Fault Lines: Our Generation Should Look Beyond – By Valentine O. Ogunaka @naijamatta

Fault Lines: Our Generation Should Look Beyond – By Valentine O. Ogunaka @naijamatta This write-up was originally published on www.omojuwa.com. SHARE YOUR VIEWS IN THE COMMENTS BOX #Nigeriaunite “Oya were ni”, a Yoruba man had rasped at his daughter, realizing she was dating an ‘Omo Igbo’. Also I have witnessed an Igbo mother mercilessly beat her teenage son because he had invited his ‘ofe manu’ friend to their home. Unconscionable, aren’t they? Yet these scenarios of ethnic fringes play into our daily lives such that it is perceived as ‘haram’ for Chukwudi to marry Fatima. This piece was actually inspired by the heedless controversies trailing Chinua Achebe’s “There was a Country”. Enough have been written though; this is my first foray into the matter. I muted all the while because I didn’t deem it fit to fault the personal account of someone who was, indeed, part and parcel of the Biafran war. Besides, I believe memories are very subjective owing to how Chimamanda Adichie had put it: “We remember differently…” Reacting to Achebe’s new book, commentaries have been starkly tendered with bigotry; the ethnic disease of biasness, invectives and intellectual barbarism. You read through them and discover that tribalism has become not only a scourge but an acute embarrassment to our collective struggle for change. I wonder why the authors whom I expect to be dispassionate in their writings—considering their prolific standing and measureless experiences in national business—have further deepened the fault lines. Of course, the war of words between the Awoists and Acheberians will lead us nowhere. It only replicates the aftermath of the first electoral dispute in Nigeria in February 1941, which is the tribalization of media. I had learnt that Zik’s West African Pilot and the Egbe Omo Oduduwa’s Daily Services fiercely attacked each other. According to Coleman, “at local height of the tension…” the Igbos warned that “all personal attacks on Azikwe would be considered attacks upon the Igbo nation.” This was amidst ongoing press wars. Just as in the case stated, most commentators, perceivably Yoruba, have lambasted Achebe not essentially on the ground that he inopportunely stirred up the hornets’ nest, but because the octogenarian has in his diatribe memoir, called Awolowo a ‘villain.’ It becomes very unfortunate that our generation is being brainwashed into the unfounded realm of ethnic intolerance. Someone had said the Igbo are greedy and undeserving. Another had bickered that Yoruba is an existential threat to Igbo political interest, referencing the famous 1952 ‘carpet crossing’ incident in the Western House of Assembly. And I couldn’t help but laugh it off when a friend beckoned and whispered to me: “Why are Hausas and Igbos like cats and dogs?” I did my high school in the north and I think I was the only ‘Igbo boy’ in the class. Did I ever complain of being ostracized? No. My classmates who were mostly Hausas and Fulanis deemed me as they should—just another Nigerian! And till this moment; amid all the crises, bombings and perceived religious provocations, we get in touch. Isn’t that fair? That is because we understand, because we look beyond the fault lines. Beyond the 1964 hullabaloo, the coup and countercoup of 1966, the pogroms that followed and the Biafran civil war lies a greater future. It is true that we cannot disregard history especially as vital lessons can be drawn from it. In this vein, history for all its quintessence is a direct challenge to futuristic affairs. But it becomes a problem when we deride its lessons and transfer penalties. Of all the legacies handed by our foremost nationalists, I wonder why we choose ethnocracy ahead of patriotism. It makes me think we are sick. In context, tribal hatred which has snowballed from the past and entrenched in our generation will disinherit us from the good things of life, like peace. I strongly hold that it will continue to be a ferocious challenge to the idea of unity in diversity. Now do not expect me to ride through the rigmarole of reviewing “There was a Country”. I might vacillate and end up taking sides, involuntarily. But we must understand that the book is a memoir and memoirs do not essentially match up with history books. I can prove they are sometimes oscillated between the line of facts and fiction. However, to look beyond the fault lines, let our generation embrace logic and destroy the rabid intolerance in tribal character. Chinua Achebe has lived his own life and has told his story. That was his generation. Without doubt he has ruptured old wounds; we have every right not to lick or stitch them. Let the healthy atmosphere we create with our sense of oneness dry them up. I look forward to how we can reintegrate, find a selfless leader and lift this very nation, Nigeria, beyond the fault lines! Valentine Ogunaka writes from Abuja. He is the author of The Undergraduate, The Perfect Pawnbroker and National Heroes. Follow him on twitter: @naijamattta

