FUNKE ADETUTU
It seemed unbelievable but it is true. At 5 a.m. South African time, the sun was up almost shining in its full strength. It stood in the horizon in its yellowish radiance. How amazing it was to watch the sun rose as the tyres of the aircraft touched the tarmac at O.R Tambo International Airport.The rustle movement of our feet unsettled the quietness of the big A2 arrival hall walkway. It was obvious that business was just being revived after some hours of midnight break. Ours seemed the first flight to arrive that morning, yet the immigration officers were alert. They spoke at the top of their voices. Sleep was no where near their eyes since they had resumed duty the previous night. The sound of their voices was pleasantly annoying, such that the woman in front of me complained bitterly about their screams. "What could be so exciting at these early hours of the morning?" She asked in annoyance. After such a long trip, the laughter coming from these women seated in a corner at the immigration point was not what anyone would like to hear, especially at that time of the day. "Why are they screaming at the top of their voices?" the woman continued, mustering some efforts to speak louder for someone to caution them. "Could someone tell them to keep quiet?" she said hysterically again even as the noise continued. "That's the way of life for the average South African," I replied, forcing a smile. I was equally very exhausted after the six hours flight. The seats on the aircraft were not comfortable for a tired limb like mine. I'm sure the same it was for others."They talk at the top of their voices. At times, you'll almost think they are fighting, whereas, they are engaged in a friendly conversation.""Well, that's how they talk," I again tried to explain. By this time, someone had already waved at the shouting group to keep quiet. They now spoke in low tones made audible by the quietness of the hall. Greg of Bophelo Tours and a driver from Sixth, a car rental outfit, were already waiting to receive the two of us from Nigeria at the arrival hall. We were driven to the hotel but on our way, we had a stop somewhere at Sandton to pick up Tsholofelo Mogale, a South African Tourism representative. The streets of Johannesburg were still as beautiful as ever. The sidewalks were lined with beautiful flowers and trees. Everywhere was green! "The streets are quiet today and the roads are free," the driver observed. "I thought there would be heavy traffic by this time because of the season." "Yes, it's true. It's good to have some quiet today," replied Tsholofelo. Our drive to the hotel was a smooth one and what the driver considered as heavy traffic, when we eventually encountered one, was exactly no traffic to those of us from Nigeria at all. The real traffic logjam exists back home on the roads of Lagos, not here in Johannesburg. "This is a child's play compared with what we experience at home," said Yemisi, a colleague from Nigeria. "She's right," I supported. "I was told the same thing," said Tsholofelo. "I would be in Nigeria in two weeks. I'm scared, but I will come all the same." "You don't have to be," I tried to calm his fears and at the same time tried to explain that: "It actually depends on the area. Traffic is not bad in some. You just need to understand such is expected in any big city like Lagos. It's part of the problem of a city with so many people. But the Lagos State government is currently working on some roads within the metropolis to ease traffic congestion." We were all consumed in our individual thoughts for the remaining part of our journey to the Melrose Arch where our hotel was located. I see the Melrose Arch as a mini city in Johannesburg. All that's needed for comfortable living was there. There were about three banks in the area, several cafes and bars, hotels, shops and apartments."People live in that apartment across the road," Greg said at lunch, pointing at a block of flats overlooking the Protea Hotel where we were lodged. "This is a comfortable area to live in. Those who live there walk out of their homes into their offices. They do not need to drive cars to move around. That means a reduction in carbon emission which is safe for the environment."When he said this, I did a quick survey of the area as we sat at the JB's Café nibbling at chips and grilled chicken breast. There was actually a toll gate at the entrance to the arch which served more as a security check point than a toll collection spot. The road runs through the shops and cafes forming an arch round the building where the JB's Café is housed. The residential apartment was located on the left with a café in front of it. Trees, flowers were planted in front of it. Much later at night, it was a beautiful sight to behold. The Christmas light glittered in the dark. Meanwhile, the sitting arrangement at the JB's was fantastic. But I noticed that each group seated around the table were mostly women, no man at all. The women spoke in low but excited voices as they shared a drink. They looked unperturbed at all. They were simply having fun. On the only table where I noticed two men, the woman (whom I earlier told Tsholofelo looked like Kabelo of Channel O), was talking excitedly at the top of her voice, the typical South African way. A day at a café at the Melrose Arch testified to the relaxation spirit that is synonymous with Johannesburg. Everywhere, there seemed to be a relaxation spot full of people who spoke excitedly in low tones. No stress or worry. They were simply all out to enjoy life to the fullest, I'd say.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Wednesdays, Fridays never die at South African embassy
FUNKE ADETUTU
This week’s article is a sequel to the one I did last week titled: In the name of the Father. I could not help but write more on my experience at the South African Embassy again.
I thought the High Commission would have improved on the visa procurement procedure based on the promise made by the head of the Lagos mission, Peter Malepe, at the South African Tourism workshop held in Lagos in June. But the efforts of the mission seem not good enough as several people who had been there had one or two gory tales to tell.
I still recall the how terrible I felt the first Tuesday I was at the mission to submit my application. The mission was already saturated with people. I later learnt from someone that some of them had been there several times yet they never had the opportunity to submit their application. A particular young man lamented bitterly about how he had been there for three consecutive Tuesdays. His category of application was never called.
Luckily for us, I would say. The mission’s door was thrown open at nine that morning. It was earlier than the actual time I was told by a friend, 10 am. That itself was a good sign that things were working the right way.
The consular officer who stood at the door wore a stern look that sent a cold shiver down the spine. “Deposit!” he shouted. The security guards at the entrance echoed the word to the hearing of the waiting applicants. “What does that mean?” I asked the woman who was standing close to me. “It’s for those who had been here before but had not paid the deposit required as a guarantee that they would come back to Nigeria after they arrive South Africa,” she explained.
“Medical!” shouted the consular officer again. I could make something out of this at least. The call was for those who were travelling to South Africa for medical treatment. After this group had been scrutinised, the next group was called. “Training!” the man shouted again. This time, many people rushed through the gate. I was furious with the people even as they rushed like primary school pupils through the gates. This angered the officer and he ordered that those at the tail end of the queue should go out. It was saddening that some Nigerians would never behave in a civil way. I can’t understand why they had to rush and be humiliated in like manner. On a second thought, I would not blame them since their past patience was unfruitful.
If you had been to the South African embassy before, you’d understand the kind of picture I’m trying to paint. The humiliation and inhuman treatment of applicants is disheartening. They stay out in the sun for hours waiting to be called in. There was even no hope that they might be since there was no proper order or arrangement for them to be.
And when I went there the following Tuesday, the consular officers simply called people in at random. He would just look at the crowd and pointed at the elderly, women with infant, and whitemen and women to come in. That’s just by the way. What happened that day simply showed that if you did not belong to any of these categories, you have no chance of submit your application, proto!
After I’d submitted my application, I breathed a sign of relief. But I never knew more shock awaited on the Wednesday I was to pick up my passport. I got there at 9am but the consular did not open until 10. There was still a rush that day as people were eager to get in. our receipts were submitted to the security officer who took them. We waited endlessly for our names to be called as the hours go by. The system was somewhat slow. The names were not called in alphabetical order as I had expected. The security officer would go in to bring the passports that were ‘ready’ to use his word. After I watched as people were handed either their receipt, forms, or passports with or without visa depending on the situation. After I’d waited for more than three hours, my name was called and my receipt was handed back to me. “It’s not ready,” said the security officer, come back on Friday.”
