₦airaland Forum

izombie:
If it is so then that law is rubbish. I am igbo but osinbajo should carry on jare

This democracy, there is no master in government. we have to change some of these mentality as if these people in power are doing us a favour..

Epositive:
i remember when one bros in my neighbourhood was telling me that drogba is a yoruba man. that his real name is aderogba

chai! i woefully fell for this terrible lie nigerians can lie for africa

nigerians and lies are like

#positivevibes

Drogba is Kru, just like George Weah, they are naturally strong people. A lot of Kru people settled in Lagos in the 1800.

SmartyPants:
So it is by looks? Yet in Gambia there is 24/7 electricity and water supply. which local govt area in lagos can boast of that? In any, and i mean any part of Gambia, you are free to come out of your house at any time of the day or night without fear of armed robbers. Which local govt area in lagos can boast of that?

From the looks of things i think Gambians would be very happy to have their ministers remain looking like local govt. chairmen and councilors if it means they can continue to enjoy basic things which remain a dream to nigerians.

#harshtruth.

Thanks so much for your brilliant reply..

DIKEnaWAR:
They should have made this Gambia a local government in Lagos state and allow Ambode to administer it.

Imagine? They look like a chairman and his councillors.

This the mentality that encourage our public servants to steal because people like you expect them to live a life style above their means. Gambia is a well organized society, you should travel a bit and see how some of these small countries are well organized. everything works in Gambia and they have no natural resources to back their economy, they live on tax and Agriculture, the dalasi is 40 to a dollar ....despite all the recent problem, their was no violent demonstrations or killings, that's a sign of an organized society.go to Israel and see how the members of the Knesset dress, they are so common but very effect...

malware:
Hahahahaha.... so funny. But if I were them, I wouldn't have started mocking Jammeh yet, because we did not not the leadership style of Barrow yet.... He MAY be worse than Jammeh, who knows.

Jammeh is uneducated but a practical man, I use to visit the Gambia when there was nothing in the country, Ajegunle was far beautiful than the Gambia back in the early 1980's when I primary school, Jammeh came and transform the whole country. his only problem is power, he is a narcissist, he love attention and he is ruthless. he got his money from Mobutu, Abacha and Ghadaffi, he was their bank and juju man.Gambia depend on groundnut, taxes and tourism but is far better than a lot of west African countries, the Dallasi is 40 to one dollar.He tried, he built schools, good road network, 24 hours electricity, first university, hospitals, new Airport and parliament, but he was too wicked, he killed people.

adecz:
What people should know about slave trade is that, it was our own people that caught & enslaved their fellow brothers, oyibo just came to buy what our black dealers were selling. Oyibo did not enter the country to catch slaves. If your own people can be heartland, merciless & greedy enough to catch & enslave you for money, why do you expect oyibo to treat you any better? In fact, when oyibo later decided to end the evil trade, the African kingdoms & dealers who were making so much money from enslaving & selling their brothers, bitterly resisted it. The Fulani & Borno slave raiding of the middle belt tribes started before oyibo came to Africa.

Fulani came to Nigeria in the late 18 century.

Vanpascore:
Where is Ajayi Crowther??

Ajayi Crowther was sold from Oyo to a slave marchant and then he first landed in the Gambia, later was brought to Sierra-Leone to testify against his captors, he got his education in Sierra-Leone and later came back to Nigeria.Slave trade was a popular thing in West Africa and our Yoruba people contributed a lot to it, that's the reason you have a large Yoruba population in Sierra-Leone and the Gambia, they are called Krio (Christians) Aku (Muslims).

Gambians are peaceful people, no looting or riot during the whole turmoil...

These girls brought pride to the nation, they should get the full amount, these thieves are out to steal from them, they are not doing them any favour.

These folks will always get their ways as we Nigerians seems to follow them to anywhere for their selfish reasons. Why can't we the youth come together and form our own party and see how these bunch of thieves will fade into oblivion.

I couldn't find any link, the only link I can find is the Mali and Ghana match.

