Bolaji Olatunde's Blog, page 2

Lightseekers by Femi Kayode: A Review

 

A fascinating thriller with a unique perspective on Nigerian crime fiction. Dr Phillip Taiwo, Nigerian-born investigative psychologist, and former employee of the San Francisco Police Department, has gone against the popular trend. He has returned to Nigeria from the United States of America, with his family, Professor Folake Taiwo, his wife (“the youngest professor at the University of Lagos”), and their teenage children.

Phillip is contracted by Emeka Nwamadi, owner of National Bank, “one of Nigeria’s three largest banks” to unravel the circumstances leading to the murder his son, Kevin Nwamadi, law student of the State University in Okriki, Rivers State, Nigeria. Kevin was murdered along with two other male students in a mob action, after they were accused of being armed robbers — the type Nigerians popularly call “jungle justice”.

The novel has the typical twists and turns worthy of a good thriller. There were thought-provoking observations on the Nigerian condition, which I recognized, having to live this reality. Dr Phillip Taiwo is often puzzled, like I am, by “This immediate violent reaction to everything in Nigeria.” There are also insightful takes on the nature of mob action/justice (“Many people walk away from such an experience horrified by their role in it. They’ve been known to repress selected memories or embellish them either to exonerate themselves or justify their role.”) There is also the frustration of the justice-deprived Nigerian who justifies “jungle justice”: “Jungle justice is better than no justice,” declares Chief Kinikanwo Omeriji, paramount chief of Okrikri town, who defends his people’s mob murder of the three university students. The powerless of the rich even in the face of Nigeria’s malfunction is also observed with simplicity; as Phillip observes, “Emeka’s frustration that despite his wealth, he was unable to save his son and powerless to force a proper investigation into his death permeates all of my interactions with him.” I was amused that one of the characters is named Godwin Emefele, whose name bears a striking resemblance to Godwin Emefiele, the former governor of Nigeria's Central Bank of Nigeria, who is currently in bad odour with Nigeria's security agencies.

The factual inaccuracies were the downers in my experience of the novel. Chief Omeriji’s recollections of the Nigerian Civil War suggests that the conflict lasted for 6 years; a terrible fallacy that is risky when one considers that many of Nigeria’s (young) readers may be unfamiliar with the story of the war. “For six years, we could hear bombs and explosions as close as Warri. Dying soldiers came. Hungry children and women walked miles to get here,” Chief Omeriji recalled.

In his acknowledgements, the author thanks a lawyer for his legal advice; the lawyer somehow managed not to inform the author about the fallacy of this statement, “The fact that murder is a capital offence could have easily made this a federal case.” In Nigeria, murder cases are tried by the states. Nigeria’s 36 states each have a Director of Public Prosecutions, in the Attorney–General' s office of each of those states who prosecute grievous offences such as murder, armed robber and state governors are responsible for signing the death warrants of individuals convicted of capital offences. The author is probably more familiar with the judicial system, and assumed the same applies in Nigeria.

And it's the Nigeria Police Force, not the Nigerian Police Force, as stated in Lightseekers.

Which leads to my second criticism; there are several unrealistic dialogues filled with Americanisms that are uncommon in the cadence of daily Nigerian conversation. I read some of the conversations and cringed, because the Americanisms were out of place.

It's a novel worth the read.

Self-Publishing – The Writer's Saviour by Bolaji Olatunde

 

I am of the considered opinion thatalternative methods of publishing are very worthy alternatives to traditionalpublishing. Like the advertisements from many self-publishing outfits state(it’s almost like they copy that from one other), it was done by authors whowent on to have glittering literary careers – names like Hemmingway, Grisham,get bandied about. So, one finds oneself in good company, in a manner ofspeaking. These guys were once “anybody” before they became “somebody”.

I often tell anyone who will listen –an ideal world is one in which everyone writes and we all read what the otherwrites. It would be a better world because the perspectives available forinspection would be so immense, and it would probably broaden understanding,although the hate shared on social media seems to cast doubts on thissupposition because it is one of the models for exploring such a possibility. However,we are made aware that such views exist, however unsavoury they are. Writingshould be as ubiquitous, powerful and as widespread as speech. In the past,traditional publishers were able to act the roles of “voice limiters” – theyheld the gate keys or passes to readership. If a literary work was too daring,risky or did not express a view or perspective with economic potential, it waspossible to stifle it. Those days are thankfully gone. The corpus of worldliterature is a list of works that were turned down several times bytraditional publishers before someone had an “a-ha moment” and decided topublish them – a case in point would be “The Day of The Jackal” by FrederickForsythe, one of my favourite books, a thriller classic. To characterise awriter’s work as that of “anyone who has come in through the back door” is tosomehow dehumanise or debase the importance of each one’s unique perspective ofthe human experience which is the essence of literature. In fact, I would go sofar as to identify it as arrogance and snobbery writ large. With standardediting and other tools available to traditional publishers, the works of mostauthors could shine and thankfully, those tools are rapidly becoming availableto savvy self-published authors at affordable prices that no longer cause financialbankruptcy.

The “creative control” option is alsoattractive for some writers. In my interaction with some established authors,they state that their publishers give them creative control. I am very doubtfulhowever that they are as lenient as self-publishing companies, some of whomnever read or edit the work, a dubious advantage. The editing of the work issolely at the discretion of the author, a burden that is often taken off theback of established writers by traditional publishers. Unsurprisingly,questionable editing often makes many self-published works seem like poisonchalices.   

Speaking from my Nigerian experience,when the first draft of my novel was ready, between 2006 and 2008, I approacheda few Nigerian publishing outfits for a possible deal. With hardly two kobocoins to rub together, I was expectantly presented by those publishers with theestimated cost of publishing my work, costs that I would bear – I believe their“consultancy” fees were incorporated in those charges. This was more thandiscouraging. All they had to offer to the public was the hard copy edition ofthe work. They could not really be blamed entirely for their cost-dodgingpolicies. With a decimated middle-class and falling literacy levels in Nigeria,interest in indulgences such as fictional novels had dwindled to near zerolevels. I was told bluntly that they would only absorb all publishing costs ifI were to publish a textbook in the field of accounting, my day job.

At the same time, I explored thepossibility of having my work published outside Nigeria and made available toas wide as an audience as possible, which is probably the aspiration of many awriter. The foreign self-publishers had e-book options available. I decided totarry awhile hoping something would break and some traditional publisher wouldsee the potential in my work. Real life doesn’t always follow the author’splot.

Curiously, watchers and respectedvoices of the Nigerian literary scene are ever so quick to complain about theslow death of literature in the land, the dearth of literary work and are evenfaster – currently, it is almost like reflex action – to denounceself-published work in an environment where a losing battle is being fought tokeep the scene alive. No better illustration of confusion exists, I believe. Aclamour for improved standards all-round would be a better tactic to improvethe present state of affairs.

When I had put together sufficient personalsavings, I invested it in publishing with a UK-based self-publishing company in2011. It is a decision that I have never regretted. Just before I followed thatpath, a literary agent informed me that most publishers would consider my noveltoo expensive to produce – a rather considerate guy, because the others neverexplained why they turned my work down (new authors, beware – etiquette is astrange concept to many literary agents). It was an illusion-shattering moment,reading that email. I still believe no one can ever accept the possibility thatan African resident in Africa can ever write a story with one of the maincharacters modelled after Frank Sinatra, or about a coup in China, or accept topublish a work with a total word count of over 200,000 words – yes, the worldis so impatient now, 200,000 words is impossible for most to read in the daysof 149 character dominated cyberspace, which coincidentally – irony of ironies– is the best tool for a self-published author to thrust his or her work outthere in the public space.