A man who does not read

A man who does not read
Is not just an empty head
When he is called upon to lead
He is just as good as dead

A man who cannot read
Is just that car without wheels!
Hardly ever, will he succeed
Cos’ he can’t move an inch

To the mind, Reading is
What watering is to the plant…
If a man must grow to ‘bliss’
It is with what he has learnt

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A Tang of Misfortune

Read an excerpt from my recently completed book: THE UNDERGRADUATE It's fiction. It's adventure. It's for you. Drop your comments and be honest please. I'd hope you enjoyed the story!

A Tang of Misfortune

QUARTER PAST FOUR in the evening and Mirabel Adams still waited, and waited in vain. Marvin Chuks, her boyfriend would not just appear. For weeks now, he didn’t call—and wasn’t bothered at all. He has become a lying mirror; he was hiding in the shadow of his excuses and would readily reject her calls, each time she dialed him. This overwhelmed the girl as she hovered in a downbeat feeling. Barely two days ago, Marvin had sent a message to her and it confirmed her suspicion:

Mimi, I’d understand if you stay on your own. Stop calling me. Stop seeing me. Please! I’d love to be alone.

At first she couldn’t accept those words, and the very notion behind the voice. It was a terrible, powerful twinge; one she felt like a deep knife thrust in her delicate skin. She rapidly started to have a misgiving that she had somehow, someway, wronged him. She, however, couldn’t trace any fossil connecting to his outlandishness.

Mirabel sat still, of course like a statue as an hour passed in the wheel of desperation before her keen eyes. There were no signs of Marvin’s footprints. She looked around her and saw other girls relishing with their guys. The smiles on their faces prickled her. So she lost composure but managed to keep tears from rolling after she remembered that she was in a place filled with prying eyes—they called it the ‘gossip centre’ or ‘love garden’. Many stories from here made headlines in the campus tabloid.

As she waited, her patience narrowed. Mirabel then realized it was hopeless to wait further. He will not come—she thoughtfully inferred and glanced at her wristwatch. It was getting late. She then picked her handbag and left the place with a touch of anguish. Her heart was wandering in sick thoughts. Her room now was the next place in her mind. She really needed rest.

On her way to her room, Mirabel suddenly stopped, poised and in outrage shock, as tons of adrenalin rushed through her spine. She sighted Marvin at a distance, flanked by two girls with his arms around them. They were staggering and rollicking in laughter. Quickly she averted her eyes and went in another direction. She could perceive the strong smell of bile discharge within her. Her eyes glinted in vicious demand for explanation as the feeling to meet and harass him lingered. “What!” She screamed to herself, perhaps as a wolf howling from the middle of a thick forest. The pills were so hard that with the bitterness in her heart, jealousy now crept. Marvin was daring her—she thought again.

No sooner did she arrive in the hostel room, than her phone began to ring. Mirabel’s heart fluttered. Reluctantly she dipped her hand into the bag she was carrying and shuffled. She produced her phone and touched the screen. In response, a message popped and displayed:

First semester results are out. Come to the faculty and check.

She read this with restiveness. Her course mates had been notified too. At once, she darted to her faculty to verify the information. When she got there, she found many students gathered in front of a wide notice board. There was a great noise and eager pushing. Not minding she waded in. She clutched tightly her bag against her side and snaked her way to the front. Her breath was heavy. Mirabel traced her registration number and memorized her grades. Thrusting back into the crowd, she came out sweating like a marathon runner. Just then she wiped her face with a white handkerchief and feigned a brief smile. Lowering her head in dismay, the girl quietly walked out of the scene.

Mirabel took very quick steps along a long corridor that linked offices; she avoided colliding with the people she passed and brushed aside their greetings. She was panting seriously. Down a spiral staircase, she found the exit of the faculty building and continued in haste. A few distance away from the building someone called her name. It was from behind her. The voice was subtle though compelling. She almost turned but increased her steps and marched on straight like a robot. She was not in the mood to speak to anyone. She paced and paced faster. The footsteps behind her persisted and trailed her by inches. She could now sense a shadow from the corner of her eyes. Just then a warm pat fell on her right shoulder.

