The country called NIGERIA by Omolola Omoteso

I was not born in 1960 but I came to hear about independence and the sacrifice that was made by fore fathers and fore mothers. I heard about how the joy of being free was murdered by internal crisis and shouts of secession. People who fought to be one snapped within their own bandwidth and wanted out.

Streets were littered with bones and flesh; blood flowed like water in the brooks... Tears unstoppable... Today, there is no clan that bears no credence to those dark days. I have an aunt whose husband was mowed down and many years on we still chatter about it... But how as a nation have we moved beyond minimising such crisis to making a determination that never again would we face such darkness?

In 2002-3, I was a budding journalist. Around this era there was a political crisis that saw many staying at home. I was one of few fearless ones who made it to our Lagos Island office. I made it there through roadblocks and cluster fire here and there. But of course my intention was not to play Voltron but to produce my programmes knowing full well that once we resume regular hours I’ll have to line up behind my ogas who dictate that news is always important...

Crisis does not stop a journalist worth her salt but this was a day I was so not prepared. I was at my desk writing my script jejely, when I was informed that I'll have to join the cameraman to cover the mayhem as a reporter! O gini? When did I sign up for reporting? Who I offend? Truth is, I did not even have the time to process this breaking news before I found myself, microphone in hand, holed up in the vehicle. It was around Sura Market, as I took in the unpleasant scenario on the streets, that I became conscious. Darn! This does not look good at all.

Covering the news amidst flying shots, tires, burn fire and shouts of war; block them, burn them, beat them, who asked you to come out, what media do you represent had so much damage to my head that at some point in life, I had to force the memory out... I did not merely delete, I cleaned it out so much so that I scarcely remember who the driver was.

But that is where the problem is for the nation called Nigeria. Many of us do not only repress the past, we force it out. We lose the memory forever of where we were, the crisis we went through, the challenges we surmounted, the price tag for our today. When it is happening in Chibok, Calabar people are at rest; after all it’s so far away. When it is happening in Maiduguri, Maitama is at rest, ki lo kan wa... 

Must war come to our doorsteps before we react?

The country called Nigeria has become one that forgets. We have forgotten so SOON, the price Awolowo, Azikiwe, Aguiyi, Murtala paid for the peace that bought us freedom and gave us the identity and social benefits we enjoy therefrom.

We have forgotten the cost of crippling PDP after rocky years and installing at the centre a government that will listen and stand for something. 

After election, shouts of Sai Baba filled many corners, now it’s Baba Go Slow; forgetting so soon that age may affect gait but not wisdom. We query why the VP cannot just take over forgetting that it was the wisdom of Sai Baba that brought on board a seemingly unknown VP. We forget how many rejected him until he took to the streets, markets, halls and mounted podiums bringing out the beauty in synergy.

But so soon, we forget the days when thieves became governors and thespians relocated for greener pastures. So soon, we join the wailing wailers to ask lame questions. We enter an unending season of distraction that see us dropping the balls on real issues as we chase shadows; we get buried in the social media war of Mrs. Buhari’s wristwatch and no sooner are we done with that we begin an endless analysis of President Buhari’s loafers! 

But I have made up my mind to reflect and remember how far the country called Nigeria has come… Perhaps in doing so I can chart a better cause for individualised change that will benefit me and mine and by extension those in my area of influence and my community beyond borders.

I remember we did not always have peace. Tribal, religious, political crisis end the air in most parts of the country… I remember from history the days of Ife and Modakeke, Aba Rebellion, Isadshi-Koseshi warriors who fought as fiercely as men, opposing invasion of those who raided Nupe for cattles and slaves.

I remember forex was not always available. I remember.

I remember we did not always have Third Mainland Bridge or three lanes… I remember.

I remember going abroad was only among children of high up civil servants and CEOs. I remember.

I remember that top-notch education was not always affordable or accessible; it was only available to the rich, the people who had will could not afford to break the status glass. To get me into Home Science, my mother who was then a telephone operator with NET had to go and beg the head teacher so she could do a payment plan but still she was asked if she could keep up… I remember.

I remember that land was owned by juntas, cabals and whatever title those who could just claim-it-to-have-it had. I remember.

I remember that food was not always affordable... We had songs that reflected folks eating from dustbins. Yam with egg was scheduled for Sunday, pounded yam and vegetable with 9 lives for January 1... Today even Sukura, Chudi and Aboki shop as a rite...

I remember that comedy, make up, fashion designing, info tech and the likes were classed as low level chores only for dropouts… I remember.

I remember that being a Pastor, Imam or Babalawo were roles only revered in the interiors.

I remember that kings and queens obeyed the dictates of the oracle about not travelling outside their domain. They were the custodians of culture and were not to become adulterated.

I remember the days of kobo, one naira coin and five naira note… You did not dictate which currency was in vogue but knelt in appreciation when given by parents or guests to your home.