The traditional publishing world hascome to see the fluidity of its hold on readers – its opponent is not onlyself-publishing, social media has become another worthy opponent becausefrankly, it is often more alluring and dramatic than whatever manyworld-renowned authors can put together. There are reports of famous authorsnow exploring the self-publishing route. The publisher of my first work, AuthourHouse,was acquired by Penguin in 2012. Kirkus Reviews now has a paid-for reviewservice strictly for self-published authors – which on its own opens a vista ofmoral grey areas about one of the oldest literary review journals “selling out”and pulling its punches in its reviews of such works. I explored the Kirkusoption – and it was very revealing and helpful in an endeavour that is soheavily reliant on independent feedback. I was a rookie writer at the time andsome of their observations were wake-up calls for me as regards my writing. Iwould advise any aspiring writer with means to explore similar options wherethey are available.    

My self-publishing experience hasbeen a roller coaster ride and truth be told, not as economically rewarding assome may think. Yes, let’s face it folks, writers deserve moderate pecuniaryrewards for their mental exertions because for fiction writers, inducedschizophrenia, the headaches and migraines that follow extensive lying in100,000 plus words, in written text, is no mean feat – I speak from personalexperience. My second novel is almost done and I say this without mincing words– self-publishing is an option I shall be willing to explore once more. Neveragain will any manuscript of mine gather dust, electronic or physical, justbecause some agent or traditional publisher doesn’t think giving vent to myvoice could be worth the effort.

  

 

First published at http://authorsinafrica.com/self-publishing-the-writer%C2%B4s-saviour-by-bolaji-olatunde/  by the Authors In Africa Website in July 2014

Violence And The Nigerian: A Match Made In Heaven by Bolaji Olatunde

 

The Nigerian is a violent person. It is a wonder why“violence” has not been inscribed into Nigeria’s coat of arms, along with otherwords like “progress” and “unity” and “faith”.
The Nigerian’s relationship with violence begins early in life — you will notget what you want unless you are violent. A severe smack by a Nigerian parentto the person of an unwitting pesky baby, the momentary pause in the baby’smovements, the facial expression of betrayal on the baby’s face, succeeded byan explosion of a combination of cries of pain and helplessness. The Nigerianparent, undeterred, fails to register the protest of betrayal and smacks somemore, simultaneously placing a single finger across his or her lips andshouting at the uncomprehending child to be quiet or “chop” more licks of thebackhand.
This, is Nigerian Parenting 101, ordained by personally by God (or the Nigerianvariant, as cynics are quick to point out), who does not mind the parent takinga bribe here or there, or doing something else not to be mentioned in certaintypes of company, to take proper care of their baby. Parent wants child to bequiet and will not stop smacking until child is quiet or stops the act thatprompted the smacking. The child may comprehend in good time, as the months andyears go by, violence’s importance in getting what one wants in the world, andinternalizes this most valuable lesson.

Adolescents will however always be adolescents — forgetful breed that they are.Many babies will forget this lesson with the passage of time, some will standup to their parents, either unknowingly or knowingly (perhaps after they havebeen told like I was told by a close friend when I was a teenager — “If you’venot started disagreeing with your parents, you have not started growing up!”)The spanking gives way to full blown “discipline” which some unduly scrupulouslawyers whose heads have been filled with Westernisms may otherwise term“assault”. “I feed you in this house! I pay your school fees! You must do whatI tell you! You must agree with everything I say!” is the admonition thataccompanies the blows from the Nigerian parent to the now growing child.Sometimes, “I will kill you in this house if you don’t do what I tell you todo!” is the icing on the cake, the real yellow card, which for some becomes thered card and means of quick dispatch to the great beyond. This, is NigerianParenting 401, advanced level. These blows are dealt with a wide range ofobjects — brooms, clothes hangers, the koboko (the weapon of choice of theNigerian society’s disciplinarian at large called the Nigerian militaryofficer), iron rods and cutlasses (both said to be favoured by some officers ofthe Nigeria Police Force during “interrogations”), pestles for pounding yam,electric wires, the list is almost endless.

Adolescents can be quick learners too, actually, althoughthey may be quick to dispose of old knowledge. If they have younger siblings,their parents have laid down a wonderful template for bringing younger siblingsunder control. “That story is not true!” younger sibling says to older teenagesibling. “You dare not disagree with me!” older adolescent sibling rebuts andgives younger sibling a thorough beating for daring to think for himself, justas his or her parent before them. The chain goes on, and may be reinforced whenthey see parent get into fisticuffs for a thing as mundane as two cars bruisingeach other, with parent at the wheels of one of the cars, mundane in the sensethat reason should always trump force in such disputes. The lesson at thisstage of the child’s development is clear — force shall always be better thanreason, in the Nigerian scenario. To engage reason is folly, the Nigerianadolescent learns fast.  
The teenager becomes an adult, a man or a woman, after eighteen, or so says thelaw. This man or woman, will be called boy or girl, until he or she haschildren because a person who has no children of theirs, or is unmarried, hasno mind of his or her own (it is the Nigerian way). One way to escape thisdenigration is to grow ancient features as quickly as possible. Only old peopleare permitted the privilege of a mind, and respect, although these features maynot earn one stripes with the Nigerian armed forces; violence from them knowsno discrimination. Elderly men are known to have been dealt koboko blows fromtime immemorial, by soldiers, for some offence as earthshaking as parkingwrongly, or overtaking vehicles at military checkpoints. 

If the teenager, going on adulthood, is lucky to havetertiary education at a state-owned school, they may meet lecturers happy toentertain views divergent to theirs — a most unlikely event, even for thoseprivileged enough to attend private tertiary institutions where it is widelyreported that independence of thought is tacitly discouraged. There is a smallrespite from violence at this station in life, because many universities makeexpulsion a penalty for violent students, but as usual, this applies to thosewho have no godfathers. Elections into student union bodies are not for thefaint of heart.

If you an aspirant who is apprehensive of being caught outas a violent individual, you can always have a crew willing to get its hands inthe mud on your behalf. In the late nineties and noughties when I was auniversity student in Nigeria, no serious contender for any office at thenational level of the National Association of Nigerian Students (NANS) went tothe national convention of that body without an assortment of weapons andcharms to physically overcome the other. Many of those who occupied NANSexecutive positions at the time are now to be found in many political “high places”of today, including the National Assembly of the country. There was cultism aswell, not the American brand of fraternities, the type of fraternities thatkilled difficult university lecturers and fellow students. The number ofstudents who went on to graduate from these schools based on their abilities tomuscle their ways through, become absorbed into the workforce due toeducational attainments they cannot intellectually defend, and then climb tothe top of the ladders of their organisations, corporate and public sectoralike, will be an interesting statistic to behold, if an international or localNGO with or without a cause can manufacture a figure that will become theofficial standard. 

 

 

TheNigerian adult graduates from a tertiary educational institute, or takes up atrade. No matter how rich and successful that adult may be, he must besubservient to the military officer’s violent whims and caprices. If for noreason, a military officer parks his vehicle in the middle of the road tourinate by the roadside or chat up an attractive woman, he must wait for theofficer to satiate his complaining bladder or coax contact details from thewoman respectively. To do otherwise is to risk broken bone and limb, or worse,a trip to a galaxy far, far away.