“Hello”, a handsome guy warmly greeted in Kiswahili, the main language in Kenya. Jambo was the word he uttered. He stretched out his hand for a handshake.

Mirabel abruptly turned around. She looked startled. She saw the dark smiling guy and his well-aligned large sparkling teeth. Then she smiled back, because she knew him. He had proposed to her some days ago and told her his name is Nicholas; Nick for short.

“Hi”, she responded, quite disturbed by the towering height of the slim guy. They shook hands and Nick tried to broach as he rubbed his palms together, “I have come to—”

“I know”, Mirabel interjected. “I haven’t made up my mind. We shall talk later—”

“But…wait…but”, he stammered, an inclination she had noticed before whilst he was expressing his affection for her. She wondered if he had any impediment in speech.

“We can meet some other time”, Mirabel impatiently ended and walked on. The guy followed her pleading, “Mimi, please fulfill my desires. Show me the colour of your heart. Reassure me. My feelings are decent. Nakupenda sana!” He raised his eyebrows.

She turned and crossly faced him. She didn’t like it that Nick chipped in words she didn’t understand to express himself. But Nakupenda Sana equaled I love you so much. He was Kenyan and the ilk that barely spoke English without adding a smattering of Swahili or the local ‘sheng’. The girl could not understand as it irked her.

“Let me be!” She shouted on him. “You can’t have me. Don’t you understand?”

Nick recoiled noticing the flash of anger and frustration in her eyes. Something must be wrong—he thought. The first time he met her, she was the cheering, sweet girl he has ever experienced. It shocked him more when Mirabel narrowed her eyes and glared, “Don’t you ever, ever, and ever—”, she stressed, pointing a warning finger at him, “accost me like that again.” An obnoxious hiss and she walked out on him.

The guy refrained and whiffed out a helpless sigh. He then shrugged and muttered to himself: “It takes a brave heart to save a weak one. I shall not love in vain.”

This is just a small part of the novel...Just say something. Thanks for reading! God bless you

Who will marry my mother? part 1

Hello, it's been a long time...i was...um...recuperating.
I have a tonic for you today--an excerpt from my 'diary of words'...

short-story @Naijamatta

“How can I not take?” I murmur to my friend, my brother who cannot stop gawking at me. There is a great disbelief in his eyes. I just reveal to him that I have bargained with Chief Ogobe, the reigning politician of our miserable little village. Twenty kegs of palm wine plus a farmland is hard to refuse. I cannot stop reveling. I shall become rich after the elections. Chief Ogobe will become a senator.

We are poor in my village; we have only one school. Our chiefs are rich; their children school in big cities. The prayer of every ‘pikin’ in my miserable village is to stop chewing palm kernel. But everyone has a dream—to become a ‘politician’, someday. Mine is about to manifest. I trust Chief Ogobe!

“How can you take?” my friend challenges me in a rather fierce disposition. “If you take, who will marry my mother, our mother?”

His words push me. Often we refer to our village as our mother and a politician as her lover. There’s nothing sweet on earth they have not promised her. One certain time, a young lover pledged to give her a new life and sadly, as expected almost choked her to death while she was asleep. But our mother, like the human soul never dies!

Among my brothers in the village, I am the most learned. I have a class six certificate that looks authentic. I hid it in a cave so the rebels will not find it. They will wipe their bowels should they set eyes. But it is because of my certificate that Chief Ogobe has approached me. He wants me to convince my brothers to support him in the forthcoming elections. This is a lethal supplication. It can ignite the salvo of the rebels. Do I need worry? For the rebels are also my brothers, just that they now live at the back of our house. They will not vote even if I tell them. It is the maltreating of our mother that disgruntles them. They want her to stop dallying. They want her to marry.

What Chief Ogobe promises me will be my most valued possessions and I will not reject it. “Go and invite the others. Tell them there’s a party in my mansion and I shall reward you.” Isn’t that cool?

“It is not!” My friend retorts to my chagrin. He stammers heavily: “You are taking ‘beeyaib’ from chief”. He means ‘bribe’, a word in English that rhymes with ‘corruption’ in politics. In my village parlance, ‘soured breast milk’ is the name. It is the same carrot that enriched Chief Ogobe who was once an anointed rebel.

*some more*...soon
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