Opening Late 2013

Photo credit: Getty Images

It’s New Year. Never mind that January is almost spent. Believe me when I say the year has just started. At least for me, it just has. I lately finished a prolonged sessional exam. You mightn’t understand that. Well, you really shouldn’t anyway, it’s personal. But you still might. If you started 2013 with the burdens of 2012 that you recently dealt with, you would relate well with this; that the year has only started.

Do you understand the pains of feeling nothing? Can you say you have ever woken up to the fear of nothingness, a tasteless indifference? Now, see where I am coming from, life is full of sensitivities: the sensitivities of pains; of losses; of gains; of love; of hurts; of shame; of pride. When you wake one day and realize those are lacking, then you should die. Or preferably put, give up your life, someone else needs the space. For me, the year has only started, because now, I feel the statics of love; of hurts; of shame; of pride; of gains; of losses. Don't bother that some I got through empathy, at least, I am now more human than you are. My year has just started.

I will tell you little about my Mum, little about what she did today, this morning. She marveled me. Sometimes, I’d imagine how my Mum makes my Dad’s love perfect, and I’d be jealous. My Mum did something this morning and I hated myself for it. She surprised me. I have been suffering from indecisiveness lately, my Mum changed that. She took a decision, she was smart with it. She took a step, she did it briskly intelligent. Now, she has become a roadside seller, transacting in what she loves best, in the business she hopes to leave in our bloods. 

She’s comfortable, she is averagely rich. I wouldn’t know why she did that. But my Mum is a business woman, not the formal one, she is creative in it. My mum did something this morning, she set up a shade in front of our house, she commercialized the spot. More puff-puffs, eggrolls and pies.  Soon, I will begin to envy those school children as they take bits of my mother’s care. My Mum did something this morning, she took a decision when I was still snoring on my bed, dreaming about lofty goals. She took a step and tooled with it. I slept with mine. I have been sleeping on mine, drooling on it. She just started the year.

I have been in love. I was madly in love. I am still loving. Three different statements that capture the turbulence of my emotion. I am confused. No! That can’t be. I can’t be. Say I am a fool. I opened my heart and roses were not thrown at it. I never said daggers were hurled at it either. I hate poetry. If this paragraph is turning one, tell me and I will discard it. They say love makes you mad and write poetry, that’s stereotypic. How about this? It should be a diversion from the old; love makes you blogpost. That sounds better. I loved from 2012, packed its grime and trash to this year. The year can’t be messier than it is now. Love isn’t a mercy; call it a mess, a patient, a sacrifice. I want to unlove now and face the year. The year wouldn’t start with it. Folake knows better. Fake Folake faked me.

I have seen two deaths at a close succession. Two deaths on different spots, at different locations. One had blood spilling from his mouth and head on end. The other had mockery in its wake. I have seen two deaths, two different deaths. One was lying in the middle of the road with her fishes scattered about. The second scarred my love and changed her; made her vulnerable. I have seen two deaths. One I witnessed with its fresh body still warm. The other, I was told had been seriously mocked in sicknesses before its ghost took off. I have seen two deaths before the year started. Now, I am born because I have seen too many deaths for two eyes. 

Let’s start this year immediately! Welcome. 

Defining SEX

You were a boy of your plump erection; so thick with the nimble intent to do-it and always do-it.

This force; this static electricity that sluiced through your body like wire shock, this uprush; this inventing fluid that surged through your veins and connected your sinuses with sighs so strong; this can’t just be explained in a singular noun word – sex. Even that is a misjudgement of the blissful blood that coursed through your system. For the word ‘sex’ is brief and briefly pronounced. Those feelings you were always left with, in and after those emotional processions, were eternally transforming; they were not transient. For this, you must not call it ‘sex’, it should be pronounced ‘sexing’; that is continuous, for you never had the satisfaction of having it once. 

The day you were caught with Titi was the day you temporarily stopped.

The day you were seen in the main act wasn’t the first time you had done-it– you have always had sexing before then; in masturbation, wet-dreams and with CDs, before you eventually did it in your house and on the couch with Titi.

You have always done this. Yes. I mean it when I say you’ve always done-it. And many times have you always escaped. You didn’t just know you have often had sexing in the past. You thought you have only been pleasuring yourself before the day you filled Titi’s deep recess immediately after school hours that Friday. There have been days your sexings were without two teats and a moist hole. Your only tool then was the white unlabelled discs you accumulated through your video vendor. Plain white discs you always told your Dad were backup CDs of some software and document on your laptop. But you and the vendor knew otherwise, they were Mojos.

Other times, when you were not playing these discs on your system in your room, where you would silently moan, excitedly pinch yourself and mobbed the starchy drops on the bed you sat upon; you would steal into the palour when your parents had gone to sleep and tune down the volume of the TV as images acrobatically displaying fleshes, wetness and feverish moans screened before you.

You remember the night your Mummy expected you to have been in bed? The night she screamed and hurriedly woke up your Dad for fear that fire was gutting the house from the parlour? The same night she mistook the ball-room colourful lights the TV was beaming in the darkness the parlour was in, which bounced on the walls in different cinema beauties and slit through the curtains of the adjacent rooms close by, one of which was your parents’?