 

Themilitary officer has the monopoly of power invested in him by the state, andcan do whatever he or she deems fit, rarely with repercussions. If a privatethinks a professor with two PhDs has fallen short of his unique code of“respect”, he can ask him to do a few “frog jumps” and if the civilian fails tocomply, the military officer may whip some sense into him with the help of hiskoboko or that most powerful belt, which has the largest brass buckle you willfind on a belt, with which he holds his khaki trousers unto his waist.

 

Timecomes for the adult Nigerian to seek a romantic mate; the “need” may arisebefore tertiary education, the learning of a trade, or after. I know teenagerswho were whipped to within an inch of their lives for daring to have“girlfriends” or “boyfriends” while in secondary school. By some miracle, theseindividuals went on to find spouses. The Nigerian male acquires funds to takeNigerian female out on a date, or dates, secret or otherwise. He “spends onher”, as the lingo goes. Soon, they find themselves at a quiet spot where“things” can happen. Sometimes, it is his parents’ home, his friend’s absentparents’ home, his university hostel room or if he has been smiled upon by hischi, his own home. After spending, spending, and spending, he is told by hispeers and society, if you spend money on someone, you have control over theirlives.

 

Itis a part of modern Nigerian mores that a woman who allows you to spend moneyon her, buying her food at fancy restaurants or sundry gifts, MUST provide sexto the spending benefactor; surely, she must know how difficult it is to comeby money these days. The Nigerian male takes this peer teaching quite seriouslythat he corners the Nigerian female at a quiet spot and pointedly asks her forsex, if the delay becomes unbearable. Failure to consent is not really absenceof consent, after all, if she did not want sex, she would not have “eaten” hismoney and come to his house. Her “no” means “try harder”, so they say.

 

Resistancefrom the female kicks up memories from adolescent past — “I pay for everythingfor you, so you must do as I say!” thunders parent from ages ago in thesubconscious of the Nigerian male. The conditioning of transactional obediencekicks in. Forceful, screaming consummation occurs, and a girl, a woman, isscarred for life, because a parent has taught a boy, a man, that violence wins —all the time.

   

Delinquentbehavior has since been associated with parenting; it would be difficult toprove otherwise. If one can make bold to suggest that violent parenting rendersNigerian men actual and potential rapists, how is it that women do not becomerapists? Psychological experts who have conducted researches into parentingpoint out commonsensically that male and female children respond differently toauthoritarian parenting (in this type, I class violent parenting) andauthoritative parenting. A 2009 report titled “The Relationship BetweenDelinquency and Parenting: A Meta-analysis” (available athttp://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/artic... that “too strict authoritarian control and harsh punishment appear to belinked to high levels of delinquent and antisocial behavior… These negativechild-parent transactions increase the risk of setting a child off on adelinquent path that starts in the early teens, entails many delinquent actsand persists far into adulthood.”

 

Theeffects of violent parenting are not restricted to those mentioned previously.It leads to a rupture in parent-child relationship. The Nigerian child israised in an environment where the communication of feelings, and later, as thechild grows, ideas, are severely stifled. A report in Psychology Today statesthat the “use of corrective violence by parents not only injures the child, butalso harms the child’s ongoing relationship with the parent.” (Available athttps://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/... of ideas by a child of ideas contrary to those expressed by theparent are dealt with by the Nigerian parent’s engagement of the koboko.

 

WoleSoyinka, in his childhood memoirs, Ake: The Years of Childhood, recalls howEssay, his father, welcomed arguments from the Wole, the child, much to hismother’s chagrin; she preferred the rod. Soyinka’s experience is/was theexception, and few would suggest that the man has not made anything of himself.The Nigerian child learns early that the engagement of reason in disputationsis an exercise in futility. Millions of Nigerians are walking the streets withshort fuses, undiagnosed repressions and psychological illnesses, unable tocommunicate feelings and opinions adequately to parents or peers, resorting tosilence, vile insults and fists for such expression. An inability to toleratedissenting views from others becomes ingrained in the DNA.

 

Theirony is that Nigerian laws protect the Nigerian child against physical andmental abuse but these laws are as helpful to the Nigerian child as ananalgesic to a cadaver, at least, at this time. Section 212 of the NigerianChild Rights Act 2003 clearly states that harm to a child is defined as “theuse of harsh language, physical violence, exposure to the environment and anyconsequential physical, psychological or emotional injury or hurt.” Thecommencement of the Nigerian child’s early relationship with violence alsoheralds a lifelong relationship with lawlessness because few children areprotected by the law enforcement agencies charged with the enforcement of thoselaw. It is my estimate that every adult Nigerian, resident in Nigeria,consciously or unconsciously, breaks at least one Nigerian law per day.

 

Itis imperative to observe that the closest this writer has come to beingbattered by a fellow adult Nigerian, in Abuja, was in a traffic incident in May2014 with a middle-aged-looking lawyer, no less, witnessed by individuals whoknew him and addressed him by the title “barrister”. The peeved lawyer wasangered by my rather truthful remark that in the course of his insulting myperson, and thundering at me, “Who are you?!” (a question that sounds mostvacuous when mouthed during conflict situations by the Nigerian to supposedlybelittle his compatriot), he was spraying his spittle all over my suit. Thequestion was succeeded by two quick shoves to my head from the “learned” man,who was obviously stupefied by my mirthful, guffaw reaction to his bruteforce — definitely not the response he was either seeking or used to.Fortunately for both of us, he was pulled away from me by other road users,before he recovered his wits, or sought to inflict harm that went beyond mypersonal dignity.

 

Thus,I often “objectively” (or as objectively as one may be permitted in suchcircumstances) postulate that the most violent class of educated Nigerians arelawyers, those professionally charged with helping fellow citizens foregoviolence and have faith in the law. This theory is supported by countlessreports of Nigerian lawyers, prominent and otherwise, publicly engaging inviolent displays; even SANs are guilty of this failing, as a quick Googlesearch often suggests. An instance that readily comes to mind is the July 2013spectacle of the majority leader of the Rivers State House of Assembly,Honourable Chidi Lloyd, assaulting a legislative colleague of his with the maceof the house. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_zX38.... Mr. Lloyd has amaster’s degree in law; the all-powerful LLM is part of the alphabets writtenat the end of his name, in fulfilment of the Nigerian custom.

 

Adultlaws against assault and battery are not well enforced, so children, the mostvulnerable component of our society, really stand little chance of beingcatered for by laws enacted to protect them. The violent disposition of many aNigerian lawyer is perhaps a tacit admission on their part that theirprofessional calling offers no hope even to them, so the rest of us who are not“learned” stand little chance. One is forced to recall a case recounted to meby a neighbour in my former neighbourhood in Abuja. An incensed, middle-classwife and mother who lived in the same area before I moved in, armed with apestle, charged at her ward, child of some distant relative, for not performinga particular domestic chore to her satisfaction. The child was killedinstantly. The Nigerian Police was duly informed and the lady was detained,albeit briefly. To this day, murderer wife and mother still roams the street,free as air, as free as Mr. Lloyd, one should add. I was told her biologicalchildren were observers to this fatal administration of Nigerian discipline.The ideas bred in the minds of her children as a result of this incident areleft to the reader’s conjecture.

