FAREWELL MADIBA

 

It was about mid day on this day when the school bell was rung and we were on the assembly ground where we were told to go home after an explanation of the reason for it. ‘Go home’? We said one to another. And the response was yes.

This was in February 1990. Our head teacher told us that Mandela was released from prison. Mandela? Released from prison? The young me just heard the name Mandela for the very first time in my entire life and could not link it to anything I had ever heard so there was no connection in my head. Released from prison? What was special any way? I asked myself.

I later found out he was not even a Nigerian! Alas! What does that have to do with me as I had known public holiday (and emergency one in my case) had always been for special occasion in my Nigeria.

Curiosity took a better part of me and I sought to know more about this released prisoner in far away south Africa for whose cause I had to cut short my learning process for the day and go home to ‘celebrate’.

Trust the political knowledge, exposure and analytical skills of my father. I got almost all the necessary information I needed largely through him and others in the years to follow.

 

I cannot also forget a popular South African musician who was then resident in Nigeria – Shaka shaka (or so, was her name)– and her popular ‘Oh oh oh oh free Mandela’ song

I learnt about a man who was imprisoned for 27 years! Ah! 27 straight years behind bars.Not because he was caught stealing, robbing a fellow man or even that he killed someone but because he was fighting against the oppression of his people in their land by a ‘little but powerful group’.

I learnt about a man who was offered freedom on conditions but refused to let go of just one of his causes of struggle.

I learnt about a determined man whose only goal was a truly free South Africa or nothing.

I learnt about NELSON ROLIHLAHLA MANDELA who is popularly referred to as MADIBA – his clan name – or more fondly as TATA.

My interest in this man was not really much until after I had watched him take his oath of office as President of the truly independent South Africa in 1994 with his daughter standing in place of his divorced wife - Winnie- when I ‘overheard’ that this man promised only a five (5) year single term and he would leave as President! This was at the time when military rule was the norm in Africa .When our legacy was head of states and some who called themselves Presidents (mostly unelected though) being in position for God knows how long. This was the era of Mobutu Seseseko, Laurent Gbagbo, Mugabe and even in Nigeria, we just ‘pushed away’ Ibrahim Babangida and the dark glasses wearing kano born General Abacha who would cost us several years of prayer and fasting for divine intervention was still holding the seat of power tight.

 

A man who had the golden opportunity of declaring himself President for life ( like Ugandan’s Idi Amin) when such declaration would have had little or no resistance because of his unquantifiable sacrifice decided not to even go for a well deserved and duly qualified for second term. That is the height of statesmanship.

He was a man who knew the mind of the English man who says ‘it is good to leave the stage when the ovation is loud’. He was a man who understood both time and timing.

I am neither a political nor economic analyst and thus lack the expertise to analyse his performance in office as President. But I can infer that if his country can still boast of good health and education system amidst others – to which his treatment within the shore of South Africa and preference for treatment and education over there by my fellow Nigerians allude- I can say that he did not bastardize the ‘good’ facilities left by the apartheid government and did not run down her economy in his five year rule.

Another enviable thing I learnt from Madiba was his resolution to withdraw from politics and truly stepped aside. He became an elder statesman by default and not a god father. He had all the chances and right (in a way) to nominate his daughters as President, Legislators and other positions in South Africa but did not take undue advantage of this. He could have become a tin god to any leader in the land but Madiba held his head high.

He was unlawfully and unjustly imprisoned for a lawful and noble cause which eventually became reality but Tata did not see it as an opportunity to get back at his accusers when he eventually held sway as the ‘commander-in-chief. He knew the only way for him to be truly free was to free his mind from hatred towards his captors. He rather preached peace and lived it. He championed reconciliation when he was supposed to be calling for heads to roll. He separated the man from the cause, he did not personalise issue.

All he foresaw in his fight was a truly free and peaceful South Africa and he pursued that vigorously.