As she was rushing to the parlour with your Dad and with the clear fear of horror on her face, she saw your shadow on the wall and thought you might have been caught in the fire. She screamed. Can you remember how you had balanced the TV remote in your left hand as you widely spread your legs and examined how your shame grew thick? Can you recall how swiftly you dialled another station and cover the budge between your legs with the dining napkin as her scream jolted you? When they saw you balanced on the couch, they felt relieved and told you off on staying up late watching the TV. They were also angry the neon lights from the TV had given them the impression fire was touching the house. You lied your Government teacher had asked you to watch the recorded proceeding of Obasanjo’s attempted impeachment, which was what you told them  you were doing watching News @ 10 on Channels.

When next you are asked to define sex, now you know how to. Use your experiences. And please, start by saying it is called sexing and not sex.

7 Books, 21 Days: Back to School

If you’ve been waiting to read how I accomplished reading those books in those number of days, sorry, now you’ll be disappointed. I couldn’t get that task done. So many things were flooding my schedules, and at most times, I regretted ever going on that adventure. It was a holiday when all things academic were to be shoved off and spat upon. I’ve had so much bookie stuff to deal with when the semester was on. Going on that nerdy venture was just pure bane to relaxation. Now, I am starting to question those that do reading for relaxation.  As for me, I really don’t find reading as such.

However, if we consider there are different types of reading, one may agree that reading could also be used to unwind. I have just never been a passive reader. I think I am a freak. You may not understand. But when I tell you reading something as trivial as an sms could trigger my intellect up, you may begin to see why. 

You should now know I take reading a little bit hard. At least, I now know why I don’t have a girlfriend. I am a boring book lover. Ladies don’t fall in love with book lovers anymore. The last time that happened was in the century without swaggerlicious nonsense. But the boring is now what you must put a quote on. When I use boring, I mean it in the restricted sense. At least, my thoughts on books are not dreary. You will soon know why.

I was able to read even more than I bargained for. Talk of the magic of the internet. And the experiences in sum are what I wouldn't easily substitute for some best memories. It was also a holiday for writing. Above all, I had my writing space back; away from the maze of campus frenzy. Sometimes, I do wonder, if, whoever invented Nigerian education had me in mind. I simply repulse this system of education. I wouldn't call it that though; education. For education is the sustaining learning that fits into reality. The learning system obtainable here, on this campus that I am back on now, is far away from that. I would only call it education in the boring and uncreative sense of it. At many times during lectures, I would wonder at the relevance of what was being taught outside the campus border. They call it education. I call this a necessary process of belonging to a blurry educated class of citizens. Most of the things taught in our Universities do not speak reality. I can confidently say that because I am becoming a victim. But I will survive.

You must know the reasons why I set out on that reading adventure. I said I would write reviews on them. More than the 7 books I planned reading within 21 days, I read 10, but not within the limit of the set out 21 days. The days clearly caught up with me. I read more though and that paid off. That taught me a new life lesson: that flexibility works better; that schedules could be creatively broken for better additions; that what matters is the interest and not really the strength the task demands. I have done some reviews and writings. Some of which I have received burning coals, a prize and some commendations for. This is why I love reading, even if no beautiful lady may fall for that; reading is my rewarding travel and the fulfilling journey that is life. You encounter all sorts reading. I have once taken a pretty lady out on a date in books. Now, don’t laugh me for that! Lol.

Get hooked with my review of Iduma’s Farad here. I read Chuma’s The Ghost of Sani Abacha, I had some disinterests about it and I made them known here (but some didn’t like it though. Catch the yabis and yelling here). Abubakar’s The Whispering Trees is one promising books with its weakness, I did the review first here.  I found Doreen’s Tropical Fish more of a hard kick on Idi Amin. I didn't like that. There are so much fury in that book for its pages to carry. I pointed that out too. And there is Richard’s City of Memories. I liked the book but my concerns on it were not hidden. Find that out too here.

There are still some to come. There are Eghosa’s Fine Boys and Unoma’s Edible Bones. Those are upcoming reviews I would be posting on CLR soon.

Yepa! Now I’ve got to finish that assignment. School palaver!!! Save me!!!

SOS something for me joor. 

Of Literary Cabalism

Fed up...

Guest-blogged:  Chika Nwakanma

There seems to be a poisonous gas circulating the lungs of the Nigerian literati. There is also a bad blood flowing through its veins, which if left unchecked would result in a heart attack, a literary anomie. This vice is called Cabalism. In whatever word or concept; cabal, faction, group or section, has been a direct natural consequence of the aggregation of humans. Wherever humans have co-existed as a group, bound together by a common sense of identity and destiny, hierarchical formations are put up to maintain law and order in such society. Classes, groups and hierarchical formations are the food chain of society, as one cannot do without the other, like the way a cow cannot do without an egret or an urban city cannot do without the slums on its boundary. Each exists to meet the needs of the other.

However, classes, groups, cabals et al, have been known to be the root cause of agitation in society. Splinter groups break-up as a result of deprivation, oppression and marginalization. This inability to sum up interests into a common bowl, results in a fragmentation of the whole group. Marx in his 'Communist Manifesto' buttresses this assertion with an opening statement;

"The history of all societies is the history of class struggles."