On Friday, I was there! It was the same old story. A young man was angry with the officers on duty when he was told to come back again. “I wasn’t to withdraw my application,” said the young man. This will be the third time I would be coming without getting my passport. The conference I’m going for in South Africa started yesterday and you are telling me to come back,” he complained bitterly.
That was the fate of an average applicant at the South Africa embassy. In fact I must tell you dear readers that I didn’t get my passport until I went back the third time on a Wednesday. The South African High Commission must put the right system in place very fast to ease off the stress and congestion at the embassy very fast so that the promise of come back Wednesday or Friday would be totally erased.
This week’s article is a sequel to the one I did last week titled: In the name of the Father. I could not help but write more on my experience at the South African Embassy again.
I thought the High Commission would have improved on the visa procurement procedure based on the promise made by the head of the Lagos mission, Peter Malepe, at the South African Tourism workshop held in Lagos in June. But the efforts of the mission seem not good enough as several people who had been there had one or two gory tales to tell.
I still recall the how terrible I felt the first Tuesday I was at the mission to submit my application. The mission was already saturated with people. I later learnt from someone that some of them had been there several times yet they never had the opportunity to submit their application. A particular young man lamented bitterly about how he had been there for three consecutive Tuesdays. His category of application was never called.
Luckily for us, I would say. The mission’s door was thrown open at nine that morning. It was earlier than the actual time I was told by a friend, 10 am. That itself was a good sign that things were working the right way.
The consular officer who stood at the door wore a stern look that sent a cold shiver down the spine. “Deposit!” he shouted. The security guards at the entrance echoed the word to the hearing of the waiting applicants. “What does that mean?” I asked the woman who was standing close to me. “It’s for those who had been here before but had not paid the deposit required as a guarantee that they would come back to Nigeria after they arrive South Africa,” she explained.
“Medical!” shouted the consular officer again. I could make something out of this at least. The call was for those who were travelling to South Africa for medical treatment. After this group had been scrutinised, the next group was called. “Training!” the man shouted again. This time, many people rushed through the gate. I was furious with the people even as they rushed like primary school pupils through the gates. This angered the officer and he ordered that those at the tail end of the queue should go out. It was saddening that some Nigerians would never behave in a civil way. I can’t understand why they had to rush and be humiliated in like manner. On a second thought, I would not blame them since their past patience was unfruitful.
If you had been to the South African embassy before, you’d understand the kind of picture I’m trying to paint. The humiliation and inhuman treatment of applicants is disheartening. They stay out in the sun for hours waiting to be called in. There was even no hope that they might be since there was no proper order or arrangement for them to be.
And when I went there the following Tuesday, the consular officers simply called people in at random. He would just look at the crowd and pointed at the elderly, women with infant, and whitemen and women to come in. That’s just by the way. What happened that day simply showed that if you did not belong to any of these categories, you have no chance of submit your application, proto!
After I’d submitted my application, I breathed a sign of relief. But I never knew more shock awaited on the Wednesday I was to pick up my passport. I got there at 9am but the consular did not open until 10. There was still a rush that day as people were eager to get in. our receipts were submitted to the security officer who took them. We waited endlessly for our names to be called as the hours go by. The system was somewhat slow. The names were not called in alphabetical order as I had expected. The security officer would go in to bring the passports that were ‘ready’ to use his word. After I watched as people were handed either their receipt, forms, or passports with or without visa depending on the situation. After I’d waited for more than three hours, my name was called and my receipt was handed back to me. “It’s not ready,” said the security officer, come back on Friday.”
On Friday, I was there! It was the same old story. A young man was angry with the officers on duty when he was told to come back again. “I wasn’t to withdraw my application,” said the young man. This will be the third time I would be coming without getting my passport. The conference I’m going for in South Africa started yesterday and you are telling me to come back,” he complained bitterly.
That was the fate of an average applicant at the South Africa embassy. In fact I must tell you dear readers that I didn’t get my passport until I went back the third time on a Wednesday. The South African High Commission must put the right system in place very fast to ease off the stress and congestion at the embassy very fast so that the promise of come back Wednesday or Friday would be totally erased.
Friday, November 21, 2008
The aesthetic in the craft of the Afingba
FUNKE ADETUTU writes that though modernisation has infiltrated the ancient craft of calabash carving, it still exudes matchless beauty
It’s a Saturday afternoon in September. The sun is shining in its full strength on Akesan market in the primordial town of Oyo, which is witnessing a flurry of activities. Defying the hot sun, market men and women haggle with customers over prices. On the busy market road, trucks, pick-up vans offload all kinds of farm produce that will later grace brownish stall tables.
Taxi drivers also hoot their horns to get the attention of passengers who are done with the day’s transaction and are waiting to be carried to their homes. The noise from the women, hooting of trucks, and the jig-saw sound from a carpentry stall nearby create a discordant resonance that only a local market like this could utter.
Diverse uneven paths pass through the fairly large market. Each path leads to stalls that have been sectionalised, probably by the local council authority for customers’ easy access. To the left are stalls built for pepper and tomatoes sellers; next to them are those for greens dealers, and another for sellers of poultry and beef, among others. All are closely built, yet each section is separated by a narrow path that hardly takes two people at once. But my itinerary that afternoon is not for any of these as it takes me to the stalls of calabash carvers known as Afingba (which means carvers of calabash) in the local Yoruba dialect.
Rightly so, the carvers are situated behind the huge palace of the Alaafin of Oyo, Oba Lamidi Adeyemi, the custodian of the Yoruba tradition. Out of the long rows of stalls occupied by the carvers, it is a rude shock to discover that only a few stalls are taken, since Oyo is known as the home of this primeval craft.
Baba Ibeji, a sturdy middle-aged male carver, is at work outside his stand with a makeshift extension made of a weather-beaten corrugated iron sheet barely shielding his head from the rays of the sun that sweltering afternoon. The holes in the iron sheets cast bright starry shadows on his bare chest.
Baba Ibeji works skilfully on one of the unprocessed calabashes strewn on the ground. Deftly, he uses a knife to scrape some whitish substance from the interior of the calabash. “What is that?” I ask him in astonishment. Ignoring my question, he picks up another knife which he uses to file the base of the calabash. With utmost concentration which only a craft like his deserves, he begins to trace out creatively, Ose Sango (the symbol of Sango, the god of thunder). He moves to open a rusted can, picks up an overused chewing stick and begins to paint the image, carefully tracing out the lines. He smiles with satisfaction as he puts the ‘brush’ away and places the calabash on a raised platform in the sun to dry.
“We use different materials in making the calabash,” he explains to me still smiling. There are different knives used for carving the calabashes. There is a knife called Ogokoo, which is used for filing the outer part of the calabash. There is another Gangan, so-called because of its peculiar pointed edge, which is used for filing its base that is deeper than other parts of the calabash. And then, there is Ifaa (meaning ‘puller or scooper,’) which is used to file the inside of the calabash to remove all the dirt. After that, the carvers decorate the calabash with different colours. “The Ona that we put on it is done by a knife called Afinna, (meaning designer)” explains Baba Ibeji.
