life above the delicious meal on my table. My NYSC cap fell into the dish of vegetable soup before me but I didn't mind. I ran. But the lady in red skirt was not lucky, for her Chi was sound asleep. Before she could stand to her feet, the charging cow, full of vigour and madness, buried its cleft horn into the face of the lady in red skirt and stood over her. The awful cry of Chineke Chineke Chineke filled the air as everyone scampered to safety. The beast kept kicking the lady in red skirt, who was too hurt and frightened to cry, and everyone kept shouting Chineke Chineke Chineke as if Chineke was the lady's name. A tall, handsome-looking herdsman who wielded an AK 47 and a rod soon arrived. The herdsman brandished his rod and the seemingly mad cow fell to command and returned to join the herd. He looked at the lady in red skirt, now covered with dust and blood, shook his head and walked away. The lady in red skirt slept in the mortuary that night. Afikpo boiled like yam that evening. The youths carried matchets and decided to march to the settlement of the Fulani herdsman to slaughter them but an old man cleverly advised them to be calm, that the Fulani herdsman have AK 47. The old man said, "my children let Chineke fight your fight. Let Chineke judge your disputes. I saw the war and would rather kill himself than see another war. Now go home to your wives and mothers." The next day a Fulani Emir issued a statement saying that no Fulani herdsman could be blamed for the death of the lady in red skirt in Afikpo because the lady ought to have known that cows charge when they see anything red. And the Igbo community became more furious, wondering the height of Fulani hegemony. However, about a week later the Igbo community became very happy when a major newspaper reported that the deceased lady in red skirt was Aisat Musa, a Fulani corps member posted to Ebonyi State two months earlier. This was when the lady in red skirt became a human being, for the Sultan condemned the first statement issued by the Emir for being insensitive and called for the probe of the death of the lady in red skirt. "The cow and the owner of the cow must be punished and the family of Aisa Musa must be compensated," the Sultan said. This is my testimony, My Lord, can I get off this goddamned dock now? Ademule David is a student of human society and crime; he lives and writes from Lagos where he goes about carrying his magical pen in his pockets. Source: http://facebook.com/thesocialmicroscope
|
| Politics › Kai, Governor Akinwunmi Ambode: Before Lagos Becomes A War Zone by Cityofdavid(op): 5:29pm On Jul 05, 2016 |
KAI, GOVERNOR AKINWUNMI AMBODE: BEFORE LAGOS BECOMES A WAR ZONE Although there are several things which separate me and the former Governor of Lagos State, Babatunde Raji Fashola, two things nevertheless unite us. First, we both are Nigerians and the descendants of Oduduwa. Second, we both are proud alumni of the prestigious University of Benin where he studied Law and graduated before I was even born. Today, Fashola's name is engraved on a stony wall just outside the Law Faculty where passersby can see. This is well deserved, of course, because Fashola proved himself as a great administrator and leader during his tenure as the governor of Lagos State. Mr. Akinwunmi Ambode, too, now has a golden opportunity to sign his own autograph on the sands of time and he must scribble something meaningful for himself and posterity. My fear, I must admit, has now risen by the contents of what Ambode is scribbling. Very recently Governor Akinwunmi Ambode made the quite heartrending decision to commence the enforcement of the hitherto sleeping Lagos State Street Trading and Illegal Market Prohibition Law 2003 which restricts and penalizes street trading and hawking. He hopes to enforce the ban through the brutal and oppressive Lagos state taskforce known as KAI - Kick Against Indiscipline. The argument is that street hawking and gridlock merchandize endanger the life of citizens who engage in it. The said law imposes a fine of N90,000 or a jail term of six months on the seller and the buyer. The first question Ambode should ask himself is why the Lagos State Street Trading and Illegal Market Prohibition Law 2003 has remained a paper tiger until now. The answer is simple - the imposition of a fine of N90,000 or a jail term of six months on a young man or woman who, no doubt, struggles to make ends meet in the scorching sun of Lagos with an inventory hardly worth N3000 is not only satanic but unrealistic. If these hardworking hawkers had N90,000 in their bank accounts, they would rather stay in their villages farming tomatoes or cassavas than run back and forth like lunatics on the streets and highways of Lagos. Professor Emeritus of Law, Gbenga Adeyemi of the University of Lagos, believes that a law is meaninglessly senseless if it is anti-cultural and imposes sanctions which a reasonable man considers laughable. Now let us assume that the street trading prohibition law and the sanctions it imposes are justified, is Governor Ambode even aware that Nigeria has the highest population of unemployed youths in the whole of Africa? This fact alone should cause nightmare for a serious government who believes in creating a fertile environment for job creation and commerce. Street hawking and traffic jam merchandize absorb thousands of youths and women who are largely unskilled