This implies that class struggles are the catalyst for elevating and destroying societies. Cabalism occurs when certain individuals within a group decide to bestow on themselves, a higher status than other members of the group. This ascriptive status is borne out of the selfish desire to control and dominate the group. Such exclusivity is exemplified in royalty, secret societies, exclusive clubs etc. Cabalism is the personification of the Orwellian dogma where;

“All animals are equal, but some are more
equal than others”.

One would have thought that the Nigerian literati which draw intelligentsia from different spheres of the society would be immune to this social pathogen; that writers would be able to enshrine the virtues of equality in the literary world. Alas, the contrast is the obvious reality, as writers like mirrors, are reflecting the image of the wider society. Nigerian writers have now factionalized their pens, each group struggling for a utopic supremacy.

Recently, a writer who was scheduled for a book reading in Ibadan was later dropped because he held an opposing view with another author, who was in the same “camp” with the organizers. The organizers in their blind “wisdom” thought it good not to allow the writer come to “their” book event. We have also seen workshops which should be promoting raw, undiscovered talents evolve into a circus for established (some, award winning) writers. The Association of Nigerian Authors - ANA - is also trapped in the same murky waters of cabalism. Some have even established literary cults in the guise of groups, yet barring other writers from being members.

The imperative question to ask now is; what would be the aftereffect of such cabalism? As earlier pointed out, groups have been the root causes of social agitations and unrests. Each group fights for its interests. Cabalism is a potential destructive force of Nigerian literature, nibbling slowly but surely at the fragile fabric which binds writers. It erodes literary cohesion, blinds vision with sentiments and defeats the spirit of altruism. The statements of writers and critics would not be interpreted from a literary standpoint, but from a jingoistic one.

In Nigeria, we have all been witnesses to what groups in whatever form (tribal, political, linguistic and religious) have done to the functionality of society. Is this the same fate that awaits Nigerian literature? Writers should complement rather than compete with each other. Durkheim's orgamismic analogy which compared society to the human body, stressed on the interrelatedness of all parts for the survival of the whole. Each part of the society, just like the body, though unique, functions for the survival of the whole. Such interrelatedness is necessary for the survival of Nigerian literature. If we form cabals and sectionalize our pens, then as someone rightly asked, how do we get Nigerians to read?

****

Chika Nwakanma is a poet, writer and literary enthusiast who resides in Lagos. He currently writes for Baobab Magazine. He sees his articles and poems as a prism which reflects the social realities of his society. He could be reached via; chikasco@gmail.com  

Let Cynthia Sleep!!!

Violence and the Internet

Let’s divest technology off Cynthia and allow the pretty girl a decent sleep. I hate this image Cynthia is fast gaining in the news. I hate it with my entirety. Technology is a platform not dominant in itself but dependent on the control of its users. The outright blame it is sharing in the gruesome murder of Cynthia is starkly unbecoming. In all these sheer blames being poured down on Technology, we soon neglect the issue worth dealing with. For the necessary umpteenth time, technology did not kill Cynthia, men of dark intentions did. Panning more attention on these people is most important. That will allow us an ample rein on how to deal with future situations of this type. Let me tell you something; Facebook is not the cause, we are.

I have had my fair share of the online experience to run commentary on it. I am also one of the online enthusiasts as my means will allow me. It is exactly a decade since I know the web and I have never for once left it. We were once in a relationship and those times were characterised with examining our differences. At a time it was a courtship, this was when I was slowly being driven by it. Now, I and the web are one, let’s just call ourselves life partners. There is virtually nothing I cannot deploy it into – and as I said earlier on – as my means would allow me, internet is still money draining in this part of the globe. I have had my rough edges with the use of the Internet. With the time and precious opportunities lost on binging on it, I have since grown to maximising it into an everyday helping tool.

The web is an interactive platform run on the linkage of individual users. Isn’t that what Web 2.0, the sought-after platform of the web, fosters?  So how does the internet come to execute a thing by its self? Internet is an extension of the real, we should always know that. Whatsoever comes on it is only mainstreamed from our interactive physicality. The Internet only promotes and sustains, it never can boast of anything of its exclusive origin.

In gaining closure on the death of Cynthia, the traditional media has not been helping. With their misleading headlines and messy conclusions, you soon begin to believe they bear sinister grudges against the internet. The internet has outsmarted them. Sure. Now, it seems the unfortunate death of Cynthia is offering them a cheap gauntlet against it. Even when it has become the general belief that Cynthia’s death is occasioned with the use of the new media, I won’t be coaxed into believing such. We lose it on many fronts when we misplace the basics that matter for lazy conclusions. For clarity, just like anything that can be cashed on, the new media only aided the nefariousness of this gang. Before the new media came, we have been having cases of this colour. So why hype this out of proportion now?  Let’s not be hoodwinked out of simple reasons. The new media may have been a tool, the evil is independent of it. And as such should be dealt with separately.

I can closely observe we still grapple to understand this new media. Our immediate older generation probably ever wouldn’t. When anything amoral comes on it, we scream crimson murder, solely criticising it. That is like removing the user from the tool. When a knife runs foul, does one blame the knife? When a stone is thrown, should the stone be broken and the thrower absolved? It is a good thing this gang has been apprehended, let’s question them for the reason for their deed and not the reason for their tool.

