ON BEING NIGERIAN 2.0

Elujulo Oluwatobi

Being Nigerian goes beyond citizenship. It is a state of being. A state of being as varied as the many languages that can be found in the country. It is a culture and a real way of life. Sometimes, it can function as a survival skill; at other times, it comes with a mind-set you need to break free from. Still, what does being Nigerian really mean? Below are some of the thoughts that come to mind.

Being Nigerian, sometimes, can mean originating from one part of the country, living in another. Sometimes, it can also mean never having never stepped foot in your state of origin. It can mean living like a migrant, in your own country – calling one place home, but knowing deep inside that, it is not really home. It can mean staying in one part all your life and seeing other parts of the same country like they are different continents altogether (Yes, Adamawa from Lagos, by road, for NYSC, is that far).

Being Nigerian, sometimes, can mean having a semblance of multiple personality disorder. It can mean that different locations call for different changes in behaviour and, some, more than others (Lagos is a place that tests the different personalities you might have, in fact, the whole of Nigeria is in Lagos abeg). It implies being sophisticated with a pinch of razz (VI/Lekki vibes with a pinch of Ojuelegba/Mushin); forgetting that you’re actually one of your village people (after all, you’re from the same village; all my Igbo people are on this table, Ogun state people too); claiming sanity with a little tendency for madness on the side (Lagos and Aba ha!); thinking in twenty-first-century but second guessing in superstition (Osun made me do this, Edo too); driving past an accident with prayers but still on high speed (If you like don’t drive fast – when passing through Ondo, shey you have not heard of kidnapping before; Nassarawa or Adamawa, Boko Haram is in Sambisa but the armed forces on these roads will teach you to move fast – to God be your glory) and living in a system where innocent men can be put in prison for thieves to attain presidency (this is all of us abeg).

Being Nigerian, sometimes, can mean living life like it is a paradox. Something like a general love for jollof but wars and rumours of wars when it comes to tribalism OR a deeper trust in BBNaija results and Betnaija outcomes than INEC results. It can mean that going on a road trip can do wonders to your tongue from the peppery west, to the savoury east, to the seafood south and the sweet-spicy north. The central will just scatter your head. What of the super power of understanding our then President Buhari enough to feel disappointed, even though we do not hear a pinch of what is said. It could mean audacity where others would have none, like facing bullets with only flags to hold.

Most of all, being Nigerian is having hope, even when everything says no; claiming joy even when broken by a system; laughing even if surrounded by sorrow, throwing parties even when a bag of rice is turning into new gold; taking japa as a visa out of sapa and, yet, still missing this complicated home.

Hoping against hope.

What does being Nigerian look like to you? Let me know in the comment section or who knows, do me an entire write up as a response…

AZAR

On DEATH…

Do people die?

It seems a stupid question to ask when people “die” every day.

“Of course, people die!” might come as a reply in your head. There are accidents, heart attacks, plane crashes, fights turned murder, stalkers turned killers, a pandemic, cancer and a host of other rising statistics on the many things causing death to people all over the world. People die daily, so what is this stupid question I am asking…

In that case, I am forced to rephrase the question –

Do people really die?

Before your brain gets all riled up, take time to think on the lexical addition making up this question. Note too that this is not a statement of fact but a question. It is a question that popped into my head as I thought and thought about the concept of death at different points in my lifetime – in the throes of sickness, in the course of a surgery, in a period of hunger, at times when I thought about my life and pondered on existence, when I hear the news of another person down from something terminal, when I think about the fact that how we live is dependent on the whims of helpless sheets of paper. It is a question I have had to tinker on for a long time and which has led to a semblance of an answer.

My answer is this: some people die and some people cease to exist.

This is because “to die” implies that one has “lived”. In essence, to say that a person has “died” means that we are struck with the inevitable question, “did they live?” If they have not “lived” then, they just ceased to exist but if they have “lived” then, they truly “died”.

Still, how do we measure living? After all, there are many measurements to this thing called Life.

For some, life is living as brightly as the sun in the sky. They shine and they cannot go unnoticed in this world, no matter how they choose to move. They are created in such a way that they stand out. It could be in how they move, speak, cook, bake, write, lead, battle, fight, act, sing, heal and so on. Their lives ring a bell so loud that, at their “death”, all the blogs; papers; news reels; tweets and trending topics will scream their name.