and may not have found a finer life. The ban, methinks, is an open invitation to the affected youths and young women to embrace armed robbery, kidnapping, prostitution, drug trafficking, etc. Robert K. Merton, a renowned American sociologist and proponent of the Anomie theory, points out that people engage in crime when they do not have a legitimate means of achieving societal goals such as success and wealth. Merton's argument is correct; what alternative has Governor Ambode provided to absorb the thousands of youths whose legitimate means of livelihood has been deprived by a clueless law? Nothing. Lagos is the Nigerian version of the American Dream. It is the land of possibilities, a land where immigrants believe that achieving wealth, success and fame is possible with hard work. There are hundreds of stories about people who are now famous and wealthy who hawked plantain, bread, palm oil, newspapers, Gala, satchet water, wristwatches, drinks, fruits and so on on the streets and highways of Lagos. These stories have instilled in the youths the values that they can legitimately hustle their way into relevance by following the sweaty and narrow path of street trading and other available menial jobs. This is a fantastic dream which Ambode must not quench if he wants peace in Lagos; if he does not want "Eko to baje". If government cannot create jobs, it should not create problems for those who have created jobs for themselves. Governor Ambode should take note that Lagos has enjoyed relative peace when compared to other major Nigerian cities because, over the years, the state has created opportunities for all categories of persons to legitimately survive. The state has jobs for the educated and the illiterates too. As a matter of fact, shirtless touts are empowered to use their mastery of Lagos slangs and street rules to collect revenue for the State Government. And this has been successful. Similarly, the government recognizes the activities of " Omo Oniles" who collect money from those executing building projects. These practices have reduced the crime rate in Lagos State because violent persons have been provided with a legitimate means of expressing violence, which is the best crime control technique in the world. Ambode must not ruin this crime prevention system by sending erstwhile street hawkers to the streets empty handed. I foresee a looming trouble if this happens. Observant Lagosians would notice that the insecurity and insurgency situation in the Northeast, Southsouth and Southeast geopolitical zones of Nigeria is gradually spilling to the Southwest and, unfortunately, Lagos appears to have been chosen by the insurgents as the field of honour. The recent killings of civilians by masked militants in the Igbo Olomu and Ita Oluwo area of Ikorodu and the threat issued by the Niger Delta Avengers promising to bomb the Third Mainland Bridge are clear signals that the creeks have become too small for our insurgent friends. Lagos is the next annex of trouble. The Ambode administration should not, thus, unconsciously create the preconditions for insurgency in our peaceful Lagos. If street hawkers are disengaged as announced, just like Boko Haram thrived in the North and militancy in the Niger Delta because of abject poverty and a vast army of unemployed, aggrieved youths, Lagos State would have created a 'labour market' from which insurgents would recruit, indoctrinate, train and carryout attacks on people and property in Lagos State. Lagos must not become a war zone. Before I conclude this article, permit me to mention that it will be very unfair to street hawkers if I do not dedicate at least a paragraph to the recklessness and indiscretion with which the officials of KAI enforce the so-called anti-street hawking campaign. They snatch goods from traders with a vigorous suddenness that is capable of driving the seller into the mouth of a speeding truck (maybe that was what happened in Maryland the other day and resurrected this hitherto dead law). In some cases, KAI officials arrest pregnant traders and old women who are just disciplined people who would rather street trade than indulge in crimes. KAI officials are consequently kicking against discipline because I do not see indiscipline in people roasting maize or "boli" on the roadside to make a living. The only indiscipline that should be kicked out of Lagos State are the KAI officials themselves who confiscate goods on the street and resell at cheap prices to owners of lockup shops. What could be more indisciplined than such a corrupt act? Consequently, instead of banning street trading Governor Akinwunmi Ambode should send or sponsor a bill, probably named Street Trading Bill, to the Lagos State House of Assembly. The bill should contain regulations bothering on the rights of street traders, eligibility criteria for street traders, locations and circumstances in which street trading is prohibited or allowed. The bill, if enacted, will also prevent criminals who roam the streets under the pretext of hawking from finding a hiding place. Street trading is part of the Lagos life and we must preserve it because of the role it plays in the employment of our people. Eko o ni baje o! Ademule David is a student of Human Society and Crime; he writes from and lives in Lagos where he goes about carrying his magical pen in his pockets. Source http://facebook.com/thesocialmicroscope 1 Like
|
