PUFF PUFF

I didn't even realise the  presence of the wall Gecko until I tilted my head. Its body, a light ash, perfectly complemented the colour of the wall - ash. I thought it looked at me and wondered why I stay indoor these days. Why I disrupt its serenity. Why I try to starve it with my recent constant use of insecticide.

My slight movement had made it move further towards the ceiling and disappeared through a hole that was a passage for the wire that connected the bulb above and the switch on the wall.

 "Old building. The useless Landlord didn't even use a conduit" I thought

I stood up and walked towards the curtains, I slid it open and looked through the window. From my flat which was on the second floor, I could see the blazing reflection of the sun splutter on the numerous zinc roof of other buildings.


"Shanty town" I thought.

Suddenly I could hear the sound of metal clapping against glass from a distance, a familiar sound. The sound was faint, then it became more audible. A masculine image had emerged, becoming more visible. I noticed a young man with a well folded cloth to help the load, a square box, on his head.


The man had stopped, he put down his square box made of transparent glass and wood. His face looked very dark, the kind of darkness that may have been avoided if he stayed away from the sun more often. His forehead looked distorted with horizontal flabs of folded skin induced from years of carry his square box.


He had just sold puff-puff to a little boy, maybe five balls of puff-puff or more, I wasn't sure. With his iron fork on his right hand, a black nylon on the left, he seemed to know the exact puff-puff for specific customers: old stale dark looking puff puff for the primary school pupils and fresh, yellow brown puff puff for the more matured.

He put them into a black nylon and handed it to the boy, the boy gave him money. I wasn't certain how much but I was sure the small boy walked away without collecting any change.

The man didn't lift his ware immediately - as he often does after any sale - rather, he stood relaxed. I noticed he asked Iya Lucky, the madam who has a shop opposite my building, if she had something.

I could understand her gesticulation, her face assuring him what she had was good. His hand forming tightened fists as he repeated his question.

I was certain he asked again

"madam you sure say e cold?"

Her smile, her certainty. She also formed tight fist swung up and down in reassurance.
She stood up and went into her shop. He watched her as she went in. I'm sure he also watched her gait, her shape, her buttocks. I was certain he felt it was awkward to watch an old woman's buttocks.

"Old woman nyash" I was sure he thought.

He looked anyway.
Nobody believes looking at an old woman's  'nyash' has any sexual undertone, it could simply be likened to a man looking at another man walk down the street. It could mean anything but never a sexual meaning.

He look away as the woman disappeared from his view and mine.

As the fierce rays of sun continued to scorch his dark skin, he stood unperturbed. I noticed him count wads of notes, well arranged according to their denomination: N1000, N500, N200....N5. He pulled out N20 and tucked the money he got from the little boy somewhere inside.
As he collected the 'pure water' from the woman, I noticed his countenance was displeased.

"Oga no light for one week" I was sure she said.

He shook his head in disappointment and tore from the edge of  the 'pure' water sachet with his teeth, then drank. He had made a sign like 'come' as he drank, Iya Lucky walked inside again.

I knew he would leave soon, so I hurried out of my room.

I will buy puff-puff - the fresh yellow ones - then walk further down the street or to the next street in search of cold 'pure' water.

Olisa
@olis123kel

LADIES, DON'T TEST ANY MAN. DON'T TEST ME

These days, I think the ease of just lying in your bed and having a conversation with someone miles away through multiple social media platforms, has given us the room to ask the weirdest and most uncomfortable questions with unflinching consideration to opinion or perception.

We no send.

We could go on dates and hangout, but it seem like conversations is beginning to experience a transition from the traditional word of mouth to social media: BBM, Whatsapp et al. Clearly but sadly, we tend to talk less when we meet and talk more when chat.
This is a problem.

Spending less time together before we actually begin to date has become the norm. Then when she eventually says 'yes', and they begin to see more often, you realise he smokes.

This trend has made study of personality more difficult. Our assumption of character by the way he chats, speaks, her decent display of pictures on social media has given us a vague translation of real character.

The ease of communication has made us think we have ample time to ask all the questions - we actually do ask all the questions - but never the essential ones.

He meets a girl, she meets a guy. They exchange pin or phone number, they get talking or chatting. In less than a week we know how many guys she has dated, how many women he has been with.
She inquires if he has tried a threesome, he says "Yes, once or twice but I'm done with that life", she calls him "bad guy", she adds "I like good guys who were bad guys". He is excited that that line, that lie, worked. It always works.
How many Nigerian guys have actually tried a threesome. Well, he find out she isn't a virgin.