Recently, shortly after this incident, her father asked her if she owns a facebook account. She affirmed. She was given a stern look and silently reprimanded. When her dad gave her the newspaper reporting Cynthia’s death, she understood the situation better. For Seun, for my friend, facebook has become the next thing to evil in her home. She is now faced with the post-trauma of Cynthia’s death.

“This sort of crime is only possible because of the unique connectability, anonymity and intimacy-at-a-distance which the internet affords.” -  David Reid. I can’t agree less. Our security details should take a clue from this. To start with, do we even have cybercrime experts? That’s so bad if we don’t. Internet is now with us. There will be more evils and its advantages will continue to leap too.

This occurrence wouldn’t be the last. Cynthia is dead, I commiserate with the bereaved. She is upwardly mobile, her death shouldn’t be tied to that. Let her sleep, spare her the noise.

Let Cynthia Osokogu sleep!

 ***

·         Additional insights provided by Olagunju Seun.

‘SO WE DO NOT FORGET’: A NaijaStories’ Anthology

©Joseph Omotayo & Oyebanji Ayodele

Mourning in Retrospect

This is my grief outpoured on white pages. This is my time to mourn.

I read the scars of the Dana Air Crash in this NaijaStories anthology and I recall bitter memories; memories that turned horrible in retrospect. Dana Air Crash happened seventeen days to my birthday. I was in school and immersed in the anxiousness that goes into preparing for an examination. So many things were happening to me that month. I had an exam to write and I just had my heart broken by a silent seductress. The semester was nearing its end and I was prospecting for a fare to take me home, but my friends were equally broke. Those days were horrible. When I was told a plane had crashed, it was like any other news. Boko Haram had just bombed some people too. So, what distinguishes one from the other?  Those are evil, but we become more evil as we get used to this blackness; these headlines painted with blood; these jagged and sawed bodies in scattered parts on our screens and social walls. When Dana Plane crashed, I saw pictures, read news and got inured to the daily horribleness as the dark days went by, or as I thought they went by. Forgive my nonchalance. Forgive my seeming familiarity with these evils. That gene makes me a Nigerian of this age. I have been so scarred that what gets to my hearts must pierce through this evil-beaten skin. I am You. I am Joseph Omotayo. I was born on the 17^th of June. 153 people died on the 3^rd of June, 2012.

Weeks after, as I was at home, as I read through this anthology, I cried silently. There is a moment of deeper grief that comes with collected emotions at silent time. As I read these entries, away from the din of my 14-peopled room on campus, I grieved solely. Now I must mourn, grant me the privacy. Now I cry, don’t try comforting me. I am only mourning in retrospect.

Art for Memories and Tears

It would grieve the minds of Oscar Wilde and his aesthete influence, Walter Pater, in their graves if I say this anthology provides an outright disproval of their concept of art for art’s sake. Nigerian author, Emmanuel Iduma, also affirmed this in an interview recently by saying that ‘…art cannot be for art’s sake…’ Conjuring up this issue will amount to some sort of neglect on my part, at least from the paradigm of the painful happening that necessitated this anthology. Here is art for memories and tears. I have shed mine.

This anthology is one that tolls like a bell in one’s memory, jarring one from the lively unconsciousness that has clouded one’s mind as to the pervasiveness of death. It is to the memory of the 153 souls who irrespective of age, sex, tribe and belief were grimly scarfed by death. You have not been part of this ‘memorialization’? Here is an opportunity to do so. Log into Naijastories.com, download this anthology pro bono and you will be giving these souls a second life to live, not in your device but in your heart.

Below are some of the entries;

Tears in Letters

Till Death Do Us Part by Enoquin

Playing pranks on the wrong person can go a long way in denying one an everlasting joy. It haunts when every attempt to invalidate what has been done proves abortive especially when death comes in to force a denouement on the whole drama.

Kay struggles with the pain of being betrayed by his fiancée, Efe, till he crosses the eternal border. But to Efe, it’s only a joke. A joke that needs to develop before being laughed off. Death enjoys no such joke. It denies the joking party the after-laugh of her game.

MD 83’s Last Flight by Inspired Illustrationz

This treads the path of a satire in narrating how the father of a generation of aircrafts after years of meritorious service is compelled to go for a re-commission in the World Air Museum, an allegory of Nigeria’s derelict aviation industry, where it plies the path of excruciating misery.

His Pot Lied by Tonye Willie-Pepple

I wonder what it is between Tonye and what goes into the stomach. Having read his poem, ‘The Old River Bank’ in Saraba magazine’s newest issue, which like ‘His Pot Lied’ is infused with culinary imageries, I opine that this bard is a true worshipper of the gastronomic deity. This poem is too good to ignore in this review. It recounts in craftily enjambed lines the tale of a devil-cook, who in search of meat, fries a human meat to naught. Indeed, the pot is a bloody liar.

P.S. - I Love You by Ife Watson

Ayo Sodeke, a lady on the verge of marriage may not have to blame her demise completely on the Nigerian factor. This story validates African traditional beliefs as against the Western religions.  So many things give Ayo ominous signs before boarding that plane, but she ignores all and only has to send these words to her lover as she becomes balls of fire: P.S. I Love You. The imageries of this story moved me.