Khulu - great one-, you really had to go after the struggle with old age related diseases which was no doubt aggravated by the 18 years in Robben Island prison. You did not only touch SA but the whole of Africa, but the whole of the world.You were a man who was great in life and even far greater in death. I saw Barrack Obama, George Bush and the Clintons at your memorial; almost all African leaders were either there or nowhere else. Tata, even Robert Mugabe was there, UN Secretary Ban ki moon, AU chairman, our own OBJ and GEJ were all among the leaders saying Adieu Madiba.Your grandchildren gave wonderful speeches.Thabo Mbeki and even the old Archbishop Desmond Tutu were present. Jacob Zuma hosted them all for you Madiba.

Though you were 95 – a very ripe age in this age and time- we still felt you should have stayed longer.

Madiba, twenty three years after I first heard about you, your profile has kept on towering high. You were a symbol of hope for good leadership in Africa. Though you might have your shortcomings, you still held your head high.

The first time I decided to be a voluntary journalist, the article I wrote on was for Nelson Mandela. My research made me know other names you had and got to know it was your teacher that named you Nelson. I knew that your clan name was Madiba and that you had other names like Rolihlahla and Dalibhunga.

I join the rest of the world to bid you farewell to the land of forever, I sincerely hope you will be at the bosom of the almighty where you will have the real rest in paradise. I really hope you embraced the gospel which would be your guaranty to rest eternal.

Farewell MADIBA, Adieu NELSON ROLIHLAHLA DALIBHUNGA MANDELA –The greatest African ever lived.

(c) 2013 Kolajo Oladele Oluwaseyi (10^th Dec.,2013)

*Oladele is an engineer and it's a pity Madiba will not be able to attend his wedding on the 21st December. News and Muse wishes him Happy Married Life in advance!!!

Prospective Candidates of Hell

The preacher woke me rudely with the blasting of the speaker. Morning cry at decibels a thousand higher than a thousand cock could crow at dawn has become a common place on my street. it is as if the preachers compete for who could make the highest salvation noise or wake the most people. but this particular preacher is an Olympic gold Medallist, he came with a powerful amp hung on a stand unlike others that slung theirs across their shoulders. I manage to dose away few minutes after he commenced his greetings but woke up few seconds after.
"dear brethren, this is the second part of my teaching titled 'the end of days'".
I must have missed the series those days when I travelled, now here is the sequel. I MUST listen, whether like it or not, his speaker was directly facing my window, the words diffusing through the firmly shut windows and the brick walls. The word of God is powerful!!!

"I'm pleased to tell you that immediately after my first preaching about the end time, my car had a terrible accident. I can't explain how it happened but all glory to God" he narrated.

After a long reeling out and reading out of Bible passages, during which I had dosed off again, I drifted from my dream world into the virtual church, yet again. And this time I wasn't going back to sleep.

"Yes, verily verily I tell you, the Catholic Church is not the first church. Most of you don't read, you don't study and you'll say hen ehn Catholic Church is the pioneer church No!" he blurted with perceivable anger and disdain.

He continued to preach about how the Catholic worship Mary instead of Jesus and how they are all hell-bound because they are worshipping other gods.
"At Cannan Jesus said to Mary, woman! what have I to do with you? You see, He did not even say mother, he called her woman! Now this is the person they are worshipping. It is idolatry!" he shouted .

At that point, I wished I was in the room with some of my Catholic friends. I don't want them to go to hell if this was true. That a billion Catholics who I think worship in truth and spirit will go to hell? ah!!!! O God have mercy.

After close to two hours, the preacher was rounding up his 'teaching' and he said;
"I don't collect money anywhere i go to preach but people call me to say, 'evangelist take this for your ministry. A woman called me the other day and gave me an envelope of 38, 000 (thaaaasand, pronounce it like an Igbo man for effect). Another man 60, 000. A man has given me more than 6 million naira since i preached on his street. So take my phone number and call me, 080 tripple three 8 4... for counselling and let's talk, let's reason".

He offered his books for free to those that are interested and with that he went silent.

