#KADINVEST 2016: The Best Twitter Reactions

The Kaduna State Investment & Economic Summit (KADINVEST 2016) will definitely go down as the most strategic and decisive step towards the economic development of Kaduna State into the global economy and a learning curve for other states to follow suit.

The event was a mind blowing success in every front, and promises to regenerate the economic fortunes of Northern Nigeria as a whole.

Right from the word go, social media has been agog in anticipation of the event, and twitter basically exploded during the summit itself. The reactions did not disappoint.

WOW?

JUST WOW?

HOW ABOUT BOMBS TOO?

MEANWHILE ...

IN CASE YOU ARE DOUBTING

 AND TO THOSE WHO MISSED IT ...

MIRACLE GLASSES

Its funny how we don’t really pay attention to things we deem insignificant till we see them in a different perspective. Like eyesight. It is my first day with my new glasses – corrective glasses. That is what the optometrist said in hindsight they would do to my faulty eyes. He did not specify though when this miracle will happen. 

Before now, I have been able to use my eyes – mynaked iris and pupils – without any assistance, to seethings. Not every thing really, some things are just too far away that they do not deserve to be seen. It was no shame that I could not see those things, even after squinting my eyes like a fragile old man to the barest degree. I jut told myself, they are simply too far. It was acceptance of the situation and finding a way to moveon. Like when I was in school, and I could not really decipher what was written on the board, I would peep through and find out from notes of a seatmate. Or when watching TV, I would sit as close to the screen as I could. As long as I could read and write on my laptop, surf social media on my phone, drive through town safely (except for the occasional speed bumps I tend not see till I gallop straight into them) my problem was solved. Everything was all right. 

I was used to years of viewing featureless faces in the distance on streets and I could not really discern individuals till they were close by. So I learned to smile at every face, till that face was close enough for my eyes to focus. It was all fine to me. Nothing terrible. But not my parents. So at their behest, I shuffled myself to the optometrist. 

A box full of lenses of varied shapes and sizes. Twowhite plastic chairs. A long narrow mirror hanging like it was carved for the use of a single user. And a chart of scrambled letters of varying sizes made up the setting of the consultation room. I read through chart of letters staring back at me through reflection from the mirror. I went through the first line of thick letters without a fuss. Then grappled my way through the middle ones, size of the letters now descending. At the final row of letters reflecting in the mirror I could only sight blurry dots. Optometrist assessment: Terrible eyesight. In need ofglasses. I felt damaged. Like I was sitting alone surfing through my iPhone and enjoying it despite its little shortcomings only for Steve Jobs to appear and tell me that it is not a real iPhone. It is china. Yes, that sort of damaged. 

So I got my glasses and donned them on. Initially, I felt the floor tilting and zooming. But it adjusted immediately. With the glasses, it was surprising the amount of clarity I had been missing for a huge chunk of my lifetime. I mean if these were supposed to mimic real eyesight then I have missed a lot. The television screen was like in 3D. Clarity. Focus. Driving with the glasses, I realized there was a whole different world that I never really noticed. Signboards were no longer raised sheets of metals with pictures. They actually contained writings. Information. Tiny little letters with mottos and addresseswere visible. I could read insignia of states on plate numbers. I could see speed bumps before I actually barged into them. It was cool. This world of clarity. I fell in love with a world in glasses. Of course I took a selfie. Posted on Instagram. Hashtag. #LifeWithGlasses. 

So far so good. I don my glasses twenty four seven. Well, unless when eating. It is just impulsive; I need to see the food I am eating with my real eyes. Food deserves that respect. The heaviness of the lenses on my nose bridge is a bit annoying. I would probably get used it. Besides the clarity is worth it. So to a first full-day of life with glasses, I would read Tope Folarin’s ‘Miracle’and then prostrate and thank God for his gift of eyesight and the bonus of technology. Because we all need miracles.

#ArewaPhobia Media Propaganda and a Slice From History

In 1943, the editor of Gaskiya Ta Fi Kwabo, Nigeria’s first Hausa newspaper was selected to join the first West African Press Delegation to the United Kingdom mainly to see wartime Britain in the middle of the war with Hitler. Dr. Nnamdi Azikwe, then editor of West African Pilot was also invited. 