‘…It seemed something sparked in the plane as the passengers heard the word ‘panic’ – pandemonium was let loose as everyone screamed at the top of their voices; calling on to Jesus and Allah to save their lives just this once and they would be good forever. You listened numbly as the young man beside you promised to resign his job and become a full time pastor if God spared his life. You felt like you were in a 3-D cinema watching horrific events unfold on the screen. Then, the glass on your eyes broke and you realised all at once that you were part of this bizarre movie…’

Laugh Lines by Kiah

This is really a short story. There is a way Kiah makes her transitions and save the reader the rigour of rambling in a valley of insignificant descriptions. Ifunanya waits for Odinaka, her husband who dies in a plane crash to return, though in the infantile body of Nnamdi, her unborn son. Until then, she believes Papa Odinaka’s laugh lines will not be restored.

Memoria by Ayokunle Falomo

The poet says it is not a poem but I am not fooled! The structure and diction confirm my belief that this is a poem. It is glaring even before the poet says it that this poem is not too easy.

Surprise by Teewah

Teewah's story is another good one. It manages two settings and narrations in a cramped space of one and half pages. It is well told. It boils with anxiety and melancholy alike.  Maybe Toni will not expect surprises in a long time. The last she expects from Dayo has a Dana imprint of doom.

For The Sake Of Closure by Afronuts

This piece presents the universality of death; how it can unite us irrespective of our multifarious discrepancies. It is also a eulogy to the newly-defined mourning mode the internet has afforded us. Afronuts’ experience which he relays tells of how one can flip one’s device to shed some e-tears.

Lamentations (When shall we heal; what shall we remember?) by Xikay

Divided into six parts, each mono-stanzaic, this poem captures in its simple and poetically opulent diction the mood of despondence as well as the tone of inquisitiveness normally attributed to sorrow. Here is my best stanza:

‘Say, is he blind that holds the harvest sickle?

Why doth he pluck fledgling stars, yet to twinkle?

Foolish farmer, hungry; he slaughters little chicks

And stuffs apples yet unripe, in his cheeks!’

****

For one; this anthology is a memory preserver. For another; it tends to humanize the pains for all of us in a bearable way. Download your copy of this anthology and let’s all listen to the various voices in it as they resound through this memorial offering. We can never forget the Dana Air crash victims. We wouldn’t!!!

‘Progressives’ Impunity in Osun: Spare Me This ‘Change’

Osun State Seal

Guest blogged by Sodiq Alabi

Osun has never been lucky with good leadership since her establishment in 1992. Forget about the regrettable military era (92-99), fast forward to May 1999 and there you find Chief Bisi Akande whose major idea of governance was retrenchment of civil servants and using the saved funds to build a gigantic state house which until 2010, when I was there last,  was still largely unoccupied. Click on 2003 and you see Prince Olagunsoye Oyinlola (of the People’s Democratic Party- PDP), a man people thought would be a change. At first, the Okuku prince seemed serious but the brazen corruption, unprecedented mismanagement and executive lawlessness that characterized the later part of President Obasanjo’s tenure did not spare Osun. Little surprise that in 2007 the electorate once again voted for the so called progressives now led by Bisi Akande, but Maurice Iwu’s Independent National Electoral Commission (INEC) deemed it fit to hand the mandate to the runner up, incumbent Oyinlola. This illegal second term of Oyinlola (07-10) was the longest and worst period of the state. By the time the Appellate Court handed Mr Rauf Aregbesola (of the Action Congress of Nigeria- ACN) his rightful mandate, majority of Osun people were already groaning under the oppression of the government and were also rightfully afraid of the impending governorship election of 2011 which was being fiercely contested between Fatai Akinbade and Iyiola Omisore, the accused murderer of Chief Bola Ige, both of the PDP. Had the appellate court not ruled against PDP only God knows how many people would have died in the do-or-die PDP Primaries and the gubernatorial election that would have taken place.  

The inauguration of Mr Rauf Aregbesola was greeted with great enthusiasm that could rival that of the ascendancy of Barack Obama to the presidency of the United States.  Unfortunately for the people of my dear state, Governor Aregbesola has so far not fared better than his predecessors. Actually, he has been dabbling in things that have little or no bearing on the standard of living of the people he is supposedly serving. Things that had they been done by a PDP led government; the mainstream media and political analysts would have gone crazy.

First, he thoughtlessly employed 20,000 youths on a salary of less than #10,000 per month for works that already had agencies for them. He impulsively changed the name of the state from ‘Osun State’ to the State of Osun as if we should be grateful our governor could rephrase names. An anthem and pledge were composed for the state and a new coat of arms no one understands its significance was designed. The motto of the state was changed from the popular and culturally significant ‘state of the living spring’ to the meaningless and clichéd Ipinle Omoluabi. All these and more were the cosmetic changes the Aregbesola’s administration implemented with scarce resources and celebrated with elaborate fanfare.  Changes that will most likely die with the present regime.