.................

I grudgingly rolled out of bed and punched in my early morning experience into a short poem for my Facebook wall. Then on my timeline I saw a Premium Times post about Pastor Okotie saying Catholics will go to Hell, "Again"! I shouted to myself.













.................

I dressed up for work and on getting to the junction I realised there was not the usual noise of songs, prayers and service that had become a norm for the 'junction church' that's what I called them. I turned to see what was happening and saw the sign "SEALED" I looked closer to confirm it was not by the spirit and realised it was by the Lagos state environmental protection agency. The church has been sealed for noise pollution.

Brethren Fashola is going to Hell and who and who again? I'm thinking of publishing a compendium "Prospective Candidates of Hell, 2013" I need a publisher.

The Earth, the World, and Life

Have you ever wondered where some troubled and indebted developed countries get money to aid developing or underdeveloped + 'refusing-to-develop-countries like Nigeria? I have this gut feeling that Greece will want to contribute something to the war in Mali or Nigeria election in 2015 despite being in the throes of total economic collapse. Where do hungry people get food to feed those that owns all the food? Africa is one continent with so much resources at its disposal that you'll expect the world to come begging at its gate, plate in hand. Rather we are the giant that stays outside his own gate to beg for his own belonging.

On Monday, the Economic of West African States (ECOWAS) decried the global trade imbalance against Africa as the continent’s share of the global trade stood at a paltry 3 per cent. Three percent (3%)!!! Don't we export crude oil, cocoa, timber, tea, cassava and all? We feed the world for Christ sake! Or does it imply that we feed the world for just 3% of all its earning?

While trying to figure out why Africa is so backward in trade, a conception comes to my mind. It is the concept of space and its content. The earth, the world and life. The earth as David described it, is the Lord's and the fullness thereof. As such, every drop of crude, every seed of cocoa, every plot of land, every tuber of yam is of the Lord. The World on the other hand is the economy of the earth, the monetization of the fullness that the earth holds. The clamour for the power to control the fullness of the earth give rise to politics and governance. The world is callous, the world is canal, the world is of the 'devil'. We are in the world but not of the world! The third conception is of life. Life is that singular possession of breath that a man possess. It is man's greatest asset that must be protected at all cost. A recourse to the Bible still tells us that he who loves his life will loose it and he who looses it will find it.

I hope someone is seeing the interrelationship among these three concepts and the position of Africa in the world trade. Africa is blessed with the fullness of the earth but we are not of the world so we don't care what the 'sons-of-the-world' like USA, Germany, and Russia do with the affairs of the world, all what we want is a morsel or two to our keep our life, body and soul together. At most, a fleet of bullet proof BMW cars or some funds stashed in a Swiss account for no other purpose than, eat, wine, dine and keep staying alive as long as we live.

The evil of life, when viewed from individual point of view is selfishness and desperation. As individuals realise the need to survive, albeit selfishly, we join the world, not for a balanced trade, rather for a barter. Less than 50, 000 teachers are on 6-months strike for a rise in pay, keeping millions of students at home. Less than 500 legislatures will share the fortunes of millions. Those that feel alienated would take to the guns and arm-twist the government. Some would turn to each other in terrorism, just to make sure that the world is wrestled from the 'devil'. In all of these, the sons-of-the-world are wise in their ways. Since we are less concern about the world, we don't know how much oil we produce, we expect an international organisation to tell us there is corruption in our oil industry. We call on foreign investors to develop everything from power, governance to water and to lauder our ill-gotten wealth. They trade our oils for guns and our cocoa for grants and aids. We get loan to make them do for us what we can do for ourselves. The new ruse is that we are not close to the debt ceiling, when indeed we are far far above. But how does the world trade balance if Africa gets more than the paltry 3%.

