It’s an occurrence that should worry anyone. Five undergraduates of a university assaulting a fellow student in the most distressing manner. They order her to kneel and go further to employ varying instruments to maul her. It’s a sight that leaves one aghast. When I saw clips of the unfortunate incident, what repeatedly came to my mind was, “Who raised these kids?” How was it possible for young people who were barely out of their teens to imagine it’s okay to pummel another student let alone carry out the heinous act? The absurdity and sheer cruelty of the ambush is the stuff of stories we see on the Crime & Investigation channel.
Where do I start?
You would have been 72 years old today, so let me start by wishing you a happy posthumous birthday.
The past few weeks have been like a dream, one in which I have been vacillating between reality and disbelief.
As we concluded the rites of committing you to Mother Earth, I looked to my friend and said, “So now I am fatherless…”
I had always dreaded the day I would lose a parent. I wondered how friends and acquaintances who had lost theirs felt; needless to say, now I know.
I’m not certain I have come to terms with reality; the reality that my siblings and I will never see you in the physical realm again. But I know you would have wanted us to be strong in the face of what has happened.
And we are trying, dad. We are trying, even though it’s undoubtedly the hardest thing we have ever had to do.
But I reckon today’s not the day to slip into melancholy. It’s one to celebrate the exemplary life you lived.
If it were a football match, it’d be regarded as a haul. A return of four statuettes in any awards ceremony is a remarkable feat anywhere in the world. Like a sudden storm on a sunny day, Teni’s sweep of many coveted categories at The Headies came as a surprise. She has had a good year, but not even the bookies envisaged her outstanding success at the event. For someone who chose to jettison the script for female artistes, her wins and continued rise to becoming a force to acknowledge in an ultra competitive industry holds a few lessons for the discerning mind.
For many, social media offers a better opportunity to interact compared to the physical world. This is not unrelated to the reality that most people spend a significant chunk of their time online. Friendships, romantic alliances, and businesses are forged through the different platforms. The flip side to this is a growing unhealthy rivalry and pressure to be seen as successful. A trend that has given rise to the jostle for the “intelligence crown”. And so, everyone wants to come across as the most knowledgeable across every subject matter.
Disgust. Anger. Irritation. Indignation. These are only a few of the emotions that have greeted the BBC Eye expose on randy lecturers in Nigeria and Ghana universities. The demand for sex in exchange is a phenomenon that has become synonymous with our higher institutions of learning for decades; so much so that hip hop artiste, Eedris Abdulkareem shed light on it via a track that went on to become a hit 17 years ago. “Mr Lecturer” condemned the shenanigans of sexual predators cum lecturers in universities and polytechnics. Today, the story is not different, in fact, if feelers from undergraduates are anything to go by, then the situation has worsened considerably.
Na poor I poor, I no crase loosely translates to “I may be poor, but I’m not crazy.” The first time my mum said this to me while recounting an episode that happened—one in which she had refused to entertain a slight on her person; I thought it was a funny but apt expression. In essence, it means that in spite of a man’s penury, he can still muster some dignity. And more often than not, the insatiable appetite for the good life is not an aftermath of poverty, rather, it is a product of avarice along with the absence of dignity.
It was the umpteenth time she would be reporting him to his bestie, Chris, and as usual, Chris was full of apologies on his friend’s behalf and assured her she would never cause to complain again.
But she had heard this before. She could still remember the words of her would-be mother-in-law the last time she had walked him on them arguing.
“Ada, you need to be patient. I am not taking sides with Bayo oh, only that I know a woman who wants to enjoy her marriage will need a lot of patience,” She had said, waving her palms.
“But mummy, are you saying I should put up with his cheating ways?”
The palpable fear that has gripped the residents of Port-Harcourt is not unfounded. At the last count, no less than ten young ladies have met their sordid deaths in the hands of an unidentified killer. The pattern is as similar as it is curious: young women of a certain age range are found bereft of breath in random hotels within the city’s metropolis. Cause of death—strangulation. The unsettling story does not end there; it takes on an eerie dimension with the murdered ladies spotting a white piece of cloth tied around hand and neck. By now, one would have thought that law enforcement agencies would have some answers relating to these inexplicable murders, but that’s merely wishful thinking.
My mum once told me the story of how, during the early years of her marriage, a friend of her friend had expressed concern over her “apparent” childless state. My mum’s friend had stared at her with a mixture of shock and amusement. “She has three kids already,” she announced to this individual. It was their turn to be surprised; they had had no inkling that my mum had even one kid, let alone three. They had been so certain of their impression that if the new information wasn’t from one who was so close to my mum, they would have doubted it was true.
Individual mystery is getting scarcer by the day. Our lives are an open book because it is no longer fashionable to keep mum on one’s activities. The virtual community continues to prompt us to share— and we succumb— letting friends and foes alike into everything that defines our essence. Gone are the days when circumspection was an unwritten rule. The times when one made moves in silence are long forgotten, and though some people still hold onto the holy grail of a life void of incessant displays, these lots are a negligible percentage.