Any link?

kenonze:
The Minister of Sport cannot even afford N750 "armpit roll on"

When he start stealing our money to buy roll-on , please don't complain ..

our people are so gullible,this guy is a fraud, he hurriedly relocated to California when the state of Florida was after him for fraud.

please don't listen to the rubbish people are saying, I can interpret dreams, you flying is an indication that you will be a great person in life, you be a progressive person in life, you can write it down.

Hadiza is the late Safinatu Buhari's daughter..

Any self respecting man wouldn't try that rubbish to belittle his integrity by asking his why for her salary, she can contribute to the upkeep of the house , but it's not compulsory.I am not her parents that paid her school fee.

my bro, just keep your cool. if na Yankee you de, na jail you go end up o, and you go get felony record for life, just let her go.

Every Patriot should read this article copied from another platform. It relates to Zambia but at the end you will know why a Nigerian should digest the article. Over to you friends:

This makes an interesting reading:

Copied:

This article was penned by Field Ruwe. He is a US-based Zambian media practitioner and author. He is a PhD candidate with a B.A. in Mass Communication and Journalism, and an M.A. in History.?

They call the Third World the lazy man’s purview; the sluggishly slothful and languorous prefecture. In this realm people are sleepy, dreamy, torpid, lethargic, and therefore indigent—totally penniless, needy, destitute, poverty-stricken, disfavored, and impoverished. In this demesne, as they call it, there are hardly any discoveries, inventions, and innovations. Africa is the trailblazer. Some still call it “the dark continent” for the light that flickers under the tunnel is not that of hope, but an approaching train. And because countless keep waiting in the way of the train, millions die and many more remain decapitated by the day.

“It’s amazing how you all sit there and watch yourselves die,” the man next to me said. “Get up and do something about it.”

Brawny, fully bald-headed, with intense, steely eyes, he was as cold as they come. When I first discovered I was going to spend my New Year’s Eve next to him on a non-stop JetBlue flight from Los Angeles to Boston I was angst-ridden. I associate marble-shaven Caucasians with iconoclastic skin-heads, most of who are racist.

“My name is Walter,” he extended his hand as soon as I settled in my seat.

I told him mine with a precautious smile.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“Zambia.”

“Zambia!” he exclaimed, “Kaunda’s country.”

“Yes,” I said, “Now Sata’s.”

“But of course,” he responded. “You just elected King Cobra as your president.”

My face lit up at the mention of Sata’s moniker. Walter smiled, and in those cold eyes I saw an amenable fellow, one of those American highbrows who shuttle between Africa and the U.S.

“I spent three years in Zambia in the 1980s,” he continued. “I wined and dined with Luke Mwananshiku, Willa Mungomba, Dr. Siteke Mwale, and many other highly intelligent Zambians.” He lowered his voice. “I was part of the IMF group that came to rip you guys off.” He smirked. “Your government put me in a million dollar mansion overlooking a shanty called Kalingalinga. From my patio I saw it all—the rich and the poor, the ailing, the dead, and the healthy.”


“Are you still with the IMF?” I asked.

“I have since moved to yet another group with similar intentions. In the next few months my colleagues and I will be in Lusaka to hypnotize the Cobra. I work for the broker that has acquired a chunk of your debt. Your government owes not the World Bank, but us millions of dollars. We’ll be in Lusaka to offer your president a couple of millions and fly back with a check twenty times greater.”

“No, you won’t,” I said. “King Cobra is incorruptible. He is …”

He was laughing. “Says who? Give me an African president, just one, who has not fallen for the carrot and stick.”

Quett Masire’s name popped up.

“Oh, him, well, we never got to him because he turned down the IMF and the World Bank. It was perhaps the smartest thing for him to do.”

At midnight we were airborne. The captain wished us a happy 2012 and urged us to watch the fireworks across Los Angeles.

“Isn’t that beautiful,” Walter said looking down.

From my middle seat, I took a glance and nodded admirably.

“That’s white man’s country,” he said. “We came here on Mayflower and turned Indian land into a paradise and now the most powerful nation on earth. We discovered the bulb, and built this aircraft to fly us to pleasure resorts like Lake Zambia.”

I grinned. “There is no Lake Zambia.”