 

Thetrue tragedy is that the victim of Nigerian parenting does not recognize theirvictimhood. It is not uncommon to hear adults brag about the beatings theyreceived from parents and teachers while growing up. “I am a respectful,responsible person today because of those beatings! It prepared me for a toughworld!” is a rebuttal to charges of an abused past. Like the Tulsi sisters inV.S. Naipaul’s magnum opus, A House for Mr Biswas, they will often recount epicbeatings from their childhood. Raising the point that there are individuals whowere not beaten by their parents but who also grew up to be “responsible”citizens will be met with scepticism. They will not admit to having prayed thattheir beater be sent to hell by God, like Adah, the protagonist in BuchiEmecheta’s Second-Class Citizen, often prayed for her adult cousin “who had theheart to cane her for two good hours with koboko” for stealing money for whatshe regarded as a good cause — the furtherance of her education.

 

TheNigerian elite actually views mindless violence as the best way to exactretribution from a member of the lower class who has been “disrespectful” insome way. Fela Kuti termed it “power show”. Thus, the Nigerian social class isstratified not only according to access to the usual characteristics ofprivilege — money, education, power — it is also a configuration of theunspoken privilege to use mindless violence without question. Stories abound oftop government functionaries and politicians brazenly employing violence tovarious ends.

 

TheNigerian clergy is also well disposed to the use of holy violence, against bothchildren and adults, as evidenced by the popular Pentecostal pastor, David Oyedepo, withfollowers in the tens of millions, who in 2012, slapped a young girl fordeclaring herself a “witch for Jesus” without Jesus’s say-so. There is a videoof this most illuminating incident, freely available online, but no lawenforcement agency or state government, though empowered by and charged bysection 43.1(b) of the Child Rights Act 2003 to do so, has been brave enough toinvestigate the incident and almost inevitably charge the man of the cloth tocourt, a man who has been known to brag openly about the affairhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HMUWn.... As has been said previously,violence, especially against children, is sanctioned by the church, and God.“If you say that again, I will slap you!” a middle-aged ex-colleague of mine,dressed in the sharpest of suits, tie and pristine white shirt, once shouted atanother colleague who dared to question his outstanding educational andprofessional qualifications; office gossip had it he, the threatening man, wasonce a “house help” who worked hard to acquire formal education. The “househelp” (synonymous with “house boy/girl) usually suffers more than thebiological offspring of the parent as regards violent parenting. Formaleducation is no barrier to this kind of behaviour, as it probably is all overthe world.

 

Themedia is awash with subtle endorsements of violence of the unnecessary kind. Acase in point is Wazobia FM, Abuja, the Pidgin English radio station, which Isometimes listen to, eager to keep my connections to the grassroots intact, ifnot in body, then in spirit. An immensely popular radio presenter, Expensive, aman with a disgruntled on-air persona and an off-air philanthropic flair, oftenthreatens to “break the heads” of his callers to his call-in evening show “GoSlow Parade”. He accomplishes the “breaking” with the sound effect of thecombined sounds of glass breaking and an object connecting with the head of ascreaming individual of indeterminate sex. There are different variations tothis censure of callers making contributions that do not satisfy theexpectations of the presenter — a gun shot, koboko whippings, setting a dog,Bingo, on the caller, all with sound effects. It was once my guilty pleasure,listening to these censures but a close confidant of mine reviles the show forthis sole reason and has been known to get into an altercation or two with taxidrivers who refuse to turn off the show when he is their passenger. One canonly hope children who listen to this radio show do not accept on a subliminallevel that such form of rebuke is perfectly legitimate, acceptable behavior.There is a once-weekly, hour long segment dedicated to children who areencouraged to call in and report errant parents and siblings.

 

Onehas been tempted to report such “head breakings, gun shootings and kobokowhippings” to the Nigerian Broadcasting Commission (NBC). Some callers areknown to mischievously call in the presenter just to have themselves insultedthis way. Would one be getting in the way of entertainment and “good fun” forsome because of one’s moralistic qualms by lodging a complaint at the NBC? Violenttelevision shows come on at primetime on Nigerian television stations.Psychologists are quick to point out the growth in crime rates in the SouthAsian nation of Bhutan when television was first introduced there in 1999; so,a presence of TV violence in children’s lives may have effects that are notaltogether salutary on them.

 

WhenI was an adolescent, I recall vividly missing out on the historic telecast ofthe public execution (read state-sanctioned public lynching) of the notoriousarmed robber, Lawrence Anini, who was executed just a few minutes’ drive fromwhere we lived in Benin. My incensed father, angry at the state broadcastersfor televising such news, promptly turned off the TV until he was sure thebroadcast was over. The broadcast of this landmark event was pursuant to thethen military government’s policy of broadcasting such executions to serve asdeterrence to aspiring and career armed robbers. I am not quite sure if thesame behavior exhibited by my father was replicated in other households thatevening in 1986. Many parents today in the same economic class as he was thenwould probably be out trying to put body and soul together at that hour,without time to censor what their children watch on television.  

 

Oneis constrained to hope for a better day when a truly national dialogue will beembarked on, in Nigeria, about the linkages between violent parenting andsocietal malfunction. It may be difficult to convince a parent whose expensiveleather settee has been ripped open with a knife or blade by an inquisitivetoddler that child beating is not the way to go, but a try may be worth it. Asa university student, I had a neighbour who was an illiterate bus driver, aYoruba man whose loud, gruff voice dominated any space his wide girth visited;he looked like he could more than hold his own in any physical tussle. His wifewas often tempted to employ the rod every now and then on the man’s large broodof children, but never when he was around. “Don’t you dare beat any child ofmine!” he would scream at her, the veins at his neck straining, his bodyvibrating angrily, whenever such event seemed imminent. His children were someof the most respectful, ambitious children I ever met.

 

Theyalways bluntly expressed their minds, but in rather respectful fashion. Ienvied them; as a child, that independence of thought and action was a verydistant possibility, as it was for most of my peers. The last I heard, thosechildren were gearing up to go to the university I attended. How did this non-violentfather implement discipline? He would scream “omo àle” (that is, “bastard”, forthose not familiar with the magical language called Yoruba) at any childtransgressor who was the product of his loins. The children’s regular reactionto that two word chastisement was comparable to those of Pavlov’s dogs. Whenthey heard it from his mouth, they behaved, and it was always a quietly amusingspectacle to behold, at least for me. A fight against abusive language aimed atchildren is another battle, and may yet be a tougher one to wage.

 

Ifan illiterate bus driver with no formal education who had never read anacademic research paper or studies about the negativities associated withviolent parenting could instinctively recognize its ill effects, maybe — MAYBE— there is hope for the yet unborn Nigerian child, if we, Nigerian adults,haven’t destroyed the country irreparably, before they come tumbling into thismost interesting and confounding world.   

 

(First published on 9jafeminista in December 2015 at https://9jafeminista.wordpress.com/20... and https://9jafeminista.wordpress.com/20...)

 

Dear Contemporary African reader: Contemporary African writers Owe You An Apology For Not Being White Enough

 

This is a response, for the most part, to athought-provoking essay titled Dear Contemporary African Writer, WeRead; We Don’t Just Read You, written by Chisom Nlebedum.

In his essay, Nlebedum bemoans the fact that many youngAfrican readers know little or nothing about many other contemporary Africanwriters, and adds that this should not “be misconstrued ‘as another “Africansdo not read episode’, for this is already a ludicrous cliché.” Africans mayread, but fiction has no place on their list of priorities, especially Africanfiction.