The craft of calabash carving started from Oyo Ile, says Baba Ibeji. That was what the modern-day Oyo town was called at the time. It was a time when skilled carvers used to carve white calabashes for the Alaafin and his chiefs, including other Obas in the environs. Ancient Yoruba gods served as a good source of inspiration. And symbols of gods like Ogun, Obatala, Osun, among others, were commonplace designs creatively crafted by the carvers on their works.
In addition, different imageries such as masquerades, Edun, (the image of the god of fertility), Odu and Ese--- white strokes marked on the Ifa board during divination--- were common images drawn on the calabashes.
Today, such designs are rarely sought after by consumers because of varying religious beliefs. No doubt, the incursion of modern thoughts has influenced the efficacy of the Afinna, which has produced more modern designs. Beautifully carved calabashes with different religious inscriptions like ‘Jesus Never Fails,’ ‘The Lord is My Shepherd’, ‘Such is Life,’ ‘Happy Home,’ ‘Happy Married Life,’ hang on the walls of Abdul Raufu Ade Olaniyi’s store at the Owode area in Oyo.
As the secretary of the Calabash Carvers Association of Oyo town, Olaniyi’s expertise traverses many crafts like Sekere (local cymbal), Baata and the talking drums. He explains that civilisation has introduced a new phase to his craft.
“There are inspirational quotes carved into those ones hanging on the walls,” he says as he points at the moth-ridden wall. “We have the image of the map of Africa on the calabash. There are other designs like bell, common in religious circles. These are all on the calabash in different forms. There are some which carry the handshake design on them. What our fathers did not add we have included in the designs, because some images are no longer fashionable. There are other designs that people consider attractive enough and they buy them,” he adds.
Apart from the map of Africa and Nigeria, other designs come largely from the thoughts of the carvers. “The moment we are set to work with the Afinna, we look at the calabash and think of what design is most appropriate for it. The Afinna guides us on what to do which looks exactly like what we have in mind.”
Beyond playing its functional role as a cultural creation, the beauty of decorated calabash has been extremely commercialised. And it is widely admired and possessed by culturally conscious individuals. The subjective experience of the beauty of calabash often involves the interpretation of some entity as being in balance and harmony with nature, which may lead to feelings of attraction and emotional well-being from the consumers.
Although style and fashion vary, cross-cultural research has found a variety of commonalities in people’s perception of the calabash.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” says Toyin Isola, a collector of ornamented calabash. “I collect different calabashes for decorations in my home. My father is a great collector and till date, they are visible on the walls of our home.”
In its most profound sense, the aesthetics of these calabashes may engender a salient experience of positive reflection about the meaning of one’s own existence for the knowledgeable. As objects of beauty, the carved calabashes reveal or resonate with personal meaning because of the imageries carved on them.
The uniqueness of this beauty makes the other forms of the ornamented calabash, one of which is the Igba Ademu (a calabash that comes with a base and a lid) a functional saucer in the king’s palace and during traditional ceremonies. It is used by those conferred with chieftaincy titles to carry kolanuts and bitter kola for traditional rituals. It is also used for other traditional ceremonies in Yoruba land like the famous Osun Osogbo festival. The specially carved ones are employed by the Alaafin of Oyo to serve Kolanuts for his guest because of the beauty. “Traditionally, that is how it is done and it will never change. We do the ones for the Alaafin on special orders. About 3, 000 pieces were ordered at the last Osun Osogbo festival,” explains Abdul Ganiyu Alao, a carver at Owode.
Unfortunately, other modern items like plastic cups, bowls and food warmers have taken over the functions of the calabash in most homes. “In the next three or five years, modern items will no longer become fashionable because they are seasonal. People will go back to using traditional items like calabash. In the nearest future, it will definitely pick up again. It is a tradition that cannot be ignored. I’m sure by the time the market picks up again, we will sell a piece of the Igba Ademu that is currently N300 for N1, 500 or more,” observes Alao.
Nowadays, the contest is not only between decorated calabash and other more preferred modern items, as some consumers find the unprocessed ones more useful than the decorated ones. Modernisation has affected the craft in the sense that what calabashes were used for in the past are now being taken over by plastic bowls, cups, among others. In the days of yore, ornamented calabashes were presented as gifts to the bride but today, coolers, cups, plastic fans, and other sophisticated gadgets like DVD players, Plasma TV sets, refrigerators, top the list.
“The ornamented calabash sells more than the decorated ones because of its functionality,” says Olaniyi. “Many people regard the carved ones for mere aesthetics, but the unprocessed ones perform several functions. For instance, they are used as serving plates in the more local areas, soap cases, and for drinking water or palmwine.”
Well designed calabashes are usually the centre of attraction for tourists who throng the Osun Osogbo festival annually from other parts of the world. These tourists buy traditional items like the calabash as souvenirs. But Nigerians who reside abroad find a lucrative trade in the craft as is the case of Baba Brazil.
“The unprocessed ones on the floor,” Olaniyi explains, pointing to piles of calabashes placed by a corner in his store, “are ordered by someone who is taking them to Brazil. A Nigerian who lives in Brazil ordered for them. He is coming for them by the end of the month. We nicknamed him ‘King of Brazil’. He comes in once in two years. We usually pack the calabashes in crates used for exporting goods which he takes to Wharf at Apapa in Lagos.”
Madam Olajide, who is from Ogbomoso, a neighbouring town, has been living in Germany for about 10 years now. But for the past six years, she has not been to Olaniyi’s store to place any order. King of Brazil, who is a native of Abeokuta in Ogun State, is the only major customer that Olaniyi currently has. Massive patronage is what the carvers don’t enjoy at all as they only sit in front of their stalls daily waiting for one or two people who walk in to buy from them.
The demand for food crops like maize and cassava has discouraged farmers from planting calabash on their farmlands. This has an adverse effect on the carvers. Calabash no longer abounds in the farm like it used to be. “Calabash is a crop that is planted once a year and the farmland becomes useless thereafter, because farmers can no longer plant any other crop on it. But if you plant maize, you can plant other tubers like cassava, yam, cocoyam and others. This is one of the reasons farmers don’t plant calabash like they used to do in those days,” remarks Ogundipe Akinrin, a carver and farmer.
Despite modern incursions, the artistry of festooned calabashes remains unparalleled, and presents a standard of the ideal beauty of a primal craft rich in cultural history.
It’s a Saturday afternoon in September. The sun is shining in its full strength on Akesan market in the primordial town of Oyo, which is witnessing a flurry of activities. Defying the hot sun, market men and women haggle with customers over prices. On the busy market road, trucks, pick-up vans offload all kinds of farm produce that will later grace brownish stall tables.
Taxi drivers also hoot their horns to get the attention of passengers who are done with the day’s transaction and are waiting to be carried to their homes. The noise from the women, hooting of trucks, and the jig-saw sound from a carpentry stall nearby create a discordant resonance that only a local market like this could utter.
Diverse uneven paths pass through the fairly large market. Each path leads to stalls that have been sectionalised, probably by the local council authority for customers’ easy access. To the left are stalls built for pepper and tomatoes sellers; next to them are those for greens dealers, and another for sellers of poultry and beef, among others. All are closely built, yet each section is separated by a narrow path that hardly takes two people at once. But my itinerary that afternoon is not for any of these as it takes me to the stalls of calabash carvers known as Afingba (which means carvers of calabash) in the local Yoruba dialect.
Rightly so, the carvers are situated behind the huge palace of the Alaafin of Oyo, Oba Lamidi Adeyemi, the custodian of the Yoruba tradition. Out of the long rows of stalls occupied by the carvers, it is a rude shock to discover that only a few stalls are taken, since Oyo is known as the home of this primeval craft.