While in London, at the West African Students Union (WASU) Centre, Imam was asked to make a speech, to the students in the centre which at the time had no single Northern Nigerian student amongst their ranks, a summary of which was translated and put in as an editorial in ‘Gaskiya Ta Fi Kwabo No. 101 of December, 1944. The complete speech as documented in the book “Abubakar Imam Memoirs” (Mora 1989) I will be excerpting at various stages in this piece.

These slices from history project a lot about the state of our nation at present and the bridges that unfortunately have not been able to be mended for years, and inadvertently, seem to have even degenerated further with passing of time. So what has been the problem, and what is it that is still causing this rift? Imam had some apt words in perfect tandem to our current predicament:

 

“So far there is not yet sufficient mutual trust and confidence between Northerners and Southerners. But whose is the fault?

If the matter is viewed dispassionately, it is clear that it is the Northerners and Southerners themselves who create differences amongst themselves. 

Let me tell you of the barriers to full understanding between North and South. The first is that we despise each other. We call each other ignorant. The Southerners are proud of Western knowledge and culture, we of Eastern. Theirs is the knowledge of the day, of the type desired by the European, and since power is in the hand of the Europeans, their type of knowledge is the one recognised rather than ours.”

 

Indeed Imam was right, we have unfortunately createdthese rifts and this has been a major issue that has been cancerous towards our progress as a nation. We outgrew our days in the hands of the Europeans, but instead of uniting to push the nation forward, we just kept devising means to cause rifts. Another deep problem is the taking of news at face value, which is gradually becoming habitual in us all. Some actually have no idea about the details contained in a headline, or a broadcasted agreement, but they will be at the forefront of dispatching blames and insults, dividing the country more and tearing us apart. We are just willing to accept statements at face value without even thinking, and then move to howl without reminding ourselves of its consequence. This is something that continues to disrupt national development. The media as a tool, owned mostly by sectional elites, with a higher dominance in the southern part of the country has been used in the forefront of pushing forward hideous propagandas, and recently the unfathomable use of the social media to explode vile agendas. This is not something new, it has been occurring for years as Imam noted:

 

“Now, if a Northerner does anything which is at all irregular, the Southern paper will go all out in giving the incident the widest publicity, with sensational headlines: “HAUSAMAN STABS COUNTRYMAN WITH KNIFE” … “TWO HAUSAMEN LOCKED IN FIGHT AND EACH LOSES A HAND” … “HAUSAMAN EATS TOO MUCH RAW CASSAVA AND DIES” … 

Such things do not promote friendly feeling. They show the Hausa up as a backward sort of person. Then, when the Southerners have finished humiliating us in this way, they turn around and say that we are their brothers …

Again last year, an article appeared in one of the Southern papers in which disrespectful language was used against our Emirs … was it necessary, seeing that it is unity that we want, for such a thing to be printed? It could only give rise to ill-feeling … But the only road to unity is for Northerners and Southerners to give more consideration to each other.”

 

From our day to day happenings, it is really incredible how our psyche has been so much distorted that frivolous nonentities from our diverse cultures that should be harnessed for mutual understanding are not appreciated but used as a bandwagon to spread hatred and malice, a point Imam illustrates further in his speech:

 

“Let us take another example. When I left Lagos there were three qualified Northern dispensers in the hospital at Lagos. But in order to get their medicine accepted by the people, these qualified men had to refrain from wearing Northern clothes. In other words, a Hausa is considered an ignoramus.

This question of dress is childish, and we ought not to allow small things like that to divide us. It is the man himself we should think of, not his dress.”

 

It is without gainsaying that we need to engage the mainstream media and the ever-volatile social media with morality, honesty and truthful out views for this nation to progress in the right way. Imam was one of the earliest proponents of honest living:

 

“We are not influenced by anything except the truth. It is for that reason that I am telling you of ourselves so that you can understand something about us … our aim is to be united.

I have expressed myself before you as a typical Northerner. Now let my critics have their say. I have been talking to you also as a Muslim. Hypocrisy is detestable and only the truth should be spoken.“

 

I have not excerpted these profound statements to cause any disruption or castigate certain people. Indeed if there is anyone who sees the faults of the Northerners from the Southerners point of view, by all means let him speak, objectively. We need sincere honesty so that we can move on. Unity is what this entire county desires for its development. 