The fault, if any, is not totally ours. We never had the Bible and knew little of the Quoran when the great Oyo empire flourished in trade or the trans-Saharan trade in gold, salt and other precious commodities championed by Mali, Ghana and other kingdoms that realised the need to take charge of the fullness the earth possess. Now we have 'known God' and things of the world seems not to fascinate us any more, or so it appears. Our singular concern is of our life here on earth and possibly the realm beyond; so we go spiritual. God MUST provide the food we refuse to farm, He must give us light even with no transformer, He MUST employ our half-baked or burnt graduates, He MUST prevent flood while we block the drainages, He MUST make us rich though we make trillions from oil. Shebi He is God that made the heaven and earth? Then he must do everything for us. The only responsibility we owe as Africans is to go to church, mosques, Mecca, Jerusalem and hope that the devil takes a good care of the world to favour us, or better still, our lives.

Bleeding (1)

John's profile picture on the dating-focused social networking service site was modest, he had about six different, carefully-selected shots, uploaded on his profile. Any lady that gave it a second look would find it attractive- if there was any of such. There was, Flora is!

“Hey, can we be friends, prince charming! Lol”

That was the first flattering message he got from the site. For more than 6 months that he had joined the dating platform he had been the one initiating conversation, most of which were never replied. Any notification he got from a lady were usually system-generated messages.

Receiving the teaser from a lady got his blood rushing and he quickly replied.

“Hey beauty queen, I'm all yours. Beep me”

He sent her his number and she replied with hers almost immediately. John spent the night frantically punching his phone and chatting till the wee hours of the morning. He was spent by the time he got to work but active enough to send in a piece that got him a thumbs up from his editor. Could this be what he had been waiting for?

Flora, as he got to know was a Youth Corps member serving in Enugu state. A graduate of Economics from University of Ilorin.

“Who's your favourite economic theorist?” John enquired on their first night on watsapp.

“I'll root for the Malthusian theorist... Thomas Robert Malthus” she replied.

“hmmm...that's fascinating. Why Malthus?” John asked as he rummaged through his brain for the little he knows of the Malthusian theory.

“The applicability and justification of his theory by economic events unfolding in Nigeria and other third world countries is a personal pleasure to me. Revolutionary theories are indeed resilient. They rarely die” she mused.

John was becoming increasingly fascinated with her depth of insight, even if he couldn't question its logic right-away.

“Have you any knowledge of Thomas Khun's theory of the structure of scientific revolution” he inquired.

“Yes I do. I've been intrigued by the dynamism in economic theories and I stumbled on Khun's thought on 'paradigm shift' that theories merely evolve from each other. No theory is a false, as the proponents of falsification principle will want to have us belief”

John was perplexed, he is vast and well read too, but you can't know it all. “This chic surely knows her onions” he thought to himself. This is the first time in a long while that she's having a long conversation that does not bother on romance and relationship with a lady. He must brush up his knowledge of history of scientific theories.

The chat went on for several hours everyday and in a month they were ready to meet, but Enugu was too far for him he wished she could come to Lagos. She seemed too paranoid about going to meet a guy.

“It will make more sense with you coming around than otherwise. If anything goes wrong it'll be fair to blame you at my place than people blaming me for coming over. John remember I don't know you yet”

'What are you expecting to go wrong? That I'll rape you or use you for rituals? And it's funny tou still don't know me by now?”

“Not so, but you know it's different. You can't even be sure you'll like me when you see me. I'm not tall o. You better see me first before you think of a toast or proposal. Don't break your own heart” she quipped.

They giggled and laughed on skype. The company of the two has been fun. Flora was beginning to love him, so do John but he knew the relationship wont work her way, it would work his way for a while, he had skeleton in his cupboard. She would bleed, he would bleed her, but it wont pain.

....................................................................

God, death and the bullet proof cars

I sometimes wonder if God is interested in what we do as men. Some atheists believe He created the earth but has since left it to the initiative of men to run. Christians, like most other religious groups, believe He created the earth, form every soul in it and is interested in everything we do. Little wonder the psalmist said “the Lord looks from heaven; He beholds all the sons of men” Psalm 33:13. Every activities of man does become a subject of interest to Him, remember He made all things and for His pleasure they are and were created (Rev 4:11). So I asked, how amused was God when a team of our finest economists went to the World Bank to secure a $1.2million loan for power and infrastructure, and before they came back, we realised that the minister of aviation dipped her hands into the coffer of same government and got herself two armoured cars for $1.6 million.