Baba Ibeji, a sturdy middle-aged male carver, is at work outside his stand with a makeshift extension made of a weather-beaten corrugated iron sheet barely shielding his head from the rays of the sun that sweltering afternoon. The holes in the iron sheets cast bright starry shadows on his bare chest.
Baba Ibeji works skilfully on one of the unprocessed calabashes strewn on the ground. Deftly, he uses a knife to scrape some whitish substance from the interior of the calabash. “What is that?” I ask him in astonishment. Ignoring my question, he picks up another knife which he uses to file the base of the calabash. With utmost concentration which only a craft like his deserves, he begins to trace out creatively, Ose Sango (the symbol of Sango, the god of thunder). He moves to open a rusted can, picks up an overused chewing stick and begins to paint the image, carefully tracing out the lines. He smiles with satisfaction as he puts the ‘brush’ away and places the calabash on a raised platform in the sun to dry.
“We use different materials in making the calabash,” he explains to me still smiling. There are different knives used for carving the calabashes. There is a knife called Ogokoo, which is used for filing the outer part of the calabash. There is another Gangan, so-called because of its peculiar pointed edge, which is used for filing its base that is deeper than other parts of the calabash. And then, there is Ifaa (meaning ‘puller or scooper,’) which is used to file the inside of the calabash to remove all the dirt. After that, the carvers decorate the calabash with different colours. “The Ona that we put on it is done by a knife called Afinna, (meaning designer)” explains Baba Ibeji.
The craft of calabash carving started from Oyo Ile, says Baba Ibeji. That was what the modern-day Oyo town was called at the time. It was a time when skilled carvers used to carve white calabashes for the Alaafin and his chiefs, including other Obas in the environs. Ancient Yoruba gods served as a good source of inspiration. And symbols of gods like Ogun, Obatala, Osun, among others, were commonplace designs creatively crafted by the carvers on their works.
In addition, different imageries such as masquerades, Edun, (the image of the god of fertility), Odu and Ese--- white strokes marked on the Ifa board during divination--- were common images drawn on the calabashes.
Today, such designs are rarely sought after by consumers because of varying religious beliefs. No doubt, the incursion of modern thoughts has influenced the efficacy of the Afinna, which has produced more modern designs. Beautifully carved calabashes with different religious inscriptions like ‘Jesus Never Fails,’ ‘The Lord is My Shepherd’, ‘Such is Life,’ ‘Happy Home,’ ‘Happy Married Life,’ hang on the walls of Abdul Raufu Ade Olaniyi’s store at the Owode area in Oyo.
As the secretary of the Calabash Carvers Association of Oyo town, Olaniyi’s expertise traverses many crafts like Sekere (local cymbal), Baata and the talking drums. He explains that civilisation has introduced a new phase to his craft.
“There are inspirational quotes carved into those ones hanging on the walls,” he says as he points at the moth-ridden wall. “We have the image of the map of Africa on the calabash. There are other designs like bell, common in religious circles. These are all on the calabash in different forms. There are some which carry the handshake design on them. What our fathers did not add we have included in the designs, because some images are no longer fashionable. There are other designs that people consider attractive enough and they buy them,” he adds.
Apart from the map of Africa and Nigeria, other designs come largely from the thoughts of the carvers. “The moment we are set to work with the Afinna, we look at the calabash and think of what design is most appropriate for it. The Afinna guides us on what to do which looks exactly like what we have in mind.”
Beyond playing its functional role as a cultural creation, the beauty of decorated calabash has been extremely commercialised. And it is widely admired and possessed by culturally conscious individuals. The subjective experience of the beauty of calabash often involves the interpretation of some entity as being in balance and harmony with nature, which may lead to feelings of attraction and emotional well-being from the consumers.
Although style and fashion vary, cross-cultural research has found a variety of commonalities in people’s perception of the calabash.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” says Toyin Isola, a collector of ornamented calabash. “I collect different calabashes for decorations in my home. My father is a great collector and till date, they are visible on the walls of our home.”
In its most profound sense, the aesthetics of these calabashes may engender a salient experience of positive reflection about the meaning of one’s own existence for the knowledgeable. As objects of beauty, the carved calabashes reveal or resonate with personal meaning because of the imageries carved on them.
The uniqueness of this beauty makes the other forms of the ornamented calabash, one of which is the Igba Ademu (a calabash that comes with a base and a lid) a functional saucer in the king’s palace and during traditional ceremonies. It is used by those conferred with chieftaincy titles to carry kolanuts and bitter kola for traditional rituals. It is also used for other traditional ceremonies in Yoruba land like the famous Osun Osogbo festival. The specially carved ones are employed by the Alaafin of Oyo to serve Kolanuts for his guest because of the beauty. “Traditionally, that is how it is done and it will never change. We do the ones for the Alaafin on special orders. About 3, 000 pieces were ordered at the last Osun Osogbo festival,” explains Abdul Ganiyu Alao, a carver at Owode.
Unfortunately, other modern items like plastic cups, bowls and food warmers have taken over the functions of the calabash in most homes. “In the next three or five years, modern items will no longer become fashionable because they are seasonal. People will go back to using traditional items like calabash. In the nearest future, it will definitely pick up again. It is a tradition that cannot be ignored. I’m sure by the time the market picks up again, we will sell a piece of the Igba Ademu that is currently N300 for N1, 500 or more,” observes Alao.
Nowadays, the contest is not only between decorated calabash and other more preferred modern items, as some consumers find the unprocessed ones more useful than the decorated ones. Modernisation has affected the craft in the sense that what calabashes were used for in the past are now being taken over by plastic bowls, cups, among others. In the days of yore, ornamented calabashes were presented as gifts to the bride but today, coolers, cups, plastic fans, and other sophisticated gadgets like DVD players, Plasma TV sets, refrigerators, top the list.
“The ornamented calabash sells more than the decorated ones because of its functionality,” says Olaniyi. “Many people regard the carved ones for mere aesthetics, but the unprocessed ones perform several functions. For instance, they are used as serving plates in the more local areas, soap cases, and for drinking water or palmwine.”
Well designed calabashes are usually the centre of attraction for tourists who throng the Osun Osogbo festival annually from other parts of the world. These tourists buy traditional items like the calabash as souvenirs. But Nigerians who reside abroad find a lucrative trade in the craft as is the case of Baba Brazil.
“The unprocessed ones on the floor,” Olaniyi explains, pointing to piles of calabashes placed by a corner in his store, “are ordered by someone who is taking them to Brazil. A Nigerian who lives in Brazil ordered for them. He is coming for them by the end of the month. We nicknamed him ‘King of Brazil’. He comes in once in two years. We usually pack the calabashes in crates used for exporting goods which he takes to Wharf at Apapa in Lagos.”
Madam Olajide, who is from Ogbomoso, a neighbouring town, has been living in Germany for about 10 years now. But for the past six years, she has not been to Olaniyi’s store to place any order. King of Brazil, who is a native of Abeokuta in Ogun State, is the only major customer that Olaniyi currently has. Massive patronage is what the carvers don’t enjoy at all as they only sit in front of their stalls daily waiting for one or two people who walk in to buy from them.