"Yes, I've been with four guys", she says.
In his mind, he adds an extra two. "Six guys" he thinks.

Yes, like most guys he believes that "I've been with four guys" is six or seven.
"I've been with six guys" is eight or ten.
He believes that in rare cases is "I've been with two guys" actually two.

She barely asks about his character, his siblings, his passion. They both leave out serious inquiry about their personalities.

They start dating.

So, she goes visiting for the first time. She knows he doesn't like condoms, he assures her his pull out game is excellent. Well, his pull out game is actually excellent. Eleven months later, they're cool. He doesn't shout, he barely scolds, he respects her mind, body and soul.

Suddenly she feels something is wrong, the natural selection of everything makes all men jerks. She had seen her father beat her mother. Her uncle, Uncle Femi, has kids from another woman other than his wife. She had caught her ex with her friend. Abraham slept with another woman. Solomon had concubines. Samson loved prostitutes. Even David in his dying days chose to stay with a young female virgin. She believes that God created all men as jerks.
He too must be a jerk, it is somewhere in the bible.

So she tells her friends about him, how 'flawless' he seem. They all tell her unequivocally "Babe, test him o". "Ah! Nne, test his anger o. He is too good to be true".
She believes, she agrees. She tests.

So, as he got back home from the hospital and walks straight to the couch, he sits.
She attacks him for coming late. He is quiet. She insults him for going to see his mother, "that sick woman" she calls her. He is quiet. She accuses his mother of 'eating' all his money. He is quiet.

He is unhappy that ovarian cancer may never allow his mother see her grand kids. He is sad that a woman who lost her husband barely ten years in her marriage - yet refused to remarry - struggled to raise him and his siblings, will not live long enough to see his own kids. He is aware it is fatal. But it is his mother, he will keep paying for chemotherapy.

"Your mother is a witch and she should just die"
"What did you say" he stands.
"Your mother is a witch and she is suffering for her sins"
"What did you say" he walks closer
"Your mother never liked me, she is evil, all your money is just wasting on her, she should just...."
"Tawaiii!!!!!!!" he slaps her.

A well appropriated slap, just once, on her right cheek. He wanted to slap her again, on the left. He restrains himself. He knew he hit her well and hard. A part of him felt disappointed. A part of him felt a jolt of excitement and satisfaction.
He went back to his couch and sat down.

She packs some of her stuffs and left the house quietly. He didn't stop her.

When he told me about it, I was angry. This woman, his mother, was like a mother to me. I eat there, sleep there, you know when you have that kind of relationship with a family. Honestly, deep down, I felt the same jolt of excitement when he told me he slapped her, but visibly I antagonized him. I can be an actor.

"You should never hit a woman" I said.

I made him understand that no matter what she said or did, he could either walk out of her presence or tell her to leave.

The other day, I made a comment on twitter that my buddy slapped a girl and deep down, I was happy he did. A girl called describes my deep excitement about that slap as me showing my 'innate sadism' without a query into reasons for my comment. Innate sadism!!!!

I'm not going to atone for the wrong of my friend or for many men who may have hit a woman before. It is wrong to hit a woman; but I think sometimes, when someone is pushed to the wall, he might strike. Me sef, I don follow agbero fight for Cele bus-stop (story for another day).

I have learnt to apply objectivity in the analysis of any situation. When one says "I want an abortion", I don't just criticize without understanding and say "No, it is wrong".
Agreed, her boyfriend could be responsible. Or, she could be married, have 9 children and doesn't want more. Or, she could have been a Chibok girl impregnated by Boko Haram. Or, it could be an ectopic pregnancy.
An abortion is mandatory and advisable for one or more of the above stated cases.

Regardless of how well mannered and polite one may seem, we have different levels of temperament.

Ladies, nobody hides characters. People don't exactly change in marriage or relationship. Who we are is who we are. Rather than ask about his dick size, his sexual fantasies. Instead of accelerating a nascent friendship into a relationship, oblivious of who he really is - which has become a norm - take time to study his character.
Meet. Study. Be observant.
Nobody, I repeat, nobody truly hides character, it is visible, transparent and clear.
Meet. Study. Be observant.