As Thomas Hobbs rightly noted in his classic, Leviathan, every man has right to everything, and there is nothing he can make use of, that may not be a help unto him, in preserving his life against his enemies. Stella Oduah thus have the fundamental human right to live, but so do every of  the 167 million Nigerians, or at least, every man living in the fear of being killed by stray bullet in Borno, Yobe and other war-torn areas of the country. To whom do the ordinary man turn?

That Nigerians turn to God at every point and for everything is no more news, we believe in Him and His existence, therefore He must do everything for us. God must win us football matches, make us pass exams, get our wives pregnant, make our roads good (even though the contract for such has been fully paid for), make our water run and give us light in an area with faulty or no transformer and ultimately win us election (or give us the ability to out-rig our opponents). And as the minister of Aviation herself rightly noted, those that crashed in a plane, under her watchful eyes, were victims of “an act of God”. Acquiring two armoured cars at a time, is Stella scared of the “act of God” or doubt His ability to keep safe or she has gone atheistic?

Psalm 33:18-19 Behold, the eye of the Lord is upon them that fear Him, upon them that hope in His mercy, to deliver their soul from death, and to keep them alive.

When Saul became the king of Israel, he built an army of great strength but a very thin patience and reference for the saving hand of God. His military capabilities were tested by the presence of a single giant, and his army trembled. David came to the rescue, rejecting the heavy armour and the shining edges of the sword. Pondering on his victory in that particular war and several others, David said “There is no king saved by the multitude of a host; a mighty man is not delivered by his great strength” Psalm 33:16. I cannot tell if the ousting and eventual murder of Saddam Hussein and Gadaffi were acts of God but I know for a fact that they had more than enough armoured cars and foot soldiers to have prevented their fate.

Leaders who claim to know and serve God should not be sceptical of His ability to save them from death, if that is what the purchase of the armoured cars is truly for. For, if the way of a man pleases the Lord, He will make him to live in peace even with his enemies. The welfare of the millions who elected you into office is a cry in the ears of the Lord and no bullet proof car can save a man when visited by the anger of the Lord spur by the cry of the people.

The hand of the Lord is never too short to save, I pray Stella and other politicians come to this realisation as they journey the holy land without a bullet proof car around the Palestinian borders?

One fateful Rag Day

Coming from Oshodi this morning I noticed some young ladies dressed in awkward and funny rag-like attires with painted faces and I knew immediately that they were students on rag-day. The line-yard on which they suspended their ID card confirmed my guess. They remind me of a particular day in the college which I have refused to forget. Asides the little decorum in the students’ dressing and the glee in the ladies make-up there was nothing different from several other rag-days I’ve seen students engage in. The only thing that time has washed away from the fun is the jingle. We use to pack coins in the branded cans that we juggle as we moved about seeking cheerful givers to the students’ cause.

The incidence I want to recount happened about 15 years ago. I was a first year student in the college of education and I had promised never to deny myself any of the fun that higher institution presented, except for cultism. So I had a girlfriend, I joined students discuss, I contested and won students association offices, I joined the press, I visited the library, skipped lectures,  sang, danced, joined the Red Cross, attended social and religious gatherings and all others that caught my fancy; and of course, I went for the rag-day.

I was living in the same hostel with an area sister and other friends, mostly from Ibadan. So, when the guys suggested that we go to Ibadan for the rag-day I was all in for the fun and the prospect of higher earning from the ‘Aro’ endeavour. We left for Ibadan dressed in rags, or what we’ve made our clothes to become. We turned our shirts inside out, painted our faces in talc and with powdered coal. I was dressed in a white shirt with the left arm ripped off and the other sleeve folded up my arm. I wore a sandal on my right foot and a tattered shoe on the left, it’s a pity I never had a snapshot in those bizarre dressing. We all packed at least a t-shirt for change at the end of the day. All the spare shirts were cramped in a small ‘shuttle’ bag which one of us strapped to his back as part of the ‘crazy’ dressing.