And to the elites too, the elders, and the traditional leaders who are so much far away from the majority of the populace, it is time they and our ‘modern traditional’leaders begin to interact with the teeming youth, even if not on social media, at least on the pages of the newspapers, town meetings or the likes. It is not un-becoming of the tittle of a traditional ruler like an Emir if he addresses vital issues personally, by writing to objective media outlets both in English and even in Hausa translation to other booming Hausa newspapers. After all even the old emirs like Emir Ja’afaru of Zazzauregularly wrote personally to Gaskiya Ta Fi Kwabo when necessary. 

I will put my pen to stop with the sage words of MalamAbubakar Imam as he concluded without fear in far way London more than 70 years ago, and spoke with dripping honesty to his brothers from mainly Southern Nigeria, the truth that needed to be told for the betterment of a nation he loved so dearly:

 

“It is always the same between North and South: neither can tell what it is that the other wants.

Let us not deceive ourselves. If we want unity, the first thing to do is to build the foundations of mutual friendship. Northerners and Southerners must not look down upon each other.”

 

First published on Daily Trust, 11th March 2016

 

AKE FESTIVAL 2015: Of Gods of Hymens and Fucking Vaginas

The Gods of Ake Festival 2015 usually have lunch together upstairs and then trickle down, not together as a bunch of broom, but sparingly like falling inches of salt and merge seamlessly with multitudes of mere mortals.

You are not a God. You are one among the numerous mortals. Those ones that queue up in a flash to garner low-cost bargains of books on the Etisalat Longlist. Those ones that visit the Ake Bookstore, admire covers of the array of books in display, marvel that you crossed the same doorway with ‘the author of this one’ earlier, feel the subtleness of the book covers, weigh the straddle of cash continuously been depleted in your pocket, and finally decide to pick one book, again, while inwardly swearing and reminding your brain that this is the last book you will buy, lest you trek back to Kaduna on foot.

PART 1: Three Gods and the Caterers

Before all this, you were still a mortal, just with lesser number of books, visiting Abeokuta for the first time to participate in a Fiction Writing Workshop at the Ake Arts and Book Festival 2015 to be facilitated by three of the Gods, amongst the biggest in the field.

Caterers of Gods and Mortals alike 

Courtesy demands that Gods be taken care of, and sometimes, the mortals too. Now, at Ake this is solely the work of the ‘Caterers of Gods and Mortals alike’. You arrive in Kuto, Abeokuta and walk down the sloping terrain of the Cultural Center. Harmattan wind is been sneezed by the skies, drop by drop, threatening a full-blown escape. Squeezing sound of talking drums herald your arrival. You trudge and nod to the beats, like an agama lizard. 

And there she is, the phenomenal Lola Shoneyin. You see her in that instant, for what she is: one of the Gods. Then like a chameleon, she changes. She calls for the stool, for the round tables to be placed, for the microphones to be set. She blends. A perfect camouflage. A God and a Caterer alike. There is a pure Caterer by her side. Seun Mabo. An elixir of passion and enthusiasm. She introduces you. Ushers you in. Bathes you in hospitality. You are immersed in the festive mood already.

Cyborg Gods and Vine Hairs

The eerie face of Fela Anikulapo Kuti and host of Egbaland heroes in perfect tarred busts stare intently at you. You find a seat, flanked by more than a dozen other budding mortals (for now) awaiting the arrival of the self-confessed rudimentary cyborg, Nnedi Okorafor. You are a bit jittery. Even a little tummy butterflies. 

Her vined hair came in first, then the classic eye glasses. She shuffled in like a character from her strange books and settled amidst the gapes, sheepish smiles and total awe. A God amongst mortals. For the next 120 minutes, you flip-flop and unscrew her vined hair, chew her strange brains in and out, and then leave satisfied. A rudiment of one of the Gods in the making. 

“She is just an elegant little bird” 

That was Lola’s characterisation of this second of the Gods. To be able to convey a good story of the Gods, you will need to tweak with different narrative voices. Different shades of speech. 

I am one of the finest of the Gods (no, common not me really!). 

You are one of the finest of the Gods (we all know I don’t really mean you!). 

We are one of the finest of the Gods (okay, enough of this!). 

She is one of the finest of the Gods!