I remember that our home gleaned knowledge from the music of IK Dairo, Osita Osadebe, Haruna Ishola, Oliver De Coque, Sunny Ade, Obey, Christy Essien-Igbokwe, Victor Uwaifo, Onyeka Onwenu, Victor Olaiya; our brand of music was exportable and identifiable with singers wearing our attire to celebrate our beautiful culture; we were not crazy about importing junk music or spending our hard earned Naira on foreign musicians. Our musicians were ambassadors not tattooed beings dressed in rags with a price tag plus crazy show of affluence.

I remember the days fathers called and you answered twice, mothers winked and you disappeared before the guest could say, “you too have some drink”. I remember. Today try winking and the child will ask, “mummy is there something in your eyes?”

I remember the days when penis disappeared and breast went on AWOL. Folks shouted suddenly “e gba mi o”, “mi o ri o” in the market place. So not funny!

I remember the days when universities were more into cultism than courses. I spent 10 months on strike... Till tomorrow I still have to explain how I went in 1991 and graduated 1997 for a course that was meant to take 3.5 years! On one of such cult clashes, my sister who knew more Bible than social life, landed in jail and it took God to have her released. Some others were not so lucky. I remember 

I remember the days when panda was all that was affordable and I wore them with dignity. I remember.

I remember the days of going to National Stadium to watch Green Eagles… Sadly our brothers died last week rooting for a team that did not even recognise they have fans on that side of the world let alone send condolence our way.

I remember the days of borrowed books and bend down boutique... Those boutiques seem to have disappeared. Clothing used up in other countries made it here and we have to look for what could appear new to you or factory rejects that could be fixed as new! For years Olufikayo my dear sister and I joked about “Ki lo n'gun mi?” It was characteristic of us to patch our clothes (truth be told, she more than I) with pins but one man had the unfortunate luck of standing so close to her in a bus. But instead of tapping into the current of her endowment, he kept shouting, “Ki lo n’gun mi!” Her sharp response was rolled back eyes, thankfully bus stop was near and we alighted into a burst of laughter!

I remember the days when boys and girls were identifiable in their modest uniforms or home wears. Nudity was not a fad, sex reassignment was not heard of and outlandish make up was for adults seeking attention.

I remember the days of suwe, ten-ten, jango-rova-epo-moto, boju-boju… We played indigenous games with other children; we were not caged in with heavy metals to protect us from abuse. Uncles were saner and so were aunties.

I remember the days of koboko and pankere; today some call that abuse. Little wonder our world has dynamics that fill up our prisons instead of line up the principal’s office.

I remember the days of odd and even… I was so young and wondered why I had to walk instead of enjoy a ride in our precious priceless ijapa on some days! I remember.

I remember the days of transistor radio; stuck we were with national radio and television that to hear what was happening at the centre we had to be glued to BBC Radio or the likes. I remember.

I remember the days when leaders were readers, young and adventurous, yet having the wisdom of elders behind them to lead and not deal, build and not break, cooperate not corrupt. I remember.

We have come so far from where we started. Many mid-level families today can afford cars, travel tickets, own homes and have their children in good schools. As we raise our expectation, let’s remember where we are coming from and determine never to forget as we chart a course that supports the government in the task of giving Nigerians a better deal than we ever had.

Conversely we could in the words of Oga Abati say our children no longer greet. It is "mummy hi". Parents import house helps because we are too busy to train our children and then we wonder why they end up with dinolike saga putting up a show in the market place.

Corruption is within and without our walls; sadly banks now tie their pens down. If church hymnbooks, school pens still make it to your homes, stop now. The war against corruption is for everyone. Refuse to give bribes, teach our culture to children along with our values; let them know exam malpractice is a NO-NO, yet understand that not all children will go the formal education path and support their aspiration.

Celebrate what is ours and patronise those who work hard to make a difference. If you are still importing more than patronising local, you are part of the problem. If you outsource more jobs than look inwards, you have no right to condemn. If you are robbing Paulina to pay Peter, look the other way when others are grumbling about what government should be doing right. If you are wailing about missing the government of GEJ who stole us blue back and there is nothing much to show for it in Bayelsa, you aren’t worth media attention. If neighbours are in need and you have clothes you have not worn for many years or houses are locked up and our children still make under the bridge home, you have failed the nation. If you are like that governor whose family benefitted immensely from our soil yet does more video-gigs than governance, or the one whose empty words make it into the social media daily, you have misplaced priorities.

The slogan in UK is God Save the Queen; in the USA, God Bless America. The country called Nigeria is ours. The time to support Nigeria is now; dare to be counted as a pillar of change for a better Nigeria.

Let Nigeria live and not die. Let not those who stand with Nigeria be few (Deut. 33:6).

Dr. Omolola Omoteso is proudly Nigeria, changing the Nigerian story for good.