By Ayeni Adekunle
I have a lot of friends scattered abroad – Austria, Canada, England, South Africa, Sweden, and all over the US.
In the kind of environment we grew up, going to London and America was a future ambition for everyone, and I remember how most of my friends in Awori College planned to relocate, by hook or crook.
We had a few neighbours who came home once in a while to inspire us, with their smooth skin, flashy cars, nice accent and all. Those ‘who couldn’t find the time to come’ would usually send home photos of themselves, looking well fed, posing with a Jaguar or Ferrari. I remember how our eyes would practically jump out of their sockets.
‘Why are they all so stingy though?‘ We would wonder, because as we found out, it was absolutely impossible to get any cash from any of these made men and women. ‘London people are stingy,’ we concluded, promising ourselves that when God answered our prayers and we moved abroad, we’d never act like that.
We didn’t know jack!
In a society where kids grow up believing anything or anyone Oyinbo is superior, would you blame the kid who, when asked what do you want to become when you grow up?’ answered, with a straight face ‘I want to go to America‘ ?
A lot of my friends from College and University have since found themselves overseas. Many legitimately, many, through all sorts of means I can’t begin to enumerate here. And they found out the truth before me – that God did not create Oyinbos superior to the blacks; that the streets are actually not paved with gold, and you actually have to work hard to survive; that most of the people who deceived us with photos of cars and houses back then were actually jumping trains and buses and living in council flats; and they couldn’t spend lavishly because they didn’t have a dime left after saving up to buy economy class return tickets and duty free gifts.
That’s not to say there are no success stories. I know a couple of people who are making remarkable impact in different industries in Europe and America and Asia. But there are far more who have been lured to move under the impression that you’re handed keys to a car and a house once you get off the plane, and that you can just pluck some money from a tree anytime you need to. Many have been lost, unable to return home in their sorry situations, hoping a miracle will happen. With several years gone by and nothing to show, they look back, compare notes with friends in Nigeria, and wish they did not relocate.
My first trip to England was on September 19, 2006. It was my first time out of Africa. I was already a promising journalist, and quite aware of the opportunities here, so staying back was totally out of the question. In fact, a year earlier, when I couldn’t get a visa, even after being accredited to cover the MOBO Awards in London, I was so upset I wrote an article criticizing the British High Commission here. When I found out the problem was that I was young and single, with no previous travel experience, and they were worried I may not return, I was even more infuriated and I wrote my mind in one 2005 article.
When the opportunity came to cover the MOBO again the next year, I turned it down. It would take the intervention of my boss
Since that first trip, I’ve been privileged to see different parts of the world, either as a working journalist, PR executive or tourist. I’ve spent time with friends living in these places, and my sermon has always been: you need to move back home. Using myself as case study, I’d usually preach about how there are countless opportunities here, and how our people can’t continue to struggle abroad, living from hand to mouth while South Africans and Indians take over all the goodies here.
I spent hours on the phone with Jide Sotunbo, a university classmate who has lived in the US for almost a decade, when he called to wish me happy birthday last November. All I wanted was for him to see how Nigeria is moving ahead, doing great things in media, IT, banking, telecoms, agriculture and entertainment, even without basic infrastructure. ‘You can become a millionaire in a few months, legitimately’ I told him. ‘And even if you don’t care about business or money, why do you want to continue living like a regular Joe there when you can obviously come here and make a difference?’
Jide, like everyone else I’d preached to, saw my point. Yes there are opportunities, yes Nigeria is growing, even if at below snail speed. Yes, it’s a great idea to move back and join the movement to rebuild our great country. But, they ask, what ís the use of all the opportunities, if I canít even live to see them? Then they talk of friends and colleagues who have returned home briefly to visit, only to be killed in road accidents, shot by stray bullets from Policemen, robbed in broad day light or even kidnapped in their own town? They talk about the absence of basic healthcare, emergency services, the corruption in the Police force and Justice system, and how we have zero value for human lives…
The conclusion for most of these people is that they’re better off living in a strange land where, though they might never become a Dangote or Adenuga, they’re at least certain of basic infrastructure and guaranteed security of their lives and properties. And should they ever be victims of robbery or violence, they’re certain there’s a government that’ll get to the bottom of it, even if they couldn’t prevent it. They’d rather live in a system that works, even if they have to pay a price; even if they have to live with neo-racism and all manners of discrimination
I’d usually argue, blinded by my belief and hope in Nigeria. Usually, we’d end such conversations with me extracting (often under duress) a promise from them to at least visit first and see for themselves how things have changed.
I feel like apologizing right now. These past weeks, I’ve come to realize that I had actually underestimated the chaos and anarchy, the collapse and decay of what we call Nigeria. From recent personal experiences to shared ones, I’ve reached a conclusion that it may actually be better for those not currently here in this madness to stay where they are, while those of us here desperately fix this place or get out. Well, except those that have nine lives.
The tipping point for me was the murder, in broad daylight, of Irawo Adamolekun, on Friday January 11, 2013. I knew the late doctor, having been friends with his elder sister Ojia for some time. The Adamolekuns had lost another son, Imole, about nine years ago, following a car accident. Just like the 2007 death of my friend’s wife, or the shocking death of my father in 2011, many believe these deaths may have been avoided if we had better emergency services in place. And I absolutely agree. Maybe even my mom, who passed on in 2004 after being treated shabbily at the General Hospital in Ikeja, Lagos, might have lived. Just maybe.
Look around you. The stories are everywhere – men shot to death days after their wedding, allegedly by Policemen who should be protecting us all; citizens dying of minor illnesses because of misdiagnosis or fake drugs, hundreds dying in preventable road accidents and air crashes, kidnappers, robbers and bombers operating with reckless abandon, with millions living in fear and hopelessness while the government fumbles and stumbles.
Thanks to Channels TV, we’ve now seen the slum called Police College in Ikeja; where those who are supposed to protect our lives and properties are trained. Actually, that’s the story of every public sector facility, except those fortunate to have been rescued by corporate interventions. And you expect the Police to be your friend? The doctors to save your life?
I actually feel guilty. To think I had been convincing my friends to move back to a place where citizens arrive at emergency scenes faster than emergency teams. Whilst there, those ‘people’ scream and wail, while taking photos with their phones, as others help themselves to victims’ valuables. Those who decide to help usually put dying victims in a run down danfo bus, usually causing more damages all the way. The Police? By the time they leave where they’re playing Baba Ijebu, drinking ‘Shekpe’ or smoking Shisha, all that’s left to do is to clear the debris or join LASTMA in controlling traffic.
If there really was a country, I doubt there’s one now!
No comments:
Post a Comment