For some others, life is simply becoming all that they were made to be, which could translate to the above or a quiet life. The beauty in this space is that their lives touch other lives and create an impact that outlives them. They may or may not shine as brightly but they use whatever is in their hands well. Hence, when they leave, the lives they touched do not just scream, they mourn.

For another group of people, living is survival, at whatever cost. In other words, they strive to be their best even if it means destroying others: instigating wars, poisoning minds and conversations, maligning others, plotting evil, dripping greed, watching the discord they planted from the fringes and collecting and collecting, draining others like parasites. Some do it so well, they kill while looking like saviours. Hence, when these sets of people leave, some who do not know them mourn but others breathe a sigh of relief that they ceased to exist, it feels like an act of kindness.

For yet another set of people, it feels like an insult to associate them with life, warped examples of existence. They exist to cause trauma just because they have freewill: rapists of every form that do not disintegrate from their wickedness within, oppressors, killers, the ones that add that ingredient that only increases outbreaks and sickness, those who plunder others to create generational poverty but who live in extreme wealth, the corrupt, the evil and those that exist as a pain on the living and existence of others. History always remembers them but their lives leave so much bitterness such that even death is loath to take them. Hence, the saying, “evil people do not die easily.

To me, true living lies in the second example and this might be a cause to smile, even though it is death we speak about. When you see that person you knew – eyes closed, breath snuffed out and you feel that rolling ache and pain inside. Recognise it for what it really is. It means that they died, that their life touched yours, their exit hurts, their memories ring in your mind and heart and if you could turn time back, you would. All these emotions exist because of one fact – they truly lived.

Still, this question is really directed at introspection. If your time to exit comes today, would you really die? Or, would you just cease to exist?

That answer is one that only you can give…

Azar…

Conversations, Vibes and Blue…

A bit of mystery vibes, conversational eyes and blue hues…

Sometimes, I think up scenarios in my head. By now, we all know I have a thing for all things romantic, so of course most of the scenarios are blindingly romantic ones.

Like when two strangers who live opposite each other, by the simple machinations of chance, go to the window at the exact same time one day and get stuck looking at each other there – the man, with blue china mug of hot tea and, the woman, with a book and her hands in her hair, just loosed out of a lot of crochets. I imagine myself as a passerby, just headed to an eatery down the street and looking up at a strangely coloured bird in the sky, when I get invited to this lovely scene. I imagine watching the man lift his hands and mouth “hi” before sitting beside the window to drink the cup of hot beverage in his hands, his eyes as steamy as the cup being lifted to his mouth. My eyes go all the way to the woman and notice how her eyes widen and her lips broaden into a full blown smile. I smile too and send special thanks to God for the chance to be let in on this very romantically opportune moment, until my legs connect to a big pothole of muddy water. “Ooof!” goes my voice, flip-flap go the ashy coloured birds around the area but when I look up, the man and the woman are unbothered by the rest of the world.

Sometimes, this is what conversations look like – a caress of eyes, someone’s perfume on the wind, the breeze playing with the texture of a person’s hair or just the colour blue on a mug going up to the most tempting set of lips. Sometimes, this is how love creeps up on us, suddenly; slowly; but sure. Sometimes, this is how we dream things up while taking a picture with a blue hue and a mask covering the rest of our face.

@Azar

Wild and Beautiful…

I love pictures and I am partial to words being used in such a way that they hit at something deep inside me. Writing and I have been at loggerheads, like two lovers who suddenly lost touch and who are now suddenly in front of each other, again, wondering if they would ever be like the photo that graces both their phones as a wallpaper.

Yes, that photo, the one where he gives her a piggyback ride and she is tangled all around him like a vine, so trusting.

Words and I are like this, standing right beside each other and looking at the photo but not touching, afraid; longing and wondering if we would ever experience our love for each other again, with the same intensity, like forests, like ixoras, like sunflowers, like roses, like the sea – wild and beautiful. I hope we do and I hope you get to experience it too and that whenever you click a link that leads you here, you always leave feeling deeply wild and beautiful, like love on human skin.

Photo Credit: @Allyphotography

From a never-ending-romantic-me to you….