The demand for food crops like maize and cassava has discouraged farmers from planting calabash on their farmlands. This has an adverse effect on the carvers. Calabash no longer abounds in the farm like it used to be. “Calabash is a crop that is planted once a year and the farmland becomes useless thereafter, because farmers can no longer plant any other crop on it. But if you plant maize, you can plant other tubers like cassava, yam, cocoyam and others. This is one of the reasons farmers don’t plant calabash like they used to do in those days,” remarks Ogundipe Akinrin, a carver and farmer.
Despite modern incursions, the artistry of festooned calabashes remains unparalleled, and presents a standard of the ideal beauty of a primal craft rich in cultural history.
The Bessie Head I knew
FUNKE ADETUTU
By now, you should be trying to figure out what informs the title of my piece this week. ‘Who is Bessie Head and what is special about her,’ I hear you say? Well, so many things agitate the mind of a creative writer which attracted me to her works as a female South African writer. Head remains one of my favourite African writers because she writes with an extraordinary simplicity and breadth of vision.
Recently, I stumbled on her posthumously published novel, Tales of Tenderness and Power at a book fair. My first encounter with Head was about five or six years ago on the pages of her novel, A Question of Power. In a rather very interesting way, she gives the impression that she is an author who is obsessed with power. The power displayed by the racists; black men and women alike. For her, the love of power transcends colour, race or sex. It has more to do with individuals and their perception of it.
Tales of Tenderness and Power, a compilation of short stories, draws on the writings based on her experience in Botswana. It’s a reflection of her fascination with the country, the history and her people. She identifies with the people and their conflicting emotions. She is an author who enjoys observing, smiling and recording all her experiences, no matter how minute or insubstantial one might think they are. Her tales show her empathy for human goodness, tenderness and fear, plus her resentment for the misuse of power. The fact that power is not concentrated on an individual; is the thematic thrust of Head’s discussion in most of the pieces in the narrative.
Funny enough, she is a bit psychological in her approach to issues. She probes deeply into the inner self and affirms that there is no possible way of fulfilling an inward longing when the fight for survival in life becomes very intense. As humans, she really thinks we do not understand the inward life at all, especially since we are always suppressing it.
Another issue which I honestly find striking about this novel which I think it’s worth sharing is the fact that there are some female experiences that are universal. I’m speaking in terms of the universals and the particulars of some female experiences.
Head thinks the women of Botswana are the only ones faced with a strange dilemma, but she may need to know that this issue is not synonymous with Botswana women alone. It’s common to women the world over. One of such experiences shared by Head is that men do not feel called upon to love one particular woman. They rarely make use of feeling and they drift from woman to woman in a carefree wandering fashion. They dispense a gay, superficial, facile charm in all directions.
Since the depths of human feeling and tenderness are never explored, “let us have a good time,” they seem to say. “I am here today and gone tomorrow. Therefore, you have a choice.”
She also gives some reasons why few women choose to marry. It needs a certain amount of ruthlessness to cajole or force a man into marriage. Thereafter, he has to be fiercely hoarded, not someone to love, but an object to possess, like a stack of money, a piece of furniture. “Most women are repelled at the thought and never marry,” she observes; though they have large families of seven or eight fatherless children and struggle to raise them on a pittance of money they gather here and there. Among the unmarried women are great and strong friendships, free of jealousy and envy. No unmarried woman is ever a friend of married woman. The great gulf is fixed.”
What I find most interesting about all this, is the fixed great gulf between married and unmarried women. Like Kirk Leigh, a colleague said “The gulf may be due to the fact that the married thinks there is nothing to learn from the unmarried.” What Kirk fails to understand is the fact that the unmarried can learn from the married. And the gory tales told by most married women is forcing the unmarried ones to have a rethink about marriage. Unfortunately, most of them these days prefer being single parents to being at the beck and call of some husbands. Perhaps, it may interest you to know that Head herself filed for a divorce when she probably could not cope with the excesses of her man.
By now, you should be trying to figure out what informs the title of my piece this week. ‘Who is Bessie Head and what is special about her,’ I hear you say? Well, so many things agitate the mind of a creative writer which attracted me to her works as a female South African writer. Head remains one of my favourite African writers because she writes with an extraordinary simplicity and breadth of vision.
Recently, I stumbled on her posthumously published novel, Tales of Tenderness and Power at a book fair. My first encounter with Head was about five or six years ago on the pages of her novel, A Question of Power. In a rather very interesting way, she gives the impression that she is an author who is obsessed with power. The power displayed by the racists; black men and women alike. For her, the love of power transcends colour, race or sex. It has more to do with individuals and their perception of it.
Tales of Tenderness and Power, a compilation of short stories, draws on the writings based on her experience in Botswana. It’s a reflection of her fascination with the country, the history and her people. She identifies with the people and their conflicting emotions. She is an author who enjoys observing, smiling and recording all her experiences, no matter how minute or insubstantial one might think they are. Her tales show her empathy for human goodness, tenderness and fear, plus her resentment for the misuse of power. The fact that power is not concentrated on an individual; is the thematic thrust of Head’s discussion in most of the pieces in the narrative.
Funny enough, she is a bit psychological in her approach to issues. She probes deeply into the inner self and affirms that there is no possible way of fulfilling an inward longing when the fight for survival in life becomes very intense. As humans, she really thinks we do not understand the inward life at all, especially since we are always suppressing it.
Another issue which I honestly find striking about this novel which I think it’s worth sharing is the fact that there are some female experiences that are universal. I’m speaking in terms of the universals and the particulars of some female experiences.
Head thinks the women of Botswana are the only ones faced with a strange dilemma, but she may need to know that this issue is not synonymous with Botswana women alone. It’s common to women the world over. One of such experiences shared by Head is that men do not feel called upon to love one particular woman. They rarely make use of feeling and they drift from woman to woman in a carefree wandering fashion. They dispense a gay, superficial, facile charm in all directions.
Since the depths of human feeling and tenderness are never explored, “let us have a good time,” they seem to say. “I am here today and gone tomorrow. Therefore, you have a choice.”
She also gives some reasons why few women choose to marry. It needs a certain amount of ruthlessness to cajole or force a man into marriage. Thereafter, he has to be fiercely hoarded, not someone to love, but an object to possess, like a stack of money, a piece of furniture. “Most women are repelled at the thought and never marry,” she observes; though they have large families of seven or eight fatherless children and struggle to raise them on a pittance of money they gather here and there. Among the unmarried women are great and strong friendships, free of jealousy and envy. No unmarried woman is ever a friend of married woman. The great gulf is fixed.”
What I find most interesting about all this, is the fixed great gulf between married and unmarried women. Like Kirk Leigh, a colleague said “The gulf may be due to the fact that the married thinks there is nothing to learn from the unmarried.” What Kirk fails to understand is the fact that the unmarried can learn from the married. And the gory tales told by most married women is forcing the unmarried ones to have a rethink about marriage. Unfortunately, most of them these days prefer being single parents to being at the beck and call of some husbands. Perhaps, it may interest you to know that Head herself filed for a divorce when she probably could not cope with the excesses of her man.
Lagos street kids: Tales of dying dreams
Street kids are walking tornadoes that are badly battered and brutalised yet they are full of hope for a better tomorrow writes FUNKE ADETUTU
It's 10a.m this sunny Friday morning. The quietness of the Kuramo water front creates a sharp contrast with the usual bustling activities characteristic of this seaside in the evenings. Rusty iron carts litter a greater part of the expansive space at the entrance of the beach. A white coloured truck is parked few meters away. Young boys and middle aged men mill around it for no particular reason, it seems.