Don't test any man. Don't test me.

Olisa
@Olis123kel
www.olisakevin.com

Reverend Father Asked me “Olisa, is sex important in a relationship”

Reverend Father Richard Asked me “Olisa, is sex important in a relationship”

Fr. Richard and I are pretty close and it has given me the opportunity to have a parallel relationship void of the intricacies associated with reverend father and parishioner. Most times, the relationship between Father and parishioner is built around his soutane; without a penetration to his real personality. So, their conversations, is usually around religion and issues of the church. A real friendship is most times never developed. I perceive that this is purposely done by the Father to perhaps give him more focus on the most essential - the flock - without any special preference. Well somehow, Father Richard and I contradict those rules, if there are rules, we gist like just normal people.

So if babe call me, I fit talk "I love you too dear" in front of Father Richard. Na him one day, him come ask me:

"Olisa, is sex important in a relationship?"

Na him I smile, "fada, wetin you wan use this info do"

He smiled and continued. "Yes I know it is important for many reasons in marriage. But for young people not ready for marriage, is it really important because wetin I dey see for confession no funny o"

Omo if you see as I burst laughter eh.

Him self laugh join.

I perceived the depth of his question regardless of how faint I tried to paint it with my laugh; yet I understood why he asked me. He knows I don't mince words - I can be blunt and arrogantly blunt sometimes. I knew that was why he asked me.

My response:

Father, make I no lie. Marriage or not. With the elimination of sin (mortal sin) attached to it or the 
spiritual consequence that may be incurred,
especially for the unmarried, sex in whatever sort is relationship is beautiful.

In short father, make I no even talk about married people sef.

If I get babe and we have sex, the tendency for me to bond better with her is higher than babe way we no dey do anything.

Again father, this is even heightened if I'm in that relationship because I love her and want to be with her and not the sole purpose of sex.

 Even sef father, if she lost her virginity to me, the bond go be super glue. Inshort father, if the sex is very good, the possibility for me to even have sex with her if she is in another relationship or married sef dey high o.

This is the unbridled truth Father.

Omo father, na why people way really love themselves and are sexually active will most likely keep coming for confession especially if they are in the same environment o.

He smiled, then said "I understand better now. But come o, Olisa, you never do confession for my hand. You this boy......"

"Omo fado, that one be say na everyday I go dey do confession because mehn......."

We drifted towards other issues.

Later that day, it occured to me that the Church (catholic) hasn't paid close attention to the teaching of Sex, especially to young people. Everybody just dey 'collect' up and down.

Negative influence keeps growing but I think the church is still stiff and behind using only biblical commandments and short-timed homily that poorly exaggerate these as injunctions to discourage unmarried people from sex.

The Church is either closing a blind eye and ignoring to deal with the reality of sex or they are ill-informed on how well to deal with it. Its effect on the church is very glaring; negatively glaring. Sadly, it is slipping into all crevices of the church. These, have put the church on the negative spotlight of the media in recent times.

The number of young people on a queue to receive holy communion grows thin. The queue for confession, thinner; yet sex is heightened in geometric proportions. We just dey 'collect' like say tomoro no dey.

I hope grace continues to abound becaue me sef I need am gaan.

@olis123kel

Donlismedia@gmail.com

Olisakevin.blogspot.com

n/b: If you like thief this article, I go sue. Me sef I dey fine money seriously.

THE RAST LAT; THE LAST RAT.

Holy Cross community secondary school Umuawula, had at one time been amongst the best secondary schools in eastern Nigeria. Its beautiful English architectural structures stood as administrative block, assembly hall and hostels. The teachers were proud to be teachers; they took pride in their profession and performed at their best to attain the positions of the headmaster or principal. Looking at the statue of Emilia as she held that pot of water reignited some thoughts. It stood fifteen inches from the ground almost like the statue of Our Lady Mother of Jesus that stood in a grotto inside the premises of St. Theresa catholic church, Umuawulu: it stood few meters away from the school gate, Charles my son went closer to take a proper look at the white Emilia then he took a picture of her. We walked away from there towards the class block; I climbed the mahogany stair till I got to my class. It still had a little glory or so until Charles said “wow! daddy this class is ugly” I allowed his observation fly into the wind. I felt a sudden connection with my class again. It felt alive again with students all dresses in their white shirts, green shorts with a brown sandal to go with it. Being a good student, I always sat two rows away from the front through class one to class five.