We must first establish that there aredifferent categories of young Africans—Nlebedum seems to refer to the under“under twenty” category, and seems to have a bias for fiction writers in hiscriticism. I am Nigerian, and I live and work in Nigeria. I class myself wayabove the “under twenty” category. Apart from being an aspiring writer myself,I have a daytime job which places me in an environment where I have forcolleagues at least forty well-educated Africans of about the same demographyas mine, some older, some younger. I can tell you without fear of contradictionthat reading fiction has no place in their lives. “Are you preparing for yetanother professional exam? You never tire to do exam?” colleagues say to mewhen I’m seen reading a novel before the beginning, or after the end of thebusiness day—among many Nigerians, one is expected to read only when one ispreparing for exams. When a few of them stumble on fiction novels on my personat any given time, all I get are unbelieving looks, mixed with the looks ofpity one would give a drug addict well down on the path to perdition.

Nlebedum remarks in his essay that he teaches“kids in Lekki, some of whom have devoured all the series of The Diary of The Wimpy Kid, HarryPorter, The Hunger Games,Percy Jackson’s series but who are strangers to the names and works ofChimamanda Adichie, Seffi Attah, Chika Unigwe, Igoni Barret, Helon Habila, TopeFolarin. This may surprise many keen watchers of the African/Nigerian literaryscene who consider these names to be the leading lights of contemporary Africanliterature, but it does not surprise me. I was privileged to attend a secondaryschool with children whose parents dwelt in Lekki-type places; they shared inthat widespread Nigerian mindset that all things local are inferior. As a youthin Nigeria in the late 1980s and 1990s, I clearly recall disparaging remarksmade by classmates and friends about the African literature we were made tostudy in school at the time. “The works of Achebe and Soyinka,” one of my palsfrom a well-heeled home snorted one time. They wanted to read the exotic worksof Sidney Sheldon, the thrillers of Fredrick Forsythe, the books by Enid Blytonand James Hadley Chase. The novels about African themes like Things Fall Apart, The Lion and The Jewel and A Grain of Wheat were a bore—weknew all they were talking about; they were too familiar, they were too local.They grudgingly accepted thrillers under the popular Pacesetters imprint, butthey were quick to state that they were not as good as the Nick Carterthrillers from America. When I was in the university, I remember criticizing aclassmate of mine about his always reading thick western “bestsellers.” Hisresponse stays clearly with me to this day: “You want me to go and be reading Things Fall Apart?” We wanted toread stuff written by white folks, the real owners of the English language—someparents gave that mindset the adequate boost by flooding their homes with onlysuch foreign books; my colleagues do the same for their children now. I wasspared of this fate, because I had a relatively healthy mix at home. Sometimein 2015, in the company of friends, I was in the sitting room of a Nigerianfriend, who resides in Lekki, whose two-year old son found himselfinstinctively jigging to a television advert for some product or the other, andthe theme song was filled with heavy African drum percussion. His embarrassedfather turned to us, his visitors, and said jokingly, “I’ve failed as aparent.” Behind this humorous declaration is an undeniable truth—the youngAfrican of today has been taught to hate his own heritage and culture, or makeit second place to western culture, either consciously, or on a subliminallevel.

In the light of this, one is forced to drawthe conclusion that the best fate that can befall a contemporary African writerbefore he or she may find favour with the young African audience, theLekki-type demography, is to become white, like Furo Wariboko in IgoniBarrett’s Blackass. Only then,will the Lekki-type demography find you worthy of their respect, and theirchildren’s reading time. The overwhelming role of pigmentocracy in our nationallives does not just apply to Africa/Nigeria’s economic sphere where expatriatesare accorded greater wages and regard than their local counterparts with evenbetter qualifications, it also extends to our cultural makeup. This is why ayoung Nigerian will read with glee the Harry Porter books, with dueencouragement from the Lekki-type parent, who will do all in their power todiscourage their child from reading a book about Harry Porter’s African wizardcounterpart, written by a contemporary African writer. Everyone knows that awhite teenage wizard is much better than an African wizard, the type that theLekki-type parent takes their children to see the evangelical pastor cast andbind every weekend. Harry Porter is white, like Jesus, and is guaranteed aplace in Heaven. The African wizard, that black being, is Satan’s surecompanion in Hell in the afterlife.

I do not attempt to discourage the Africanreader’s interaction with literature from outside the continent. I owe a lot ofknowledge to such interaction. For instance, it was in my reading of AfricanAmerican literature I first came to the knowledge of the racist history of theuse of the word “boy” to describe black adult males, and of course, its relateduse in colonial Africa by the European colonialists who regarded the Africanmale, irrespective of age, as one who could never grow out of a child-likestate of mind. The post-colonial education Nigerians receive does not eliminatesuch in-built, unwitting self-hatred. It’s not uncommon to find Africanintellectuals and civil servants refer to their colleagues and subordinates as“boy” or “my boy,” which is unexpected from folks who should know better. Ifforeign literature will redress this, we should encourage it, but not to thedetriment of our local content.

Nlebedum raises the question: “Who really arethe people reading you, dear contemporary African writer?” The question isthrown up by the unavailability of the print editions of the works of theseyoung African writers in bookshops. I would posit that a few devotees, such asmyself, and I am sure there are a good number around the continent and in thediaspora, go all out to hunt for these new works. I’m not fond of e-readers, soI do as much as I can to get a hold of the print edition of books. I cansympathise a bit with his dilemma—I recall roaming many bookshops in Abujabefore I got a copy of Adichie’s Half of aYellow Sun in 2010. However, in due course, I identified a few “wateringholes”—bookshops—where I spend a great deal of time selecting works by Africanwriters and you can be sure to always discover a new exciting work—it’s notoften a cheap hobby. Some of the books can be rather expensive.

The major reason why many of these books arenot available in print is that publishing houses in Nigeria are just aspractical as businesses anywhere in the world should be—why risk mass producingproducts that few will buy? It is a matter of simple economics—no demand, nosupply, or little demand, little supply. Many readers won’t buy those books,not because they aren’t good, but because they dwell on themes that are toofamiliar, and they aren’t written by white people, about exotic places that thebuyer may never visit, or intends to migrate to and leave, forever, this placecalled Africa. The Afropolitan writers and their works find better favour withAfrican publishers and the Lekki-type demography for a good reason—they haveleft the godforsaken continent and gone on to live, study and work in thoseexotic white places. But, oh well, you can take the African out of Africa, butthe African can never write anything as good as Harry Porter, or The Hunger Games.

These contemporary African writers’ works areavailable on every kind of e-reader you can mention, but they won’t be boughtor read by the the Lekki-type parent, who can supply their children withe-readers of various forms, but will not contaminate their children with localAfrican perspectives; it will not help the children prepare well for theirinsulated journeys to Harvard and Oxford.