"Good morning, you need a seat?" a young man by the name Friday walked up to me waving. Before Friday could finish with his question, another young man, Benson walked up to me seeking for my patronage. Friday and Benson are only two of many young men who make a living by sourcing for customers for the tent owners and pepper soup sellers by the beach side. This is what they call the Waiting business.
With the aid of both men, I moved towards the entrance of the Kuramo beach where two men are seated collecting the N100 toll fare. "That's what they do for a living," Friday tells me. "I thought I could take you in without you paying."
As expected, the beachside is very quite at this hour of the morning. The only audible sound is that of the waves hitting the sea shore. The white plastic chairs that are usually arranged around the tables upwardly are now leaning against the circular shaped tables. It's a sign that at this hour business is far from starting until evening when the regular callers at the beach stroll in for a plate of pepper soup or two.
As I discuss with Benson, I noticed some teenage boys bent double by the weight of the load they are carrying walk pass. Their slim necks look too frail to bear the weight of the loads they are carrying. They do this on a daily basis.
"What are they carrying," I ask Benson in amazement. "It's usually pure water or ice block sold by the tent owners," he explains. It's shocking to discover that they are only paid a meagre sum of N50 for carrying such heavy loads.
Kuramo is a place where many young boys in their teens and early 20s have come to call home. They sleep under the cabin erected by the tent owners. Numbering about 250, these boys survive mainly on the pittance they earn from the menial jobs they do. Life in a shanty by a seaside like Kuramo could be really hard for a young boy like 15 year-old Dayo. He used to live at the Iwo Road Motor Park in Ibadan before he was lured to Lagos by a friend of his age. "My friend just asked me if I have ever been to Lagos," he recalls. "I answered no. He told me he would take me to Lagos."
The thought of going to the mega city of Lagos must have sparked something in the imagination of little Dayo but unknown to him, the hazardous life he was exposed to in Ibadan still continues in Lagos which could be more biting and brutal than that of Ibadan. Of course, his first point of call was Oshodi Motor Park before he migrated to Kuramo. This morning, in the scorching sun, as Dayo walks barefooted on the hot beach sand, he draws the image of an unknown man on a torn piece of Peak Milk carton. The folds of flesh on his fore head, caused by the heavy luggage he carries daily, make him look older than his age. Dayo could not recall the last time he saw his father yet he looks content and happy with his present state perhaps he has no choice but to be.
"He has just gone to deliver some bags of pure water to someone," Morufu Suratu, the co-ordinators of the boys tells me. Suratu has been living at Kuramo for 30 years. He moved to Kuramo few days after he was relieved of his job as a trailer driver for an unnamed company. He lives in one of the huts built with rusty corrugated iron sheets by the coastline.
Boys like Dayo have been forced to abandon their homes to live on the streets for different reasons. Daily, they walk the streets in search of what to eat or do to earn a living at such tender age. These destitutes are exposed to harsh weather conditions, malnutrition and those who hawk on the street have been knocked down several times by fast moving vehicles. Some of them who live at Kuramo engage in fraudulent activities, they smoke, drink and prostitute. These are habits they learnt from the night life common at the beach.
The story of 32-year-old Benson Adeniyi who has been living at the Kuramo beach since his teenage years is instructive. He abandoned his job as a fraudster to join the growing number of boys at Kuramo. "I used to live in Ghana and Lome until I returned to Nigeria few years ago. I was engaged in fraud while in Ghana. My clients were mainly white people," he explains in Queen's English. His command of English is quite surprising and he says he picks his English from the street. Even though he still resides at Kuramo, Adeniyi claims he has turned a new leave and he hopes for a better tomorrow. He is now into Afro gospel music and he plans to release his album soon.
Most of these boys are forced to run away from home for varying reasons. Some abandoned their homes because their parents or guardian are taking forceful measures to correct them whenever they go wrong. Others are orphaned at an early age with no relative to run to, while some others live with their parents yet they find life on the street fulfilling since they are able to contribute to the family's economy. These are children who became destitute as a result of poor economic family condition.
"At Iwaya, the community don't think they have street children," explains Gustavo Adolfo Molina, a native of Guatamela in Latin America who is currently on a five year project for Human Development Right Initiative, an NGO based at Onike, Lagos. They believe street kids are only those who are homeless. Yet they have kids who roam the street. Most of the families in this community don't have enough economic resources to bring up the kids. Therefore, they depend on their kids who engage in street trading to improve the economy. As early as 10 am, these kids roam the streets when they are supposed to be in school."
Aside this, countless children are trained by parents to become learned in the trade of begging. There are some who have taken to begging for their source of livelihood and the parents do not see anything wrong with this. It's saddening to discover that these kids deliver the pittance they make daily to their parents who sit under a shelter while they toil in the hot sun moving from car to car, begging. The real child beggars are from the north explains Marion Sikuade, executive director, Child Life-Line, a non governmental organisation that caters for street kids. They are not indigenous to the south at all and they see begging as a normal way of life.
"I remember many years ago going to a village near Kano," says Sikuade. "The village was near a big dam and we interviewed the wives of the Imam of the village. There were two Imams. We just went to one house. He showed us around the house. It's pitiable what the scarcity of goods they have in the house. There was a small girl who was blind. And she was then about nine years old and the wives told us quite frankly how well she was nearly old enough to go out and beg. And she would be sent on the street to beg and that will be the end of it. They will have to do that. This was rather shocking but it just bears out the contention that in the north they accept begging as a way of life."
The Almajerees see begging as a way of life and it is a system that is as old as the world. In this system, parents would handover their small children of about six, seven years old to a learned man, a Mallam, a teacher and he would take them to some urban centre where he would teach them the Koran. "They will learn the entire Koran by heart but they didn't learn much else and they had to go out to beg for their food. It is a very, very old institution, I mean they are common in, for example, India," says Sikuade.
Unfortunately, the Almajeree institution has been deteriorating very badly and it has become a way for lazy men to survive on children's labour. In the north, the Mallams go through the villages and parents give their small sons to them to be taken to an urban centre where they would be taught so that one day they will become Mallams themselves. "You may ask why do parents hand over their children to these wandering Mallams? And the answer, of course, is these people are dead poor. They have many mouths in the family to feed. So, I think again it boils down to the old issue of poverty. It is poverty that drives people to beg and it is poverty that makes people hand over their children in the north to the Almajerees."
The sad thing is that these children grow up but they are not taught any form of trade or craft with which they can support themselves as they grow up. And this is one of the reasons why in the north and even in a place like Lagos, it is very easy to work up riot because these Almajerees, the teenage ones, have no trade, they have no jobs and they are not trained in any way or in any thing. And of course, they are always ready for anything that will earn them little money.
Based on his experience of working with Archbishop Taylor Memorial School, a government owned school at Victoria Island, Barry Phipps, a secondary counsellor at the American International school of Lagos, agrees with Molina that most parents of these kids on the street are pleased that their boys are on the street.
"I have met their families. I have met their fathers and mothers. I have met their uncles and aunties and I have been to their villages. But they are happy for their boys to be on the street. It's not just a government problem. It's a social problem in that people don't take responsibility as a father, a parent. They are happy for someone else to do this for them," he says.