Once we alighted at Ojoo, we headed for Orita Merin, a busy part of the capital city with about three or four adjoining markets. We were all trooping together, until at a point somebody suggested that we split up and converge at the ‘Itamerin’ after about an hour. The market was so large and complex that I found it hard making a mental note of the shops and shed which all look alike. I navigated several paths and visited several market women some of whom dropped old coins into the hungry throat of my can piggy-bank. I was not sure whether I overstayed the one hour mark we set, or I missed the junction where we were meant to converge. Or better still, the other guys forgot that I was unfamiliar with Ibadan.  In a nutshell, I waited for about three more hours around the big market roaming at first and later asking if the people sighted other students dressed like I was. Before long, I was beginning to cast the figure of a nuisance, so I decided to move on. But, to where? I had no spare shirt.

I remembered that one of my hostel mate said he stayed in Apata area of Ibadan. During one of the usual discussion in the hostel, he said is house was bordered by a new shopping complex with a shoe maker shed at the junction. I pried open my can and picked the few Naira notes in it, I headed for Apata. To my utter dismay Apata was not a small locality, there were several junctions and many shopping complexes. I was confused, and at that point I became very tired. Just then, I remembered that my friend and secondary school classmate, Gbenga Olatunde was studying at the college of Agric around Apata, I headed for his school. Remember, there was no GSM then. After several inquiries I located my friend and he was happy but surprised to see me. He mocked me a while and offered me food. I layed on his bed to relax a little before I decide on what next to do. 

I woke up 6 a.m the following morning.I was so weak, but the fact that I've slept through the night baffled me, I was asleep for about 12 hours. The rag-day was over but I was still dressed in my rags. I headed for the car pack with the hope of catching an early bus back to Oyo but there was none around. As such, I must get to Ojoo or Iwo road before I could get a bus to Oyo. After begging about a hundred drivers I got a free ride to Sango. The ride was one of the most humiliating in my life. I sat on the engine compartment and all the passengers saw me as a dirty beggar, or so I think. They made condescending remarks and hissed all through the short journey.

I had 19 pieces of N1 coins in my can but the fare to Oyo from Sango was N20, then. After much persuasion I reached an arrangement with the driver to give him the N1 balance when we got to Oyo, which I did, for my house was just by the road side.

Most of my hostel-mates came back to school the following day, but I fell sick immediately I alighted from the bus. I couldn't stand up for two days. It appeared that all of us went our separate ways and got back to school separately. My area sister who did not follow us on the 'pilgrimage' asked of me and the guys could not give a cogent answer. They assumed I was with one of them but the bubble burst when the last man returned and I was not in his company. They got scared!

On the third day, I got up and out. As I sat watching the traffic I noticed some people peeping from behind a building across the road and the faces and movement appeared familiar. It was my friends trying to spy maybe I was home or thinking of how to tell my mum I was missing. They could not sight me from their position but I was seeing them. After a while, they sent my girlfriend to stroll by.

"E kasan ma" she greeted my mum who had sensed her discomfort from afar.

"Ah! Sisi mi bawo ni? How are you?" my mum greeted her.

She hesitated for a while, grinning like a kid trying to laugh it's way through an act (we use to call her laughing gas, back in the secondary school). My mum did not helped her plight as she kept quiet looking at her with an intense so-what-can-I-do-for-you gaze. I was almost bursting with laughter as I watched her from behind the window blind. 

"I just said I should say hello to you, I was just passing by" Nike said after a while.

"Oh! That's good. So who are your friends you were peeping with from across" she asked. Nike was taken aback, she did not expect such question.

"No o, I was just.."