………….. The year is 1971, we were still fresh with the memories from the war, so many boys in class five fought in the war but I didn’t; I was fortunate to be away when the soldiers came to my father’s compound to recruit young boys but really they captured boys. Many of them talked about it: about how brave they fought; how brave their fathers fought; how fast their older siblings rose through the ranks of the army but they rarely talked about any killings. The war still left a bitter taste in my mouth, papa and Nwachukwu my only brother were killed in the war and now it’s over. I wish it wasn’t maybe I would have the chance to avenge their deaths. What use was the war? ‘Arise and greet’ the boy at the front right corner of the class had said. Today was our first day in class five. We had all greeted the teacher; “Good morning students, I am Mr. Okorie, I will be your English teacher in this arm; I want to assure you that I can tutor you only if you are willing to learn and if aren’t, I’ll tutor you still’’ Mr. Okorie had said. We have heard so much of Mr. Okorie and how serious he was. His English prowess was excellent and his accent was the best I have ever heard; though it sounded slightly fainter than those I had heard on the radio, I thought he sounded like Richard green of BBC. His pronunciations were perfect; it wasn’t corrupted with the Igbo accent which is a lingua franca. “Out of the class you all! I want to separate the boys from the men, I want to know those who are worthy to be in my English class’’. I only hoped it was the same test we had upon our entry into form one were only those whose fingers could go over their heads to their ears were allowed entry into form one. “Boys repeat after me the ‘LAST RAT RUNS LAST AT LAST’; I reiterate ‘the LAST RAT RUNS LAST AT LAST’ ”. There was a chorus answer and he smiled. He aligned us in a line and one after the other we repeated those words; so many of my class mates kept shouting ‘The RAST LAT LUNS RAST AT RAST’ and his countenance showed how infuriated he was, he also felt pity. It got to my turn; I repeated the sentence after he had said it and I moved into the class. The class had only few of my class mates; the others stood under the scorching heat of the African sun; it was their punishment for mixing the R’s for L’s and vice versa…………………….

The flash from Charles’s camera had caught my eye, it brought me back to reality; he had just taken a picture of me as I sat on a seat obviously not the one I used thirty something years ago but precisely on the same position “come on dad lets go back this place is beginning to bore me” he said, I stood and walked with him away from my alma mater, a school that is now a complete opposite of its glory and beauty.

The December period is a time for merry and to reunite with families and friends, I still find time each time I’m here in the village to come and see this school; though still functional, but now churned out quarter baked student who can hardly make a proper sentence in English. I was schooled here and most of us were taught the use of proper tenses, how to construct good English sentences although our English was heavy with Igbo accent; but we had teachers who helped us kill the R and L problem, then we had Mr. Okorie; now we have non like him, no dedicated teachers because the government gives no concern to the education sector. There are so many schools like Holy Cross scattered around Nigeria, now dilapidated.

I can still hear Mr. Okories voice in my head shouting “boys shout the LAST RAT RUNS LAST AT LAST”. It’s funny how some people, mostly of a particular ethnic group misplace ‘R’ for ‘L’ in their pronunciations and all these comedians are making money from mocking and mimicking them; I laugh at their jokes, I can’t help but laugh. ‘’Charles” I call my son, can you say ‘THE LAST RAT RUNS LAST AT LAST’ ten times without breaking.

Follow on twitter @olis123kel

STATE OF MIND

The raining season had ceased for a while; it was the august break. I feel little calm and so did the room see little space. Its wall wore a faded blue with shades of exposed plaster and blocks here and there. I love to sit on my chair and pierce my eyes through the window, its net is very dusty and torn; and I care less about the mosquitoes. I love to see the kids play ‘papa and mama’, I love to see them run around naked as they play with motorcycle tires which they set in motion with their hand and sustain with sticks or irons. The cul-de-sac is still flooded with water as the canal around the area is full and stagnant.
The night feels cool, the smell from the canal is calling to be replenished; now very pungent is the odour that emanates from it and it distorts activities in the area; I hear them say the government cares less. The stars in the sky seemed to have evacuated themselves, suddenly static plastic buckets move, polythene bags fills the air, Zinc roofs shake and become noisy; then it begins to drum as drops from heaven hit against them; there is panic in the air. The canal odour rises to the occasion; it goes along with the natural breeze till it becomes swallowed. The breeze hits against my net and pours dust on the floor of my room. I’m stern