Molina's and Phipps' views reinforce the fact that the family plays a prominent role in the development and upbringing of a child. Phipps believes that street kids are on the increase because some parents would not be responsible for a child who is a product of the sexual relationship they've had.
"Where we are at the moment, there are so many boys on the streets. Each one of these boys has a father, mother, an uncle or aunty," he says. But they allow them to live on the street and these boys chose to live on the street. Something is going wrong with how the families bring up their child, how they take responsibility for the upbringing of the child. Boys of 13 should not be living home. Boys of 12 should not be thinking of living at Kuramo beach as a better option. Something is wrong with the society if 10, 11, 12 year-olds are choosing to live on the street rather than living at home. And that is my concern."
There are kids who flee their homes due to excessive beatings they receive from their parents such is the case of 13-year-old Dayo Akintomide who was transferred from the Ebunoluwa Foundation to the Child Life-line Centre at Ikorodu. He fled his uncle's home in Akure when he was nine years-old and he was picked up from the street with his younger sister whose where about he does not know.
"I ran away from my uncle's place because he was maltreating me," he says with pains in his voice as he paints repeated patterns on a drawing sheet. "I was picked up by someone who took me to the remand home in Akure. I have been at Child Life-line for some years." Today, Akintomide is a JSS One student at one of the schools at Ikorodu. He is good at painting and one of his works won a prize at school.
"There are at least some few small boys who for one reason or the other have run away from home mostly from beatings," explains Sikuade. And they go on the street to beg because they are too small to work nobody will offer them anything. So they just have to beg. But it is not often, it's very rare. You will find out that in some areas where there are many of the street children some boys will take on a little boy and look after him."
The problem is every child that is on the street tries to work his way to eat. The hazards that these boys are exposed to remains unquantifiable and they are all sort of laboured. Looking at these boys roam the streets, they all look useless but the actual fact is if one could give them a home, put a roof over their head, teach them a trade or send them to school to learn, they will become transformed beings.
The pains and psychological trauma that they go through is visible in the faces of all the boys I discussed with. Most of them wish to be reunited to their parents but more often than not this seems impossible. "These boys need the assistance of a psychologist. When I say psychologist, I'm not referring to a clinical psychologist, I mean someone who would be ready to counsel them. Their cure is not medical and it does not require any medicine. They need love and care," says Molina.
Phipps on the other hand believes the trauma the children go through is relative. "Yes, some kids may be traumatised by some things but these boys all they want is love, they want to be accepted. These boys I have, I have been working with some of them now for six months and they are working hard. I see them smile; laugh and they try to put all these pains behind them. They are not traumatised by sitting down and feeling sorry for themselves. They are not complaining or saying that life is tough for them. They wanted to be accepted and be able to take hold of what they can get."
The challenge before the society therefore is how to teach these destitutes how to maximise the opportunity that they have got. They need to be taught how to become good fathers and mothers so that the cycle will not continue.
"And if we want to stop this cycle we've got to teach them how to be responsible people in the family and to be democratic. We must learn to teach them how to respect and listen to each other," Phipps adds.
It's 10a.m this sunny Friday morning. The quietness of the Kuramo water front creates a sharp contrast with the usual bustling activities characteristic of this seaside in the evenings. Rusty iron carts litter a greater part of the expansive space at the entrance of the beach. A white coloured truck is parked few meters away. Young boys and middle aged men mill around it for no particular reason, it seems.
"Good morning, you need a seat?" a young man by the name Friday walked up to me waving. Before Friday could finish with his question, another young man, Benson walked up to me seeking for my patronage. Friday and Benson are only two of many young men who make a living by sourcing for customers for the tent owners and pepper soup sellers by the beach side. This is what they call the Waiting business.
With the aid of both men, I moved towards the entrance of the Kuramo beach where two men are seated collecting the N100 toll fare. "That's what they do for a living," Friday tells me. "I thought I could take you in without you paying."
As expected, the beachside is very quite at this hour of the morning. The only audible sound is that of the waves hitting the sea shore. The white plastic chairs that are usually arranged around the tables upwardly are now leaning against the circular shaped tables. It's a sign that at this hour business is far from starting until evening when the regular callers at the beach stroll in for a plate of pepper soup or two.
As I discuss with Benson, I noticed some teenage boys bent double by the weight of the load they are carrying walk pass. Their slim necks look too frail to bear the weight of the loads they are carrying. They do this on a daily basis.
"What are they carrying," I ask Benson in amazement. "It's usually pure water or ice block sold by the tent owners," he explains. It's shocking to discover that they are only paid a meagre sum of N50 for carrying such heavy loads.
Kuramo is a place where many young boys in their teens and early 20s have come to call home. They sleep under the cabin erected by the tent owners. Numbering about 250, these boys survive mainly on the pittance they earn from the menial jobs they do. Life in a shanty by a seaside like Kuramo could be really hard for a young boy like 15 year-old Dayo. He used to live at the Iwo Road Motor Park in Ibadan before he was lured to Lagos by a friend of his age. "My friend just asked me if I have ever been to Lagos," he recalls. "I answered no. He told me he would take me to Lagos."
The thought of going to the mega city of Lagos must have sparked something in the imagination of little Dayo but unknown to him, the hazardous life he was exposed to in Ibadan still continues in Lagos which could be more biting and brutal than that of Ibadan. Of course, his first point of call was Oshodi Motor Park before he migrated to Kuramo. This morning, in the scorching sun, as Dayo walks barefooted on the hot beach sand, he draws the image of an unknown man on a torn piece of Peak Milk carton. The folds of flesh on his fore head, caused by the heavy luggage he carries daily, make him look older than his age. Dayo could not recall the last time he saw his father yet he looks content and happy with his present state perhaps he has no choice but to be.
"He has just gone to deliver some bags of pure water to someone," Morufu Suratu, the co-ordinators of the boys tells me. Suratu has been living at Kuramo for 30 years. He moved to Kuramo few days after he was relieved of his job as a trailer driver for an unnamed company. He lives in one of the huts built with rusty corrugated iron sheets by the coastline.
Boys like Dayo have been forced to abandon their homes to live on the streets for different reasons. Daily, they walk the streets in search of what to eat or do to earn a living at such tender age. These destitutes are exposed to harsh weather conditions, malnutrition and those who hawk on the street have been knocked down several times by fast moving vehicles. Some of them who live at Kuramo engage in fraudulent activities, they smoke, drink and prostitute. These are habits they learnt from the night life common at the beach.
The story of 32-year-old Benson Adeniyi who has been living at the Kuramo beach since his teenage years is instructive. He abandoned his job as a fraudster to join the growing number of boys at Kuramo. "I used to live in Ghana and Lome until I returned to Nigeria few years ago. I was engaged in fraud while in Ghana. My clients were mainly white people," he explains in Queen's English. His command of English is quite surprising and he says he picks his English from the street. Even though he still resides at Kuramo, Adeniyi claims he has turned a new leave and he hopes for a better tomorrow. He is now into Afro gospel music and he plans to release his album soon.
Most of these boys are forced to run away from home for varying reasons. Some abandoned their homes because their parents or guardian are taking forceful measures to correct them whenever they go wrong. Others are orphaned at an early age with no relative to run to, while some others live with their parents yet they find life on the street fulfilling since they are able to contribute to the family's economy. These are children who became destitute as a result of poor economic family condition.