  

For sure, Oyinlola was largely an incompetent governor and he surrounded himself with thieves and criminals but the erstwhile governor also had some not so bad idea while in power. But just like every other new governor (and despite the fact that ACN and Aregbesola promised they would be different), Aregbesola has made the rubbishing of the projects left by his predecessor his number one agenda. He stopped the six stadia being built across the state; this came as no surprise to one as Aregbe’s role model, Governor Akande sacked all the Physical Education teachers and cancelled all the sport programmes in the state and Osun till now is yet to recover from that unfortunate decision. The newly established, fastly growing but prohibitively expensive Osun State University would have become history but for the protest of people of good will. A small but important example of the lack of vision of this administration is the demolition of school buildings before new ones are built.  Pupil of some schools in Osun might not have classrooms to resume to next session. We might need to write a book to document the failures, inaction and mis-action, mismanagement, lack of vision of this clueless regime. So let’s talk about the most bizarre of the happenings in the State of Osun.

As I have mentioned earlier, Osun people are already accustomed to living under bad governance even if they were promised something else. They’ve got some twenty years’ experience and they were adequately equipped to handle another four years of ineptitude leadership. But what no one should never ask of us is life under some kind of martial law; some sort of sanctioned jungle justice. What am I talking about? Just a second.

SAS vehicle on the watch

It was my friend, an Osogbo based blogger, who first told me of the latest impunity going on in Osun. I didn’t really pay attention to him until I traveled home for the Eid Fitr; during this period I lost my granddad, a staunch supporter of ACN, and I have  to spend two weeks in Osun. These two weeks have been one of the most enlightening and shocking periods of my life. Let me ask you, what’s the punishment for indecent dressing? You don’t know? Well you are in good company as I didn’t know too. My lawyer friend insists there is a seldom implemented law on general indecency. But in Osun under the watch of Ogbeni Aregbe, the punishment for indecent dressing is severe beating and public humiliation. Of course, you heard me right. The government of Osun has retained the services of some soldiers and police officers organized into a special force unit called Swift Action Squad (SAS) whose major job is to secure the lives and properties of the people of Osun but are now more concerned with harassing the people. They specialize in jungle justice; making the Aregbe regime look impatient for the legal process that helped the governor reclaim his mandate. Today in Osun you get punished for your ‘crimes’ immediately and on the spot by these soldiers. These soldiers are the accuser, the prosecutor, the jury, the judge and the punisher all rolled into one. Once you are charged you are guilty and once you are guilty you are summarily punished. No appeal, no protest.  

  

The main victims of this new kangaroo court are young girls who commit the error of wearing clothes that make them look too sexy for these Aregbe’s buffoons and probably turn them on too. These idiots seize young girls from the streets and sometimes drag them off speeding Motor cycles and beat them to a pulp. Exuberant young men are also not exempted from this jungle court. Nursing mothers who do not carry their children according to the unknown laws of the almighty SAS can be tried and punished. Other things that no one knows until someone fall victim are also criminal under this new regime. The punishments for crimes according to these imbeciles depend on their perpetually foul mood.

One incident that shocked me beyond word is that of a young lady ‘arrested’ on Saturday 25^th August, 2012 in Iwo. She was accused of wearing a top revealing her breast and the soldiers forced her to remove her top so as to totally reveal the breast she was ‘trying to flaunt’. Then a passing innocent Okada rider, who had no idea what was happening, was also stopped and asked by the soldiers to fondle the exposed breast of this young woman. The Okada man tried to turn down this offer and that’s a decision he would be regretting for a long time. He was mercilessly beaten and at the end he had to do as asked. What kind of punishment is this?  Just like most people who witnessed or learnt of this case, I was enraged. This is no fiction. This was even briefly mentioned on a breakfast show the following morning on the state owned Orisun FM with the presenter justifying and making light of the incident. I consider myself a morally conscious and a religious person but I do not see any sense in this kind of arrangement as it is most vulnerable to injurious abuse as we have seen in this case. Even under Sharia, which I must add the governor is not at all implementing, there are procedures, very strict procedure for issues like this.    

As a believer in democracy, I hate arbitrariness and disregard for rule of law and rights of citizens. These people that are summarily punished like primary school children have their right to a fair trial which I’m pretty sure these soldiers have little idea what it entails. Even under the harshest judicial system in the world, people still have right to a trial unless we are back in the military era. For someone who benefitted from the painstaking judicial system of this country, this SAS of a thing constitutes an all-time low for Governor Aregbesola. How can a system that successfully retrieved a stolen mandate from an incumbent and a member of the ruling party not be able to deal with misdemeanor like indecency? As it is now, citizens especially youth are living under constant fear that they may unwittingly commit an unknown crime and get punished. I personally saw a young girl ran like Usain Bolt when she heard the seriously irritating siren of SAS. What this girl wore could easily pass for a cheer leader dress in Lagos or Port Harcourt. I fail to see how punishing that young girl is going to lead to the provision of job for my friends that graduated couple of years ago, or refurbishment of class rooms in our schools or promotion of civil servants. Have you ever thought of indecency and thought of Osun at the same time? Your answer just like mine would probably be a NO. And that’s because indecency has never been a problem in Osun until our governor of little things successfully made issue out of nonsense. I understand something of this nature might have happened in ACN led Lagos state few years back and  may still be happening in ACN led Oyo state. 