Enter Taye Selasi.

She really did flaunt in like an elegant bird. Charming. Charismatic. Immediately, the brightest star in an already dazzled room. Even the grumpiest of minds will bow and laugh hysterically at the feet of this literary character. But first, she makes you pick a pen. You are going to write in variousnarrative voices. You write. You read. She stops you with her palms. Swirls her hair. Tilts her head in a perfect angle to speak. 

You’ve got to take that again slowly. Intergalactical bus? Lagos? 2096? I love this. 

You smile. The Gods approve of your craft. You then write, write, write and laugh!

The Elusive of the Gods

Helon Habila sauntered in. Your archetypal college Professor. Professional and straight to the point. 

The best fictions are those that use the devices of poetry. 

The worst crime for a writer is to be provincial. 

You find yourself taking down notes impulsively. Even the air breezed through like that of a standard class. Nice. But before then … 

(24 hours earlier)

… you waited for an angel. The elusive of the Gods. Helon Habila was supposed to broaden your horizon first, before Taye Selasi dragged you through her narrative voices and Nnedi Okorafor capped it all with the finesse of editing. Alas. When the Gods evade even the Caterers, what can mere mortals do? The Gods work in their preferred miraculous ways. You wait …

It is 24 hours later, after complete doses of narrative voices and editing, there you are on the seat of honour, on the right hand side of the Gods, time well measured, ready, to broaden your horizon.

And man, you did! You successfully lifted the veils of hitherto obscured horizons. And that was how a two hour session, so engaging, swept past. It felt like the whole moment was a single stroke of the minute hand of a clock. Tock. The elusive of the Gods departs like a wisp as he had arrived.

PART 2: Festival of Gods and Men 

You draw out your festival guide from the pillage of books now rapidly increasing the weight on your shoulders. It says you will be engaging the fringes in the next few days. A headless barely naked figure submerged in gibberish on the front cover stares back. Art. You chuckle and flip through the pages. Gods from all over the world have gathered in Abeoukta. 82 eclectic world renowned writers will be assembling with much enthusiasm. You are at crossroads. There are so much of the Gods that they cannot fit into every discussion at once. The festival guide has split up the Gods. You have to choose. A strange choice: to choose sides amongst Gods, and fast!

It is a rollercoaster. Panel Discussions. Book Chats. Readings. Books. Books. Books. Gods disagreeing. Gods of Africa Magic. The Man Who Mends Women. Books. Books. Books. Hours rolled by. Days rolled by. It is some intense cultural immersion. 

Ake does not allow you catch your breath, it drags you with it, and suffocates you in a good way with fruits of the pilgrimage. And the array of Gods, they spiced it up with drama, with magic.

Of Gods of Hymens and Fucking Vaginas

Red-haired curls, vocal, fiery, passionate and oozing with humour. Mona Elthahawy hooked you, together with the audience, straight in the eye and let you know, she was here to talk about vaginas. Yes! So you better jump in. The audience ishysterical, cringing, like a biology class during your undergraduate days, forcibly trying to be comfortable with the idea that vaginas and penises are normal vocabularies. The entropy is pitch high. Discussions engaging. You realise then, that there are some 50 shades of Gods, and red-haired ones stand out, prominently.

 

The Ake buzz enters another gear. Acquaintances are made. Gods are at par with mortals. Impromptu workshops. Books. Books. Books. Readings. Laughter. Satire. Fictional Felons. And then you all HEAR WORD! Naija women talk true. You listen. The message resonates. You rise with the theatre hall as one. Applause. Applause. Applause. You don hear. 

At Ake, the buzz never stops. More doses of books, publishing, religion. Books. Books. Books. Sandwiched with readings, books, business, politics and an already tired governor. And then the poets take over. 

The Son, The Father and the Holy Poet

Once the Gods of poetry take to the stage, others just take a bow and blend with the mortals. You sit under the fluorescent light of the Poetry Evening. The poetry squad captained by the effervescent Professor Remi Raji blows your minds and brains out. His poetry squad warms the floor. With a gratifying and a well-deserved voluminous introduction the Coach is finally sent to the field. It is the moment you have been waiting for. Professor Niyi Osundare takes the mantle. The Holy Poet parts his lips. The hall is silent. You can feel the sound of his breath. He begins.