'Just what?' my mum interrupted her.

"Yinka is inside o. I know that's why you are here. And greet Odun for me o, So pe won ku itoju wa o"

At that point I stepped out and I could feel a greet wave of relief flush through the poor girl. She gave me a scolding look and dragged me away. I returned to school the following week to opprobrium from my hostel mates and neighbours.

It was one event in my life I don't think I'll forget in haste, at least not when those bizarre-dressed boys and girls run around town on rag-day.

“Bongo Bironic”

I was already in the secondary school before I realised that the word “Radionic” does not exist in the English Language. My uncle, “broda Jimoh” was our 'radionic' for a long time before repairing TV and radios went out of fashion and okada riding became enticing. So, in those days, all professions should end in -onic, -cian, and -ing. Forming a noun out of a profession or endeavour simply required the addition of those suffixes, therefore the etymology of the word 'radionic'. Several things trended while I was in the secondary school, especially in fashion and style. The one that formed the crux of this piece was the 'tag thing'. Students would pull designer labels off old clothes and sew it to their skirts, shorts or shirts. It was a sort of fashion statement. But to some, it was a form of cover up for torn uniforms.

My school was one of the prominent few in the country, it's the foresight of God's own people – Olivet Baptist High School, Oyo. The students were superb, elegant, intelligent, prolific and highly ingenious. We usually have binomial nomenclature in my school, exceptions only in the case of alias. So we had names like Adekunle Ajasin, Ogunweyinwo Ademola, Ojo Aderonke, Adewale Adeyemi. One of such prolific students with an alias was 'lexy' (not real name). He came to school one Monday morning with a label gaily starched to his short. The label almost went unnoticed until when during the assembly a boy called the attention of others to the inscription on it “BONGO”! Everybody burst into a muffled laughter at the sight, after the assembly the name spread and stuck, even when he changed the short.

Lexy's ingenuity was of a kind, he could repair any form and brand of pen (biro). He would change a bic biro tube with an Eleganza's and switch balls from Tuns to Bic. He could tenderly repair a faulty ball and refill a dried-up biro. These he would do neatly and efficiently, with him no biro was a waste. He was a biro consultant. So what do you call someone that repairs a biro? “Bironic” of course!

His ability to repair biros pre-dated his bongo fashion sense, so when he stuck the label, the binomial nomenclature was activated and he became “Bongo Bironic”. Oh what a name!

Like a change of name, pulling off your nickname in the secondary school was not an easy task, it was like peeling off your skin. Your best bet is to pray for a better event that will engendered a new and better alias, if not don't try to fight it. Some nicknames would not last a term while others may last an eternity. Don't be surprised if a long lost friend holla your nickname in the mall several decades after leaving school.

Bongo did the silly thing, he tried to fight the name. Those who could not withstand him in physical strength whispered the name in his absence while those he could not dare for a fight tormented him with the nomenclature. At a point it was agreed that everyone should respect him and stopped the name calling but inadvertently the name kept coming up.

“Please have you seen lexy”

“Which lexy”?

“Bongo Bironic”

I'm not sure anyone remembers the nickname nor the bearer, but it keeps coming every time I see a Lipton tea tag.

A century of Nigerian women's support

Yinka Ojo

Nike Oshinowo is leading the search for a queen who would promote the history, diverse beauty, customs, unity and celebrate the rich cultural heritage Nigeria possesses.

The role of a woman in the society can never be overemphasised. In Nigeria, the heroics of Queen Fatima, who built the great wall of Zaria; Moremi Ajansoro and the liberation of the people of Ile Ife; the Abiola wives and their contribution to the democracy we now enjoy, serve as apt examples of the role women play, and can play, as a uniting factor in any society.

There is simply no culture in the world, present or past, where the role of a woman can be undervalued. It may appear like they are under represented in some or second-rated in others but like the backbone that is hardly praised for the beauty of the body, flourishing societies owe their success to the universal gift that is a woman.