He curled his lips into a smug smile. “That’s what we call your country. You guys are as stagnant as the water in the lake. We come in with our large boats and fish your minerals and your wildlife and leave morsels—crumbs. That’s your staple food, crumbs. That corn-meal you eat, that’s crumbs, the small Tilapia fish you call Kapenta is crumbs. We the Bwanas (whites) take the cat fish. I am the Bwana and you are the Muntu. I get what I want and you get what you deserve, crumbs. That’s what lazy people get—Zambians, Africans, the entire Third World.”

The smile vanished from my face.

“I see you are getting pissed off,” Walter said and lowered his voice. “You are thinking this Bwana is a racist. That’s how most Zambians respond when I tell them the truth. They go ballistic. Okay. Let’s for a moment put our skin pigmentations, this black and white crap, aside. Tell me, my friend, what is the difference between you and me?”

“There’s no difference.”

“Absolutely none,” he exclaimed. “Scientists in the Human Genome Project have proved that. It took them thirteen years to determine the complete sequence of the three billion DNA subunits. After they were all done it was clear that 99.9% nucleotide bases were exactly the same in you and me. We are the same people. All white, Asian, Latino, and black people on this aircraft are the same.”

I gladly nodded.

“And yet I feel superior,” he smiled fatalistically. “Every white person on this plane feels superior to a black person. The white guy who picks up garbage, the homeless white trash on drugs, feels superior to you no matter his status or education. I can pick up a nincompoop from the New York streets, clean him up, and take him to Lusaka and you all be crowding around him chanting muzungu, muzungu and yet he’s a riffraff. Tell me why my angry friend.”

For a moment I was wordless.

“Please don’t blame it on slavery like the African Americans do or colonialism, or some psychological impact or some kind of stigmatization. And don’t give me the brainwash poppycock. Give me a better answer.”

I was thinking.

He continued. “Excuse what I am about to say. Please do not take offense.”

I felt a slap of blood rush to my head and prepared for the worst.

“You my friend flying with me and all your kind are lazy,” he said. “When you rest your head on the pillow you don’t dream big. You and other so-called African intellectuals are damn lazy, each one of you. It is you, and not those poor starving people, who is the reason Africa is in such a deplorable state.”

“That’s not a nice thing to say,” I protested.

He was implacable. “Oh yes it is and I will say it again, you are lazy. Poor and uneducated Africans are the most hardworking people on earth. I saw them in the Lusaka markets and on the street selling merchandise. I saw them in villages toiling away. I saw women on Kafue Road crushing stones for sell and I wept. I said to myself where are the Zambian intellectuals? Are the Zambian engineers so imperceptive they cannot invent a simple stone crusher, or a simple water filter to purify well water for those poor villagers? Are you telling me that after thirty-seven years of independence your university school of engineering has not produced a scientist or an engineer who can make simple small machines for mass use? What is the school there for?”

I held my breath.

“Do you know where I found your intellectuals? They were in bars quaffing. They were at the Lusaka Golf Club, Lusaka Central Club, Lusaka Playhouse, and Lusaka Flying Club. I saw with my own eyes a bunch of alcoholic graduates. Zambian intellectuals work from eight to five and spend the evening drinking. We don’t. We reserve the evening for brainstorming.”

He looked me in the eye.

“And you flying to Boston and all of you Zambians in the Diaspora are just as lazy and apathetic to your country. You don’t care about your country and yet your very own parents, brothers and sisters are in Mtendere, Chawama, and in villages, all of them living in squalor. Many have died or are dying of neglect by you. They are dying of AIDS because you cannot come up with your own cure. You are here calling yourselves graduates, researchers and scientists and are fast at articulating your credentials once asked—oh, I have a PhD in this and that—PhD my foot!”

I was deflated.

“Wake up you all!” he exclaimed, attracting the attention of nearby passengers. “You should be busy lifting ideas, formulae, recipes, and diagrams from American manufacturing factories and sending them to your own factories. All those dissertation papers you compile should be your country’s treasure. Why do you think the Asians are a force to reckon with? They stole our ideas and turned them into their own. Look at Japan, China, India, just look at them.”

He paused. “The Bwana has spoken,” he said and grinned. “As long as you are dependent on my plane, I shall feel superior and you my friend shall remain inferior, how about that? The Chinese, Japanese, Indians, even Latinos are a notch better. You Africans are at the bottom of the totem pole.”