The Longest Love Poem in the World

Yes …

He saunters quietly back to his seat as the enormity of a single word dawns on you. You clap and clap and clap till your palms soar. Mixtures of emotion rush through your veins. You drift back in time 5 hours back …

… earlier Prof Niyi had captivated the crowd. Then, The Holy Poet recited more than a word. An emotional piece birthed in tears of Katrina. He rose enigmatically to perform. 

I don’t insult poetry by reading it sitting down. 

He talked of the books his parents read to him as a child, from his father’s library … full of yam. He touched the shadesof our conscience and responsibilities. The depth of our possibilities. Of muses and inspirations. You watched God of the Gods sway his words with awe. You swore forever to remain a poet. 

 

Right now, the adrenaline of the fond memories and excitement of mingling with the Gods of literature in Abeokuta still meanders around your heart. You came to Ake Festival a mere mortal. You left as a soul that is much more than that.

JONAH'S FINAL DRINK

He does not like the way they all trouped in with grim faces. It felt like they were on a condolence visit. But he has not died yet; he just lost a damn election.

The new set were coming in, feet shuffling in their flying bleached white clergy gowns, the sound of their slimly palms reverberating across the villa, grim-faced and ashen-stricken, their faces looked like they were greased with dark crude oil. He went straight to receive them with outstretched arms smiling, and behold his simple smile transformed their greasy faces washing away the slimy aspect. He transferred the Easter mood and spread it on all their faces like the sprinkling of holy water.

The group of clergymen broke bread and ate chicken, not turkey, with the outgoing President while talking about the virtues of Christ in this reflective season. The issue of the 10 million votes that miraculously disappeared between 2011 and 2015 was not reflected upon yet though. He was not going to bring it up on his own too; he was not a sour loser. He would continue to be the hero. He smiled and chewed on the chicken bone, and they prayed. They prayed for Easter, for Jesus for the nation’s emancipation. 

They prayed harder. He reflected harder.

Jonah not long ago had some of the richest pastors in the world, surrounding him, and earnestly disbursing prayers, cementing his every lizard-hole with it. He always knelt for their prayers, all of the lot. He might have been the president but President Jonah was a humble servant of the Lord too; not even a President is greater than the Lord’s cronies, he knew that deep in his heart. Yet those cohorts could not deliver his message to the Lord, with all the prayers they amassed in their private jets, none travelled more than a mile up to the Lord it seemed. One miracle indeed.

The full-stomached clergies kept pouring their own bouts of prayers though. Loud Amens collided with the humming silence, and the eerie reflections in his head with the warm weather of the Easter afternoon.

Even when it was clear the numbers from the south will not overturn his rival’s in the north, they didn’t stop cooking up dry facts. 

“Sah, we will surely win it…it will be a landslide” one would say. 

“We will win it again Sir…by hook or crook…” they always pointed.

Special advisers or special patronizers, he was staring at defeat, but they kept feeding him false altruistic meals; only the white-bearded general told him the truth, the bitter truth.

By hook or crook?

He thought of that means too. But why continue to fight when even God has shunned your persistent kneeling?

The clergy’s long prayers were done and the chickens were now merely bones. Finally, the issue of the 10 million votes he lost was next on the list. Diplomatically, in a way only the men of God knew how to, they began:

“What God has ordained surely no son of man shall drag with it. Mr. President you are a world hero. Yours is a story chipped right out of the Holy Scripture. We are proud of you, the whole country is proud of you, and even our Saviour is smiling at you from heaven”

The ordained fate. What even their Godly eyes could not show them though was that deep down he was happy, contented to be free. He was tired of the choky Abuja atmosphere. 

Aides, meetings, advisers blowing hundred different perspectives on issues into your head with none out of the whole bunch corresponding, all different simulations. How is one supposed to transform everything like that? Haba!

“Mr. President you have etched your name in Gold. Your attitude and humility as a leader is to be ascribed to, this singular act of yours has been unprecedented” 

Unprecedented. The new darling word that has now giving Transformation a technical knock-out from the lexicon of the villa; it flew around pecking him as he tried to run and escape its bloody bite.

“Surely you will continue to rise; this is not the end, for those who have done right shall rise to life. Behold, heed to the spiritual story of our Lord Christ and it shall be your own emancipation. May the peace of the Lord Christ go with you as you leave with only the best of intentions!”