Nlebedum states that a new direction ofwriting by African writers is necessary, works that show that “Africa hasevolved, and is now an Africa where we seek equality between the man and the woman;an Africa where the minority and there rights should be protected; an Africawhere electorates have discovered the pettiness of their politicians; an Africathat will stand and stands in judgment against those who take sides with thepowerful against the powerless.” I must express surprise that as a teacher ofliterature, Nlebedum is not aware that African writers, the “old school” andthe contemporary ones, have been writing about these themes for decades. Recentexamples from contemporary African writers are Elnathan John’s Born on a Tuesday, Season of Crimson Blossoms by Abubakar AdamIbrahim, Oil Cemetery by MayIfeoma Nwoye, Nairobi Heat byMukoma Wa Ngugi, The Maestro, The Magistrate and The Mathematician byTendai Huchu—the list goes on and on. These books ARE available in Lagos—thequestion is, how dedicated is a prospective reader to the task of finding them?There are tonnes of African novels which explore these themes. As a teacherhimself, Nlebedum is not entirely blameless if his students are unaware ofcontemporary African writers, just as are many African literary scholars whothink the only writers worthy of note are those of the 1960s and thecontemporary ones canonized by the West, and they are made to sit in judgmentevery now and then at the NLNG literary prize. Contemporary African writers, heprescribes, should jettison “tales of witches and wizards, of evil powers inhigh places” but I am very sure that many of Nlebedum’s students, and maybehimself, would give stamps of approval to the works of Stephen King. After all,white horror, is better, more decent, than black/African horror.

Nlebedum complains “of books hurriedlywritten and printed by hungry writers who are grossly uninformed and are yet tocome to terms with the rules of the English grammar.” The aspiring Africanwriters who produce these books have to wage different battles on severalfronts. The first front is the traditional publisher who will only publishwriters and their works which have been blessed by the West. Not long ago, apopular Nigerian imprint asked for submissions from writers. Months later, thepublisher complained that the submissions were filled with grammatical errors,and they all submissions were rejected. If Amos Tutola’s publisher had been so“grammatically-correct”, the magic of his stories would have been lost,forever. “Grammatical errors in a manuscript? No, can’t publish,” says theAfrican publisher. The African writer must not have knowledge that is beyondhis or her ken; the western writer knows it all and must be emulated. One wouldthink that editors were invented for a particular reason, or perhaps editing isjust too much work.

Writers have to make ends meet too. Havingour manuscripts rejected by the continent’s traditional publishers means wehave to seek funds to self-publish—anyone burdened with an unpublishedmanuscript for any length of time can probably identify with this. Waitingaround for a gate keeper whose decisions are driven by the West won’t help toput food on the table. Yes, it is important to ensure quality is produced, buta writer doubling as the editor, the publisher and distributor of his or herwork may not be a good idea. I often relate my own experience when, filled withexcitement and zest, I took the manuscript of my first novel to the expansive,air-conditioned offices of a major Ibadan-based publisher. I was told, by thechief editor, without opening a page of the manuscript and with a sympatheticsmile on his face that I would have to bear the entire cost of publication ofthe novel. However, if I would be willing to write a textbook on accounting—thesource of my daily bread—for use by either secondary schools or universities,they would publish that one gratis,without delay. My excitement waned considerably immediately after that meeting.

I often watch with fascination, and innerpride, my younger relatives, become so enamoured of music produced byhomegrown, home-based young Nigerian musicians. They pay attention to thegossip, the fashion trends among these music stars, word about which musicianis sleeping with whom. The last time we had this level of explosion in thatcultural scene was in the 1980s, when we wanted to know why Mike Okri was stillhopping in and out of taxis despite having monster hits, when we bought andread Prime People and Vintage People, and wanted toknow Charlie Boy’s latest scandal. Then the 1990s rolled in, and American stylehip-hop took over. Folks who had no idea what Tupac and Biggie Smalls weretalking about became fans of the genre because our music stars stoppedproducing major stuff, and when they did, the recordings were of poor quality.I believe African literature will experience the same phase in due course. Inthe 1980s, things that the Achebes, the Soyinkas, the J.P. Clarks did made thefront pages of newspapers—they had rock star personas. The closest to thattoday is Chimamanda Adichie. The real or perceived present poor state of thecountry’s educational system may cause one to doubt that we’ll soon havefiction writers of such statures dominating pop culture headlines. You don’tneed much education to get into the groove of contemporary Nigerian Afrobeats,but you need it to read through a novel. As a stakeholder though, one must beoptimistic that the time of African literature to explode like the pop musicscene will arrive soon.

 

(This was first published on the 11th of July 2016 at https://xokigbo.com/2016/07/11/guest-...)

The Beauty of Solitude: A Review of Teju Cole’s Open City

I don't often write long reviews of novels I've read. Nine years ago, in 2011, I did write one because it had a profound effect on me. I stumbled on Open City by Teju Cole while browsing through books on an internet bookshop and purchased a copy, acting upon a leap of "faith" (for lack of a better word). Its effect on me was profound and would indirectly affect how I would write a novel with an "unreliable narrator". 

 

Below is the review which was first published by Lara Daniels at https://laradanielswrites.com/2012/02....

 

The Beauty of Solitude: A Review of Teju Cole’s Open City 

New York City has always been and will never cease to be a beguilingtemptress, tantalising all kinds of artists – artists who dwell in one of itsmany cavities, those who have at sometime in their lives stepped foot on thathallowed city’s concrete, as well as those who will never physically comewithin a mile of its precincts. Teju Cole’s novel Open City (RandomHouse USA: ISBN 9781400068098, 259 pages) raises, by several notches, NewYork’s status as one of the most enduring muses of artists.   

Open City is a patchwork of wondrous explorationsinto diverse human experiences, held together by and beautifully presented inmeasured and lucid language. Set mostly in 2007, the narrative is the voice ofJulius, a young Nigerian-German medical school graduate and psychiatry residentwith the “costume and degree to prove it”; heis also a New York City dweller.

Julius is a young man struggling to find his way in the world. He iswell versed in classical music, European history, philosophy and psychiatry.Despite his seeming confidence and rich cultural knowledge, he is still verymuch a soul at sea. The novel is filled with instances of Julius struggling tofind himself in others, consciously and unconsciously seeking kinship becausehe is actually a lonely soul.  His solitude has been accentuated by thedeath of his father, a Nigerian engineer who passed away when Julius was onlyeight, coupled with his estrangement from his German-Belgian mother at the ageof seventeen just before he left Nigeria for the United States. Born and bredin Lagos, Julius emigrated to New York City for further education, and aboveall, to get away from his mother, to experience life on his own terms. Theattentive reader quickly notes in the opening pages Julius’s assessment that “Walkingthrough the busy parts of town, meant I laid eyes on more people, hundredsmore, thousands even, than I was accustomed to seeing in the course of a day,but the impress of these countless faces did nothing to assuage my feelings ofisolation; if anything, it intensified them.” Julius evokesthe image of the lone, male figure in Salvatore Dali’s painting Paranoical-AstralImage – a lonely suit-wearing sophisticate who, despite thecompany around him, is more distant than involved in his environment because heis keener to observe than to participate. The quest to find himself, whichleads him to form curious associations and to wander through New York andBrussels, throws up intriguing interactions which are capable of life-alteringideas and moments for many a discerning reader.

Race and Racism, slavery, corporate immorality during the slavetrade, homosexuality, cultural confusion of a “half-caste” youth, the MiddleEast crisis, post 9/11 America, mental illness, class clashes in post-colonialNigeria, the loneliness and madness of city life, failed romance, the Liberiancivil war, classical music – all, and more, find a place in the novel. Racismof the funniest kind rears its head consistently in the novel and emanates fromthe unlikeliest of sources.  At an empty subway station during one of hiswalks through the city, Julius comes upon a ten year old boy and his thirteenyear old sister, escorted by inattentive parents. Both kids enthusiasticallyflash him gangster signs and curiously inquire from him if he is a gangster.They declare gleefully that because he is black, he must be a gangster – ableak commentary on the future of America’s race relations. After attending aclassical music performance, Julius is the recipient of curious glances fromwhite concert goers at the Carnegie Hall, inquiring eyes seem to demand toknow, “What’s a black man doing around here?” In the year 2007, I hasten toadd. Julius’s take on racism in America – “The racist structureof this country is crazy-making.”   