Great warlords may erect statues in remembrance of themselves or name territories after their exploits but the place of a woman is in the things of the heart; the best of songs and most beautiful of arts. Their beauty has spurred nations to war and men to battle. In the 100 years of Nigeria's existence; a woman named it, and in just 15 years of its existence, her women staged the riot that stamped their position as a force to reckon with. Women sustain the family, train and support the leaders that have stared the ship of the nation at every point. HID Awolowo still remains the symbol of a political dynasty that shaped leadership in Africa as a whole.

As the nation marks her centenary, the search for a queen to serve as a symbol of everything a woman stands for has become a task close in prominence to the call for independence, the task of evolving a flag or an anthem. It is the search for an enduring queen to symbolise Nigerian womanhood. Let us all support the making of another dream to see us through the next century as we search for a queen that will rule for the next 100 years.

No trophy for suffering

Ade bent to press the spot just below his ankle for the umpteenth time and the resulting pain surged through him as usual. He is trying to grow stoic with each torturous step. He balanced his frame tenderly on the strong right foot and support it with a precarious stand on the painful right foot, he limped on.

“Don't you think you should consult a doctor on this leg, I think it's taking too long to heal and it seems to get bad sef” Jade, her sister, watched as Ade limped and groaned at intervals.

He popped two caplets of Ibuprofen and gulped it with a cup of water for the third time in the day and it was just midday.

Ahem! Clears throat. “It'll go. It will heal, I just need to endure a little more” he said.

“A little more till it's ripe for amputation abi?” his mother cut in.

“Ah ! God forbid o, what kind of wish is that?” He said frowning as he hanged the left leg resting on the right and leaning on the door frame. He was becoming increasingly pained and irritated with the sore which has refused to heal and spreading towards his knee.

“Iwo lo mon. I won't watch while you kill yourself in silence. I've told Daddy Ogunronbi about it and he promised to check on you after work today. If you like do like limpopo away and be absent when he comes around. Thank God you know everyone in my family, we don't have a 'gurugu' and you can see me too (she stretches her limbs to display health and fitness).

Ade has been enduring the pain for a year now but he has kept it to himself. It started as a little bump just below his ankle with a strange tingling sensation spreading to his knee and he could feel it up his to hips. Now the tenderness has spread all through his left leg. His family had thought it was an injury sustained from his pursuit of stardom through football. The extent of the pain became known about a week ago when he couldn't hide it any longer, the grotesque figure he cut while walking or standing gave him up.

Despite the nagging pain Ade has refused to visit any hospital, today will be different, he really wished to know what it was that was devouring his leg.

…................................

After careful examination, Ogunronbi, a senior nurse, removed his glove and looked straight into Ade's eyes with a hint of hopelessness.

“Ade, (he sighs) why have you kept mute over something as serious as this”?

Ade gave him the can-it-be-worse look.

“Okay, it has spread wide and you'll need to see a doctor. I hope it's not as bad as I think, but I can tell you this is very bad”

….................................

Only God knew what the old nurse told Ade's mum, but she was gloomy for the rest of the night looking at him like a living-dead. He would get to know as the doctor finished analysing the test results.

“You said you are 22 years old?” the doctor asked.

“Yes sir, by next week I'll be” Ade answered as calm as he could but anyone listening could tell anxiety in his voice.

“You are a very strong man...(taps his pen on the big x-ray result envelope) to have withstand such pain this long”

Ade looked down on himself with a little sense of justification and piety.

“But, it's a pity there is no compensation for suffering in silence. You'll have to celebrate your birthday without your left leg” the doctor paused a little for effect and continued speaking before Ade could say a word.

“We must ampuatate the leg immediately. So call me your mum”

Ade looked at his leg and muffled the scream roaring through his lungs as he limped out of the doctor's office.

“Oko mi, what did he say” the mum rushed to meet him.

“Ah! Maami aye mi ti baje o, they said they'll cut my leg” as he lounged to hold her he hit his leg against a gurney.

He fainted!