Yes, it is all the doing of God. But he has already been emancipated. The elections were his emancipation. Jesus the saviour had saved him, aptly in this Easter period too. Jesus has risen with him.

Jonah can still feel the soreness on his legs, from all the campaign travels, all the prayers and all the kneeling. The pastors, the bishops, the shrines, the wizards; all of the shouts, wailings and the gibberish; the heavy breathing, bad breaths and all the descending floods of saliva and the rough hands manhandling his presidential skull. 

*May all your enemies die like Sisera! May those who love you rise like the sun in all its power!

*I therefore declare that His Excellency will win the coming elections!

*The Lord will return his Excellency to his presidential seat!

*There is no vacancy for The General at Aso Rock!

*I declare divinity’s decision to return Jonah to Aso Rock!

Amen!

And to think they all spoke God’s mind, all of them. Wonderful God, Benevolent God!

Jonah has no regrets whatsoever though. The meeting with the clergymen was lighter in mood, he thought, as he ushered them out of the presidential home. It was tenser when he met the Governors he recalled, but even then he was bold too. Yet he smiled. The smile seems to be flowing all too easily these days. It is the single bullet left in his armory. 

The Governors’ entourage, those that were brave enough to come, arrived sheepishly, like a heavy load was mounted on their arched backs, dragging them down. It was not like they were the only cause of his dismal failure at the polls, well even though they did contribute, but he was not half as grumpy as they all were. He actually has never felt as free and light as he was these days. 

Light like a feather, the spirit of Christ is with him, he has nothing to fear, nothing to lose. 

Jonah has been propelled up the trajectories in all his endeavours, all his life. Deputy Governor. Governor. Vice-President. President. Surely his Lord has been generous. He decided not to lift the burdened guilt they carried on their bent backs. For the first time he was stern in their midst. He did not even bother to have a sip from the bottle before they came, but, he was now ready, the confidence and the ego were exuberant, the Lord is with him. He told them off brusquely and blatantly.

“I’m not saying you should go down with me, no, but let the young people vote with their hearts, trust me you will feel much lighter and better spiritually when you do. The era of electoral fraud and manipulation should be closed; you will be heroes, win or lose. Just look at me now!”

They stared at him with jumbled eyes, like they were watching a complete maniac spiraling out of control. He was now a mad man to them, he has lost his touch of reasoning, just for instructing them to allow the will of the people take its course. Jonah did not blame them though, but his mind was made up; he would not be a complicit to any treasonable act again. And he shall not turn a blind eye to it too.

Silence. It was the root of my failure.

He had listened to too much of their nonsense, and they took his silence as a seal of approval; but when everything debilitated and rot, the sour meat is served hot in his plate.

It is all coming to an end though. His aides and their foul advices are already shy of the villa. It is like the General’s win has also automatically sacked all of those runny-mouth advisers, or at least incapacitated them. He is still the President though, and he will be presidential, as much as he can be, in these final days. 

No more sycophants and their rotten sycophancy.

Jonah gave power to his enemies, the real enemies within. He was his own downfall; he could not rise to the challenge.

And no more.

“That is all I have to say”. He concluded calmly with the Governors. “Do the right thing”.

The Governors left with defying optimism in their head though. Their eyes were sunken and hollow like the end result of a widow’s grief, the resurgent vigour of this mad man would not stop them however. But the mad man knew, his eyes are open now and he saw the Lord’s vision clearly, they would all follow his suit in the coming days. There will be nothing they could do about it anymore.

Jonah now had only one agenda. 

Hero. 

He has to continue to be the hero they have crowned him now. The people might forgive easily, but would they ever forget? 

He is leaving peacefully. 

Unprecedented. 

No bloodshed. No violence. He is the hero. Let them hold on to that for a longer while. 

Hero! 

The final peace shall reign. That would be his legacy. 

Peace.

He made a mental note of it as he made for the bar. He no longer makes a dash for it, he is free, and a man of his own will, but he needed the soothing warmth after the day’s bout of grim commiserations.

I was the most criticized, but now I am the luckiest.

He smiled, that transformed smile, dropping the cup aside and gulping the bottle of the soothing thick crimson liquor down his throat.