Cole provides fresh insights into diverse subjects through the eyesand lives of characters in the novel who are simply as intriguing as theirinteractions with Julius. Professor Saito is the first major character Juliusintroduces to the reader. Saito is an intelligent, terminally ill octogenarianEnglish Literature professor seemingly of Polynesian origins. Saito obtainedhis doctorate in the subject from Cambridge University but despite hiserudition, he was made to undergo internment with his family upon his return tothe United States during the Second World War – one of least glorious moments inthe history of America’s race relations. Julius regards Saito as a fatherfigure, respecting and accepting his homosexuality. The prospect of a man suchas Saito from such a strongly patriarchal culture knowing of his sexualorientation at the age of three tested my gullibility for intelligent,well-executed writing and it did stretch credulity somewhat. However, all thatdoubt was dulled by the deeply touching non-sexual fondness they share for eachother. 

Another character who is more than likely to have an unshakeablegrip on any reader is Saidu, a Liberian youth and illegal immigrant to theUnited States whom Julius meets at a detention facility in Queens. Saidu’swartime experiences are starkly depicted such that the depressing images areleft ingrained in the mind. Saidu fled to Guinea, after he escaped from a lifeof forced labour at a rubber plantation controlled by soldiers loyal to CharlesTaylor. ECOMOG soldiers from Nigeria rescued him after his escape, fed him andhelped to transport him to the Guinean border – because he pretended to beretarded. One is left with the inevitable question – perhaps retardation is anecessary survival tool for war, possessed to varying degrees by warringfactions, warlords and all other parties involved in armed conflict. To whatelse but retardation can one possibly ascribe the murder of innocents such asSaidu’s mother and sister who were killed for nothing by soldiers loyal toTaylor’s men? Of Julius’s several chance encounters, that with Saidu isprobably the most memorable.

Julius also introduces the reader to some of his patients, using theappropriate pseudonyms V., M., and Mr. F to “mask” their identities. Theirtroubled lives and alternate realities stir up questions of the limits andcapabilities of the human mind to accept the realities of those around us.Julius discusses them with a mixture of warmth, understanding and derisiveness.His attitude to them is summed up in his declaration that “Thereis always a fund of humorous tales from the horror of mental illness.”

Other standout characters are Dr. Annette Malloite, aBelgian-American Julius meets on board a flight to Brussels and Farouq, anunderemployed Moroccan political philosopher who works as an internet andtelephone receptionist at a cybercafé in Brussels.  Dr. Malloite statesone truth with which I have no quarrel whatsoever – “Well, Iknow a great many Nigerians, and I really should tell you this, many of themare arrogant.” Anyone who has had the dubious fortune ofengaging a Nigerian in an argument over politics, or intellectual subjects, orreligion, or homosexuality, will gladly confirm that truth. Julius puts itbetter when he responds to Dr. Malloite’s ensuing apology by saying “Wethink of ourselves as the Japanese of Africa, without the technologicalbrilliance;” another incontrovertible truth, at least in theyear 2012. Farouq also expresses some truths about various subjects, the mostpoignant of which is his succinct summation of the relationship between theUnited States on one hand and the Arab and Muslim World on the other in the eraof George W. Bush – “For us, America is a version of Al-Qaeda.”Arab-Muslim perception of America has not been so sharply defined in recentfiction.    

The runaway topmost anecdote in the novel by my estimation isJulius’s harassment as a teenager by Second-class Warrant Officer Musibau, the“music teacher” at the Nigerian Military School, Zaria. Musibau is adisgruntled, elderly man who is stuck at a dead-end military career and he hasmuch younger men as his superiors because he is not as educated as they are. Ateenage Julius had the ill luck of picking up an apparently discarded copy ofthe Daily Concord, apopular newspaper at the time, from a school bench; the newspaper turned out tobe the music teacher’s. Musibau – popularly called “Hitler” by his students,behind his back – seized the opportunity to strike one back at the privilegedclass by exacting a quite common punishment in Nigerian schools on the “half-Nigerian…summertrips, domestic staff” enjoying spoilt brat who “stole” hisnewspaper – he bitterly administered twelve strokes of the cane. Julius cameaway from the episode with several welts on his buttocks, notoriety for histoughness because he did not cry and almost inevitably, the sobriquet – DailyConcord. For this writer who was given admission into the Military School atabout the same time as Julius but who narrowly escaped being bundled off tothat same school due to maternal opposition, it particularly struck a chord androused the joyful cry, “There but for the grace of God go I!” The underlyingfact is that in the course of everyday life, very few Nigerians have not had abrush with brutalisation by members of the nation’s armed forces. Duringmilitary rule in the 1980s, Julius’s experience was routine in thecountry.     

The most complex relationship in the novel is that between MojiKasali and Julius; their relationship is even more complex than that betweenJulius and Nadège, his girlfriend. Moji, the older sister of an acquaintance ofJulius’s at the Military School, is a lady with whom he had a – well, to put itin a way that does not ruin the surprise for anyone who has not read it –disagreeable intimate encounter when he was fourteen and she was a year older.Eighteen years later, they meet in New York City and they have a few socialmeetings. At a party organised by her boyfriend, Moji confronts him with hereighteen-year old disgruntlement. Cole skilfully builds their relationshipwithout any hint of a kink (pun intended) in their relationship. Julius’sreaction to her challenge caused one to arrive at the suspicion that some partsof the novel are actually exercises in showing off. When a lady accuses a manof being the cause of eighteen years of mental and psychological wounds, itseems rather odd that his mind goes into instant overdrive, mentallycontemplating right in front of her Camus’s journals on Nietzsche and GaiusMucius Cordus Scaevola, albeit internally. “How could this have been soinsignificant to me for so long and so important to her?” seems a more likelynatural gut response, not instant mental disquisitions about the nature of painwith respect to Nietzsche and Gaius. Another possible loophole in their relationshipis the fact that Cole has not exactly disclosed who is older between Julius andMoji. In chapter twelve when Julius meets her again for the first time aftereighteen years, he explains that she perhaps thought of him back in 1989 as “thebrother’s friend, the sophisticated aje-butter, a self-confident older teen.”During the denouement in chapter twenty, Moji says she is older. A reader maybe left wondering if this was deliberate on the part of the author or simplyoversight. 

Open City is noticeably devoid of references to therich cultural life of 1980s Lagos. It is all well and good that Julius canrecognise every note from Mahler, Chopin and Shostakovich symphonies, but agood number of Lagosians who grew up in the city in the 1980s will be compelledto ask, “But where are the Fela Kuti, King Sunny Ade and Commander EbenezerObey “symphonies”? While growing up in Lagos, did Julius by any chance notencounter Nigerian cultural icons apart from the blind bard – if not in person,at least through their works?” (Although the blind bard is not named, there isthe strong suspicion that he is the late Kokoro, apopular itinerant performer who was a regular fixture at Lagos bus stops andmarkets.) Indeed, despite his exposition on Yoruba creation mythology, Juliusis mostly divorced from his Nigerian/Yoruba roots – he never uses his Yorubaname “Olatunbosun” in everyday life because it “confirmed me innot being fully Nigerian.” However, it is rather graveinjustice that cultural figures whose vital contributions reflected and shapedlife in the city at the time find no place in the novel. How Julius could haveavoided these cultural experiences despite attending teenage parties andattending primary school in Lagos boggles the mind. Surely, Michael Jacksoncould not have been the only pop music figure of the day that attracted theattention of young Lagosians; Lagos had a good number of pop idols in the1980s.         