Suddenly, the clouds begin to drop its content little by little; it first begins with drizzling, then it rains, then it pours. The children run around under the rain playing and dancing others singing ‘rain rain go away’; yet still playing under the down pour. The older ones; some older children, young adults and mothers but few men rush outside with buckets, plastic and metal buckets and place them in alignment with the dropping water from their nearly rusty zinc roof above. The older women stand for a while inspecting the water drop as they drop into the buckets; I see a woman reposition some buckets probably because of the breeze effect on the dropping water; she leaves it that way and walks back into their already flooded passage way. They say so much about the government and how they know the problems of the masses, how they know the solution but choose to amass wealth and leave us like this. I hear them pray for a messiah, I hear them pray for a miracle; others hope for a breakthrough into the political circle to also steal public funds and live a better life. There is a sudden flash of light; more like God was taking a picture of our shanty town; the sound followed behind the light and was a strong thunder; the children screamed, a joyful scream. I’m stern

I hear the sound of the door knob turn but still had my eyes through the dusty net watching the cul-de-sac , He walks towards me and wraps a wrapper around me; my eyes still on the cul-de-sac. He moves me away from the window further into the room. Now all the buckets in the room began to take their specific positions; he aligned them just as the woman outside did hers; to collect the dropping water in my room. He aligned them well, separately but perfectly. As he walks away and the door shuts behind him I could see his mistake, a bucket missed its water drops, the water dropped on the floor inches away from the yellow custard bucket. It gives a tone separate from the others. I’m stern

He walks in again, removes the wrapper from around me and drops the plate on the floor; he rarely looks at me. The plate had contents; it was food. I stood and walk away from my chair towards the plate it is yellow garri and soup, a bright yellow egusi, with stints of green I wasn’t sure if it’s ugwu leaves or just green. I devoured it with my unwashed hand. No sooner had I finished, I felt my tummy rumble: I stood and with my hand against my anus and I searched for my custard container to use, but my rectum had failed me; unbaked faeces had evacuated itself through my anus. It still sipped out and fell against my trouser; I pulled the trousers away and with my bare buttocks now exposed, I bent down on the corner of the room to allow the semi liquid hit the ground, it felt peppery and ran fast; simultaneously, my penis shot out its own liquid, little of both poured against my Achilles heel but the urine felt hotter. The urine stopped first, it now shut out bit by bit until it was all gone. It was all watery with little solids here and there; I touched the solid and tasted it; its taste was a bit better than the food I ate on the plate. He walked in, hit me on the head and stops me from eating the content from my bowels.

He walks back in with a large cup of water; he helps me wash my hands and he gives me the rest to drink up, I finish up the content and hold on to the cup. He collects it from me, picks up my plate, brings down the mat which stood on the jointure of the walls and spreads it on the ground and he walks away. The drops from the ceiling are fewer now; the rain pouring had ceased, the hood is quiet, the children are quiet maybe sleeping, I stroll towards the burglary protected window. I can see the image of the moon on the little flood caused by the rain, a bike has just past and the image shakes. I look up at the skies and the bright moon still sits there bright in the dark ceiling with little dots of stars scattered around it, I retrieve into my room toward the mat and I lay.

I feel wet splatter on my Nose Bridge; it had fallen from the ceiling. The moon had turned to sun; I stand and go towards my chair. He walks in again, search his eye around then walks towards the mat, folds it and place it at the corner of the room, then he carries the buckets, all heavy with water; he carries them out of the room. He walks in again and holds me by my wrist and I walk behind him as we strode towards the bathroom, he carried one of the buckets in his hand and a towel on his right shoulder I can feel houseflies follow me behind and some hit against my exposed buttocks. People say I’m getting better; they say I was violent when my family brought me here, some feel pity that a young man my age is retarded; others say it’s from smoking marijuana; a few say madness runs in my lineage and that my grandfather and his daughter aunty Winnie were at a time insane, some people say it is voodoo from my village. I don’t know what to think, I only know I’m not normal.