Why would the primary assignment of a government of a state with high poverty and dropout rates, poor infrastructure, almost zero industrial presence, and high unemployment concern itself with the issue of young girls who wear short skirts? Or young men with Obama style hair cut?  Unless the intended consequence (as against unintended consequence) is to instill fear in the minds of the citizens and distract attention from the inadequacies of the government. Perhaps the governor is using this gimmick to appeal to the skewed religious awareness of the citizens and portray himself as the enforcer of God’s rules. Whatever it is, Osun people certainly did not sign up for this. A friend of mine asked me why these things are not reported in the mainstream media; while I cannot presume to know all the answers, I can fairly say that in Nigeria, victims of abuse and oppression rarely talk or report them. The tendency of our people to blame the victims perhaps discourages victims from seeking redress. Another reason may be the fact that ACN controls the majority of the media in the South West. An equally important reason to consider is the laziness or lack of initiatives or drive on the part of our journalists and writers and the cliché reporting of only already reported news. People rarely break news in this clime. I hope this piece will provoke a thorough investigation of the activities of this vigilante outfit. We cannot allow this kind of things in a democracy.

When you are outside of the state and you hear about the progress Aregbesola is making in Osun, you naturally want to feel good as an indigene of the state. Like one time in 2011 when someone told me that secondary schools students were being gifted a palm top computer. I was overjoyed at this commendable initiative until my sister told me that it was all news to her. No computer was being given. Today, students across the state are still waiting for the fulfillment of this year old promise. Just another successful media propaganda, of which ACN are now grandmaster. I’m officially now tired of the so called progressives’ effectiveness and efficiency and their messiac importance and of how they will change Nigeria for the better if they take over from PDP as they have done in the South West. If what is obtainable in Osun is what is on offer for the rest of the country, then I say please spare us this choking change. Spare us this useless, distorted and abysmally failing ‘progressive’ politics. And for my Governor, do away with the inconsequential and cosmetics and face true governance; your time is running out. 

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Sodiq Alabi, a poet and political analyst, sent in this piece from Iwo, Osun state. He could be contacted through ylfvision@yahoo.com.

Justice in Saraba Issue 12

·         Read previous reviews of Saraba Issue 10 and Issue 11

#65 or Nothing 

Saraba 12 is an extended warfront in the permanence of words. It is the later-sobs of our screams as justice was rumpled and ripped out in our faces. Saraba 12 lends voices to issues we would rather nurture in the weak crevices of our hearts.  We may not have succeeded in our battles, but we fought and shocked miseries – that much does this Saraba edition say. This edition reminds us of our broken battles, gained strength, poignant pasts and the placards we carried to #Occupy streets and roads.  Of all the previous editions, this indeed is the one that reflects our raw passion. After all, these are our pains. And whoever tells them must be ours, doing ours. This Justice Issue nudges us to carry on with our personal fights and collective struggles.

Pinging and Protesting
Photo: Ray Daniels Okeugo

In this edition, it is justice all the way. Saraba 12 is compactly packed. Conversely, Saraba Issue 12 compactness does not muddy its fieriness, it only bakes the few published pieces. These wars that I speak of are not arcane to us. There are the wars we wrestled, and are still fighting with the power of our tweets, blackberries, WhatsApp, Cams, Youtube and blogs.

If vengeance is the irrationality of imbalanced emotions, then justice is the fairness of vengeance. In Saraba 12, justice is the words stirred with vengeance - nothing is irrational.

One thing I must ask the co-publishers, Dami and Iduma, though is if their strength is wavering. This issue of the mag took long in coming. I understand there are pressing needs, but my fear must be made known. If Saraba ever stops publishing, I may give up eating egusi and stop tweeting all together. It would be that painful and God forbids that happens. Rescue my egusi, go download this e-mag and show you commend this gem of literary creation. We now have Saraba edition 12, it’s been quite a journey from the first edition. Trawl through the archives and you will know what kind of journey it has really been.

Their Evils; Our Justice

Of Similitude and Verisimilitude – Tade Ipadeola

I was beginning to like Ahmed Maiwada until he corked his gun and shot himself. Even a literary baby would not doubt he was running on liquor when he submitted Rotimi Babatunde’s Caine Prize shortlist, Bombay's Republic, a rehash of Biyi Bamidele’s Burma Boy. It was justice served when the said Bombay's Republic later won the Cain Prize. In this essay, Tade takes his time in dissecting the issue of plagiarism and how such word does not hold true when Bombay’s Republic and Burma Boy are compared. This essay also highlights Rotimi’s immense literary achievements over the years. Certainly, Rotimi Babatunde cannot have fitted with the word plagiarism. He is well versed in his craft for that. Ahmed is only skilled at causing cyber restiveness. Until now, Rotimi does not maintain social media presence. Or alternatively, he craves social demureness, which is bad. In this social media generation, tweets raze kingdom faster. When you see Mubarak, ask him.

Sons and Mothers – Chioma Iwunze Ibiam

Who says prose isn’t the hybrid of the real with the imagination? Chioma’s Son and Mothers jags at the reader’s emotions as it pans on the reality than once was. This story is an adaptation of the ABSU-5 gang rape. It almost reads as the true story. What is different between this story and the ABSU-5 rape case is the closure this story achieves. It never stops with the sloppiness of our police in investigating the case. This story takes it further; the perpetuators are caught; they are charged; and the reader gets to read the perpetrators' side of the story.