He tempered his voice. “Get over this white skin syndrome and begin to feel confident. Become innovative and make your own stuff for god’s sake.”

At 8 a.m. the plane touched down at Boston’s Logan International Airport. Walter reached for my hand.

“I know I was too strong, but I don’t give it a damn. I have been to Zambia and have seen too much poverty.” He pulled out a piece of paper and scribbled something. “Here, read this. It was written by a friend.”

He had written only the title: “Lords of Poverty.”

Thunderstruck, I had a sinking feeling. I watched Walter walk through the airport doors to a waiting car. He had left a huge dust devil twirling in my mind, stirring up sad memories of home. I could see Zambia’s literati—the cognoscente, intelligentsia, academics, highbrows, and scholars in the places he had mentioned guzzling and talking irrelevancies. I remembered some who have since passed—how they got the highest grades in mathematics and the sciences and attained the highest education on the planet. They had been to Harvard, Oxford, Yale, Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), only to leave us with not a single invention or discovery. I knew some by name and drunk with them at the Lusaka Playhouse and Central Sports.

Walter is right. It is true that since independence we have failed to nurture creativity and collective orientations. We as a nation lack a workhorse mentality and behave like 13 million civil servants dependent on a government pay cheque. We believe that development is generated 8-to-5 behind a desk wearing a tie with our degrees hanging on the wall. Such a working environment does not offer the opportunity for fellowship, the excitement of competition, and the spectacle of innovative rituals.

But the intelligentsia is not solely, or even mainly, to blame. The larger failure is due to political circumstances over which they have had little control. The past governments failed to create an environment of possibility that fosters camaraderie, rewards innovative ideas and encourages resilience. KK, Chiluba, Mwanawasa, and Banda embraced orthodox ideas and therefore failed to offer many opportunities for drawing outside the line.

I believe King Cobra’s reset has been cast in the same faculties as those of his predecessors. If today I told him that we can build our own car, he would throw me out.

“Naupena? Fuma apa.” (Are you mad? Get out of here)

Knowing well that King Cobra will not embody innovation at Walter’s level let’s begin to look for a technologically active-positive leader who can succeed him after a term or two. That way we can make our own stone crushers, water filters, water pumps, razor blades, and harvesters. Let’s dream big and make tractors, cars, and planes, or, like Walter said, forever remain inferior.

A fundamental transformation of our country from what is essentially non-innovative to a strategic superior African country requires a bold risk-taking educated leader with a triumphalist attitude and we have one in YOU. Don’t be highly strung and feel insulted by Walter. Take a moment and think about our country. Our journey from 1964 has been marked by tears. It has been an emotionally overwhelming experience. Each one of us has lost a loved one to poverty, hunger, and disease. The number of graves is catching up with the population. It’s time to change our political culture. It’s time for Zambian intellectuals to cultivate an active-positive progressive movement that will change our lives forever. Don’t be afraid or dispirited, rise to the challenge and salvage the remaining....

Use Nigeria/Nigerian to substitute Zambia/Zambian in the article and it holds true for all African.

Hard fact.





The great escape.

That's paint ball game she playing.

That's Eta in Yoruba.

Vanquay16:
WHAT THE FVCK IS THAT SHÌT...you call it a "phone"?

If it operates on radio frequency then it's a walkie talkie and a scrappy one at that.

Welp...I hope he gets a scholarship to the US and meet a nice gorgeous girl and never steps foot on the hellhole called Africa.

Walkie talkie is an half duplex device, if he says it's a phone that mean it works on full duplex and the frequency is synchronized at both ends of communication.

these folks are Jamaicans..

your Dad is smart to get you involve, this is a family issue, but try not to take side with any of them.

Shitta!!!!!!!!!!

sleeping with a minor is statutory rape..

MARKone:
Though I don't watch Yoruba Movies, but I just love this fathia woman, have mad crush on her.



Eme ya Clarion with umu Nwoke ndi Yoruba.

Clarion's mother is an Ijebu woman..

looks like shingles, caused by stress.

RIP.

Eta..

Civet, Eta in Yoruba....

potential maid abuser...