In the bathroom now; He pours the water on me, I move a little. He rubs the soap on my head and drives the sponge in between the line that separates the two halves of my buttocks. He pours water on me again; I can see the crumbs of excreta from yesterday flow away, most of it encapsulated in the foam that flows away. He hits the sponge on my armpit, and pours water on my head again. I’m stern

by OLISA KEVIN

FOLLOW on twitter ... @olis123kel

YE ARE FOOLS

I recently read an article on the perception of the northerners from a typical southerner and that spurred this write. That writer did justice to the article. You see, all images of an ideal northerner can be likened to how the oyibo's perceive Africans. They still think africans don't wear clothes, that africans dance naked around fire with chalk marking on their face. Some think that our young girls walk around naked with small pointed breasts and the older women walk around carrying babies on their bare back or a child sucking from their pendulum breasts while some white men take pictures of them. No, africa is developing. We love good music, we know good music and we sing good music; we have electricity though epileptic. We have beautiful ladies with well packaged breasts, for Christ sake we wear clothes o and since i was born i've never seen naked people dance around fire. We have won the miss world pageant. We have our babies born in hospitals, I was born and circumcised in a hospital. We have great writers, we have business moguls. Undoubtedly, governance in our continent is still lackluster. This isn't to exonerate africans in the eyes of the oyibo's, this is to remove the stick in our eyes before trying to remove the log of wood in the oyibo's eye.

Many of us are like the westerners, the oyibo, the europeans, the americans. Thinking less of another race or tribe. Abeg judge yourself, no lie o, how have you considered someone from northern Nigeria. If a man is said to be Adamu from kaduna, what would you think. The interpretation of that man will be: he is hausa, he is a muslim, he is uneducated, he is dark skinned, no very black skinned, he doesn't understand english language, he is a gateman, sells onion or a cattle rearer. He calls fifty naira pipty naira, he loves violence and so on. They forget that Adamu could be of the Jukun tribe, though speaks Hausa but isn't hausa by tribe, a Professor of Surgery, speaks the english language with good diction even after been schooled in Nigeria. He might be dark skinned but his siblings are light, has a calabar cook, an Igbo driver, a Yoruba gateman and his hausa christian wife hates violence.

One essence of the youth service is integration and the opportunity to experience it was provided for me when i was posted to Taraba state for my youth service back in 2008. My year serving the nation made me realise that like many I have seen the hausa from a singular perspective.  Chimamanda Adichie's 'danger of a single story' perfectly illustrates this. In Taraba I learnt that pride wasn't a peculiar character like we have in the southern part, I learnt that hausa was only a lingua franca of the north generally but not their indigenous language, I learnt that of all the over 250 tribes in this country that more that hundred is in the north. For instance, I was opportuned to serve in jalingo, capital of Taraba state and in my compound was a man and his family from Karim-lamido, they're from a tribe that spoke their own language yet understood hausa, next to my room was papa manzo and his family from Gasso, a christian, with a different language and tribe. Again was a woman I nicknamed madam from Sardauna where mambilla plateau is located and in her local government alone they had more than 20tribes with their different languages. She didn't even undertsand hausa fluently and made me understand that many of them didn't understand hausa either. Although for everyone of them to express themselves in our compound meetings they had to speak hausa, including me o. Now will you call them 'awon hausa' because of the geographical location. Sitting there nodding my head to any agreement made me realise that I have faulted. There, I was in the north, in a compound meeting with people who spoke hausa yet were not hausa's and mostly not muslims. It therefore made me realisa that it is my responsibility to recognise my heritage as a Nigerian and not just as 'omo igbo'. We should understand the real difference between southern kaduna and northern kaduna, we must realise that Fulani is not Hausa but Fulani. I have tried on different occasions to buy 'fura de nunu' from the fulani ladies that hawk it with my little hausa knowledge but their response was always 'ba hausa'.

It is salient to state that this is also demonstrated in the southern part of Nigeria too and amongst themselves. I see it as pathetic and unfair that someone from Akwa-ibom, Edo, Cross-river, Bayelsa, Rivers, Delta(even pure warri boy o) is addressed as 'awon Igbo' or 'ndi Igbo'. This is not to alienate them from an Igbo tribe but this is simply to make us realise the truth, which is: they are not igbo's. They have their own tribes which must be respected. Some of them are efik, urhobo, Ibibio, itshekiri, calabari and many more. So I perceive that it is insulting and very offensive when you address an Efik man as an Igbo man. Therefore, my conclusion is that the individual mixing things up doesn't have a firm understanding of Nigerian tribes, it shows that such individual is creating a ridiculous caricature of tribes, it is that minority groups are inconsequential if you merge then up and call them a certain people, this character humes disrespect for the roots and culture of an individual. Also, it shows that the oyibo's are not fools to call us naked people that run around fire singing to a god, we are perhaps the bigger fools not to understand the truth about our mileu.