Open City is a brilliant, stimulating philosophytome masqueraded as fiction. It is no book for the dilettante. A lot happens injust a paragraph, if one peers and ponders carefully enough – it is not a bookto be read in a hurry. Nuggets of wisdom leap off the pages at almost regularintervals. Teju Cole has given a worldly-wise tone to an emerging generation ofNigerian authors who are much more adventurous than the generations of writersthat preceded it, a generation that is bolder and unafraid to explore othercultures. Open City shall occupy a pride ofplace in my bookshelf, proudly displayed at a vantage position to beappreciated for the gem it truly is.

The Shambolic Management Of Nigeria’s Unemployment Data By Bolaji Olatunde

 

 

The keen watchers of Nigeria’s socioeconomic and political sphere,and even the uninterested, given the attention it garnered, could not haveavoided news about the nation’s economic statistics for the second quarter of2020 which were released by the National Bureau of Statistics (NBS) on the 14thof August 2020. Every quarter, the nation goes through the ritual of receivingsocioeconomic indices from the NBS which is charged by section 2(h) of theStatistics Act 2007 to “collect, process, analyze and disseminate quality data.”In terms of disseminating data, the NBS has fulfilled its mandate. As regardsthe collection, processing and analysis of data with respect to theunemployment position in Nigeria, I am of the considered opinion that the NBShas not fulfilled its responsibilities to the best of its abilities. I makebold to say that whatever accolades the NBS under the leadership of Dr YemiKale has received for the Q2 2020 unemployment report is for a job half done.

I would advise any entity that wishes to plan its economicactivities around the unemployment figures released by the NBS to halt suchplans in their tracks. I often pass the lighthearted comment (after the fashionof the witticism by the American humourist Mark Twain), that there are threekinds of lies─lies, damned lies and Nigerian statistics. The first majorlie includes the various figures often stated to be Nigeria’s populationcensus, which fluctuates according to several factors, including various mixesof the ethnoreligious background, location and preferred alcoholic beverage and/orillegal substance of the individual stating the figure. The last populationcensus carried out by Nigeria was in 2006. The nation is like that polygamousfather who is humorously said not to know the number of children he has sired─not a few Nigerians will be hesitantto label that father a responsible scion.  

My first misgiving about the unemployment figure released isthat it was based on a “survey”; the official title of the document released tothe public domain is the “Abridged Labour Force Survey Under COVID-19”. It isgenerally assumed by the masses that many Nigerian state-owned entities do notbelieve that the ordinary Nigerian on the street counts. It is therefore notsurprising that the NBS calibrates the unemployment rate based on a veryunreliable tool such as a survey that entails the random sampling of households.Nigeria’s unemployment is too serious to be left to a “survey”. The NBS reportstates that this particular survey was carried out using ten interviewers perstate who surveyed fifty households in each state. The NBS interviewers reportedlyconducted a total of 18,500 interviews. The results of the survey were then supposedlythen juxtaposed against the labour force. The NBS places Nigeria’s total labourforce at about 80,291,894 people. The data integrity of the method ofdetermining this estimated labour force figure is, at best, on very shakygrounds, given that we don’t know how many Nigerians there are. It could nothave been done by anything other than pure magic, something akin to creativeaccounting.

It is untenable that Nigeria does not have an unemploymentregister, which should be a register of those who are willing and able to workbut have no jobs. The data of ALL Nigerians willing and able to work but whoare unemployed can be collated at regular intervals─there is sufficient technology to dothat. I am not aware that a national exercise aimed solely at that purpose hasbeen conducted. Such Nigerians captured, with provisions for them to inputtheir National Identity Numbers (NIN) and/or Bank Verification Number (BVN), caneither update their records online, when they transit from the unemployment marketto the securing jobs, or vice versa. Many young Nigerians who are most affectedby the unemployment scourge are tech-savvy and either own smart phones or ifthey cannot afford it, know someone that does. For the unlettered among thelabour force, they may be asked to have someone do it on their behalf. Thiscitizen-generated data is, at this point, I daresay, the most reliable methodof determining Nigeria’s actual unemployment rate, if a winning strategy fortackling unemployment is to be devised.

Nigeria’s unemployment conundrum should not be left to thedevices of a survey. The NBS, will probably state in its defense, that theunemployment statistics of developed nations such as the United States ofAmerica and the United Kingdom, are determined by the use of periodic surveys,but will not refer to the fact that Nigeria’s socioeconomic statistics cannotboast of the data integrity of the general statistics those nations have.  Creating and maintaining a nationalunemployment register will no doubt give the unemployment data the four V’s of “bigdata” which are volume, velocity, veracity and variety, which are necessary forit to be as accurate as can be humanly attainable, given the possible marginsof error. Granted, maintaining such a register by having unemployed Nigeriansregularly update their employment statuses may be herculean, but it can be doneby incentivizing them in any way or form to be determined by the appropriateauthorities, including social intervention projects.  

 

The use of citizen-generated data is not unknown to moderneconomic policy implementation and planning. Alan Greenspan, the longestserving chairman of the Federal Reserve (as the central bank of the UnitedStates of America is known), in his memoirs, “The Age Of Turbulence” recounted howhe would often monitor the impact of the implementation of certain economicpolicies of the government by observing the number of Americans who filedweekly for unemployment benefits.  

Achieving the 17 Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs), amongwhich are poverty reduction, decent work and economic growth, cannot beattained without proper data because they are needful for determining actualpriorities and decision-making by Nigeria’s political leadership. Granted, thecost of acquiring and processing data can be extremely high. The DevelopmentCo-operation Report 2017 report issued by the Organization for EconomicCooperation and Development (OECD) estimates that 144 developing countries inthe world require about $3 billion US dollars annually (at least ₦9 billion naira per nation, assumingall nations were to require the same amount) to produce data to measure SDGindicators, among which is the unemployment rate. As at the time of penningthis essay, the 2020 budget of the NBS could neither be located either on itsofficial website or that of the Federal Ministry of Finance, Budget andFinancial Planning, which supervises over 17 parastatals and has a totalallocation of ₦18.57 billion in the 2020 Appropriation (Repeal andEnactment) Act. Financialconstraints notwithstanding, the OECD advocates for harnessing new technologiesto accumulate and process more accurate data.

What exactly is Nigeria’s unemployment rate? Stears Business,the intelligence data analysis company, places Nigeria’s estimated unemploymentrate at 39%. What do I think the true unemployment figure of Nigeria is? Ibelieve it is worse than the 27.3 per cent reported by the NBS (which thebureau, states in its report, places Nigeria in the veritable company ofAngola, Namibia and South Africa with unemployment rates that exceed 30% andare among the top five highest in the world). I use the word “believe”deliberately─it is more than likely that the NBS arrived at its ownstatistic that way, through the Nigerian cure for almost everything─belief, sprinkled with a little doseof random sampling.