Of Tears and Sacarsm

Victor Ehikhamenor‘s two essays address the multiple dooms of a country. In Letter to a War President, Victor takes a benign scorn at the President. The mockery is only noticeable in the fake seriousness of the letter. What this letter sets out to tell the President is not new. It is just what a sensible President should know. In this letter, Victor babysits the President as he tutors him the simple principles of handling a country in the face of security challenges. If one Goodluck is daft, there is a Victor that is smart.

Children Without Revolution almost achieves no significance other than his pitiable continuous whine. This piece is marinated in deep self loathing and the reader’s taste is only spurred by the poeticity of Victor’s words. I only love this piece for his poetic-prosaic language. Its clichéd mournful tone puts one off.

Home and Losses

Émigré (1) – Jumoke Verissimo

Jumoke’s verses plunge into the private solitariness of an immigrant;

“Tonight like every other night to come

you will stay awake thinking of home…”

As one thinks Jumoke’s advice might bring respite the way of the émigré, she says this;

“keep your mind open to popular wisdom:

the only smell of distrust between

a country and a citizen is exile.”

Even the émigré’s country is no less culpable in this matter.

The Old River Bank – Tonye Willie-Pipple

These are verses with emotive lines. This poem narrates the stolen peace of an ambient seaside community. Until the evil seafarers visit the River Bank, they are people in their simple remoteness.

“There was a certain year

when oyster-shells massaged

founding feet

pacing the old riverbank…

…The years before the first ships arrived

beat our mother,

raped her hard,

and raised the flaring flag”

Download Saraba 12 now. It is hot-hot. Trust me. You don't want to miss out on this.

Of Superstition and Rubbish

Ignore the above picture for now and let’s talk about something…

“A malicious mind can plant a lie and watch it grow viral in minutes. Such is the power of the new media” – Tade Ipadeola

I have been racking my head lately on how these numerous weblinks called the internet could bring together a mass of people without congestion. I have also been trying to appreciate its significances in our lives, placing it side by side with other of its numerous evils and see how they could individually be measured out. Certainly, the new media is now a new language disdaining our borders and cultural divergence. Just when you think something is new and chic, other newer events speedily drab it into out-datedness. Such is the smartness of the new media. We move; we post; we laugh; we text; we tweet and watch videos almost simultaneously, multitasking ourselves.

When we talk about this new media, let’s also factor in the phone. The phone technology is making history with this innovation too. At times, you cannot just pinpoint which is driving which; the Internet or the mobile gadgets. Our phones indeed are no more what they used to be. They have become major platforms keeping us on the go with the new media. With the streamlining of our lives into the virtual, it would now seem we have also hauled our greases and grimes onto it. This is really interesting if you ask me. How? Well, that means our use of the internet now goes on to show previews of what our physical lives are – an extension of our real lives; with the rubbish and the irrational.

Are you still with me on this? Okay.

I am doing this short post not to cast sarcasm at the superstitions being broadcast and spread with the wings of this media. My two friends have done that here and here. I would just write a few things about them and hopefully believe my phone and fb wall would be rescued from the incessant attacks they have been under in recent days. It is now a fashion that people rebroadcast public panic that claim to show the love of the sender to one. You should be familiar with this. Have you ever received a message on your phone or on any of your social accounts; telling you to spread some God’s news to ten people and receive His blessings? You certainly should have. The message does not stop there. If it does, it will indeed not have been anything near disturbing. It will simply go on to detail the repercussion of not forwarding such message. The last I received of such was from a friend. This particular one gave me the options to be saved from Hell Fire if I forward it to all my friends or become deaf if I refuse to. That was indeed taking it too far. I called the friend, informed her of my displeasure and flayed her when she insisted on the truthfulness of the message. Haba, why are we a people so given to believing anything speaking religion and protection???

There I am.. in red

Phew… And when I thought the drama had climaxed, some few weeks ago, while I was trying to reply comments on this blog, another came in again. It whimsically forewarned me not to put on anything red on a particular day in order to save myself (my blood actually) from becoming a sacrifice in the redemption of Nigeria. That really turned out to be a comedy of some inane sort; as the message came on the very day it advised against. And I was already in red. Lol. However, Adunni said “if this is what it will take to redeem Nigeria…, then let’s do it cheerfully”. Anyway, let’s leave that for now, it is subjective considering how our past heroes have always been messily treated. I don’t want to join the list.

Following that, there was another insane one, a-cosmic-atomic-waves related panic. The message asked we switched our phones off at a particular time to avoid losing the phones to cosmic-atomic-waves. That really had me jerking in convulsive mirth as my phone got the message one hour past the time. To prove its credibility, it went further to cite BBC as its source. Chai! If only the composer of the message knew I had BBC as my computer’s homepage.

Let’s get back to the first post-picture now and consider the irony of it all. That sight certainly shouldn't be unusual if you stay around here. What actually interests one is to see the opposite of what it denounces sitting together with it. One thing this questions is the extent some can go in employing the absurd to scare and make people act to their rules. That doesn’t do it. If you have an opinion, don’t create public scare to make people believe in it, explain why they should.

NaijaStories has just released a Dana Anthology to memorialise the victims of the Dana plane crash. That is one fine message to pass across. If you are looking for a broadcast to forward, kindly inform your entire contacts-list to download this anthology and preserve the memories of those hurriedly taken away from us. That is a noble broadcast to make viral, not the heaven-promising-red-avoiding rubbish!!!