I do not expect us to cram the over 250 tribes but we must call people as they are. It is our responsibility to understand even peripherally, about tribes, languages, religion and culture. There is obviously a great danger when a story is viewed singularly. I must state very emphatically that our president isn't an Igbo man even though he bears 'Ebele', He is from Bayelsa, an Ijaw man. The Igbo's are therefore right to seek a presidency though I care less about the origin of a president, I want someone that will deliver, man or woman, old or young, dark or fair, shoe or no shoe; but I would rather prefer one with shoes on.


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NDI IGBO CANNOT SPEAK IBGO AGAIN O

I had just entered the sitting room and could see some secondary school students through our old 1988 national television “omo this TV don old o” I knew . The time was 4.55pm and it was almost the end of the programme, “so students we have come to end of this wonderful educational TV programme, please reintroduce yourselves and say goodbye viewers in your native language” the beautiful presenter said. “My name is Opeoluwa Bamidele”, the young girls by her right said, then muttered some words which I believed meant goodbye viewers in Yoruba, “ My name is Akpan Joseph” the other boy said, spoke some words in his language I guess. I felt my tummy rumbling, stood up from my chair and moved towards the kitchen, opened the pot, “kai! this people no remain food for me” I shouted. I could hear another student. I felt vexed and I was hungry, this boring programme sef and this ajebo, phonee speaking olodo students, I picked the remote and pointed it toward the television “my name is Uzochukwu Obinna Charles” another young boy had just said, I paused, felt concerned because his name sounded familiar, “na Igbo boy” I thought. “Now say goodbye viewers in your native language” the presenter asked, but the boy just kept smiling, with his white close-up teeth at the camera, he couldn’t say it, obviously.”I am Juliana bent, see you same time …”She was saying. I changed the T.V station. “This guy has just embarrassed himself, why was he smiling and did that question carry any note of humour” I thought, bia kwa o this guy embarrassed me o chai, mba this just embarrassed millions of people that call themselves Igbos.

This issue isn’t funny at all. My people dey fall hands and it’s really infuriating. That boy might be the product of a village brought up dad, grew up in Enugu mother and they probably met at the university of Nigeria, Nsukka and they both speak Igbo o, fluently. Or, the dad may be a trader at Idumota and the mum a cosmetic seller in isale-eko, both with difficulty in constructing a simple sentence in English. But their kid, phonee speaking ajebo ‘who is fooling who’ my aunty would say. I never took this issue serious until I saw that TV programme. Here in Lagos where I reside, I can tell you that 95% of kids born and brought up in Lagos cannot make a simple sentence in Igbo. It’s really disgusting. Having travelled to so many states in Nigeria, I must say that I’m impressed with other tribes, most especially the Yorubas and I guess my little survey has made the issue more of an ‘Igbotic’ problem most especially with those that reside in Lagos. I could remember when I went to the university of Lagos with a friend to see a professor, the moment the Prof learnt that my friend is a Yoruba boy, omo the prof begin dey speak Yoruba with immediate alacrity o, forgetting his status and prowess in English language. But If I were in the office with a prof who is an Igbo man and I want to ask a favour, probably I don’t want my Yoruba friend to know, walai the prof go answer me for English. My people I lie? All these is no bluff, it’s true and must be said. If you walk into a Yoruba man’s home, everybody speaks Yoruba even their dog sits when you say ”bingo jo ko”, and I really admire that. They could be as rich as Femi Otedola, Mike Adenuga or as poor as whoever but they speak Yoruba well. For me o, I’ve decided that when I get married, whenever, my wife and I go bombard our kids with Igbo language fussed with diphthongs, mofims, idioms, irony, simile every ingredient that will make them speak less like a white man but outside they can speak phonee o, hopefully they’ll attend a good school and will speak all the oyibo over there. But in the house, na Igbo o

It’s about time that Ndi Igbo retrace their steps, redefine the real meaning of culture which can best be propagated by language, which remains the most important medium. Let’s inculcate Igbo speaking in our homes, with families. Trust me it will not affect your English nor make you heavily accented and even if it does, how does your president speak.