"At Iwaya, the community don't think they have street children," explains Gustavo Adolfo Molina, a native of Guatamela in Latin America who is currently on a five year project for Human Development Right Initiative, an NGO based at Onike, Lagos. They believe street kids are only those who are homeless. Yet they have kids who roam the street. Most of the families in this community don't have enough economic resources to bring up the kids. Therefore, they depend on their kids who engage in street trading to improve the economy. As early as 10 am, these kids roam the streets when they are supposed to be in school."
Aside this, countless children are trained by parents to become learned in the trade of begging. There are some who have taken to begging for their source of livelihood and the parents do not see anything wrong with this. It's saddening to discover that these kids deliver the pittance they make daily to their parents who sit under a shelter while they toil in the hot sun moving from car to car, begging. The real child beggars are from the north explains Marion Sikuade, executive director, Child Life-Line, a non governmental organisation that caters for street kids. They are not indigenous to the south at all and they see begging as a normal way of life.
"I remember many years ago going to a village near Kano," says Sikuade. "The village was near a big dam and we interviewed the wives of the Imam of the village. There were two Imams. We just went to one house. He showed us around the house. It's pitiable what the scarcity of goods they have in the house. There was a small girl who was blind. And she was then about nine years old and the wives told us quite frankly how well she was nearly old enough to go out and beg. And she would be sent on the street to beg and that will be the end of it. They will have to do that. This was rather shocking but it just bears out the contention that in the north they accept begging as a way of life."
The Almajerees see begging as a way of life and it is a system that is as old as the world. In this system, parents would handover their small children of about six, seven years old to a learned man, a Mallam, a teacher and he would take them to some urban centre where he would teach them the Koran. "They will learn the entire Koran by heart but they didn't learn much else and they had to go out to beg for their food. It is a very, very old institution, I mean they are common in, for example, India," says Sikuade.
Unfortunately, the Almajeree institution has been deteriorating very badly and it has become a way for lazy men to survive on children's labour. In the north, the Mallams go through the villages and parents give their small sons to them to be taken to an urban centre where they would be taught so that one day they will become Mallams themselves. "You may ask why do parents hand over their children to these wandering Mallams? And the answer, of course, is these people are dead poor. They have many mouths in the family to feed. So, I think again it boils down to the old issue of poverty. It is poverty that drives people to beg and it is poverty that makes people hand over their children in the north to the Almajerees."
The sad thing is that these children grow up but they are not taught any form of trade or craft with which they can support themselves as they grow up. And this is one of the reasons why in the north and even in a place like Lagos, it is very easy to work up riot because these Almajerees, the teenage ones, have no trade, they have no jobs and they are not trained in any way or in any thing. And of course, they are always ready for anything that will earn them little money.
Based on his experience of working with Archbishop Taylor Memorial School, a government owned school at Victoria Island, Barry Phipps, a secondary counsellor at the American International school of Lagos, agrees with Molina that most parents of these kids on the street are pleased that their boys are on the street.
"I have met their families. I have met their fathers and mothers. I have met their uncles and aunties and I have been to their villages. But they are happy for their boys to be on the street. It's not just a government problem. It's a social problem in that people don't take responsibility as a father, a parent. They are happy for someone else to do this for them," he says.
Molina's and Phipps' views reinforce the fact that the family plays a prominent role in the development and upbringing of a child. Phipps believes that street kids are on the increase because some parents would not be responsible for a child who is a product of the sexual relationship they've had.
"Where we are at the moment, there are so many boys on the streets. Each one of these boys has a father, mother, an uncle or aunty," he says. But they allow them to live on the street and these boys chose to live on the street. Something is going wrong with how the families bring up their child, how they take responsibility for the upbringing of the child. Boys of 13 should not be living home. Boys of 12 should not be thinking of living at Kuramo beach as a better option. Something is wrong with the society if 10, 11, 12 year-olds are choosing to live on the street rather than living at home. And that is my concern."
There are kids who flee their homes due to excessive beatings they receive from their parents such is the case of 13-year-old Dayo Akintomide who was transferred from the Ebunoluwa Foundation to the Child Life-line Centre at Ikorodu. He fled his uncle's home in Akure when he was nine years-old and he was picked up from the street with his younger sister whose where about he does not know.
"I ran away from my uncle's place because he was maltreating me," he says with pains in his voice as he paints repeated patterns on a drawing sheet. "I was picked up by someone who took me to the remand home in Akure. I have been at Child Life-line for some years." Today, Akintomide is a JSS One student at one of the schools at Ikorodu. He is good at painting and one of his works won a prize at school.
"There are at least some few small boys who for one reason or the other have run away from home mostly from beatings," explains Sikuade. And they go on the street to beg because they are too small to work nobody will offer them anything. So they just have to beg. But it is not often, it's very rare. You will find out that in some areas where there are many of the street children some boys will take on a little boy and look after him."
The problem is every child that is on the street tries to work his way to eat. The hazards that these boys are exposed to remains unquantifiable and they are all sort of laboured. Looking at these boys roam the streets, they all look useless but the actual fact is if one could give them a home, put a roof over their head, teach them a trade or send them to school to learn, they will become transformed beings.
The pains and psychological trauma that they go through is visible in the faces of all the boys I discussed with. Most of them wish to be reunited to their parents but more often than not this seems impossible. "These boys need the assistance of a psychologist. When I say psychologist, I'm not referring to a clinical psychologist, I mean someone who would be ready to counsel them. Their cure is not medical and it does not require any medicine. They need love and care," says Molina.
Phipps on the other hand believes the trauma the children go through is relative. "Yes, some kids may be traumatised by some things but these boys all they want is love, they want to be accepted. These boys I have, I have been working with some of them now for six months and they are working hard. I see them smile; laugh and they try to put all these pains behind them. They are not traumatised by sitting down and feeling sorry for themselves. They are not complaining or saying that life is tough for them. They wanted to be accepted and be able to take hold of what they can get."
The challenge before the society therefore is how to teach these destitutes how to maximise the opportunity that they have got. They need to be taught how to become good fathers and mothers so that the cycle will not continue.
"And if we want to stop this cycle we've got to teach them how to be responsible people in the family and to be democratic. We must learn to teach them how to respect and listen to each other," Phipps adds.
Our unsung heroes
FUNKE ADETUTU
Times are really changing for the best for Nigerian writers, if you ask me? Why did I decide to pick on them as my subject this week, you’d ask? I decided to do this for so many reasons. In my undergraduate days, I used to visit the ancient city of Ibadan since it was the hub of literary activities. In fact, as students, we were compelled by our lecturers to attend literary and creative writing workshops in Ibadan.
One fateful weekend, we travelled to Ibadan to see the Heritage Research Library in Adeyipo village. When the trip was announced we were excited, a pack of adventurous students that we were. We were equally thrilled by the thought of meeting Niyi Osundare, Adebayo Faleti and Akinwunmi Isola. These were names we met only on the pages of poetry and drama texts. We were eager to see them in flesh and blood.
When we arrived the village, what we saw surprised us. We had to sleep on mats laid on cemented floors. You can imagine how cold it was that night in the little village of Adeyipo yet we endured it all including the Tiun Tiun (a kind of insect) bites. We could not complain about our plights since nobody was ready to listen to us. Afterall, we were the one in search of knowledge. We were just another Dr. Faustus in that eponymous play of Christopher Marlowe. Yet, we were encouraged by our lecturer, who was with us. He admonished that lying on bare cemented floor was therapeutic for the body particularly, the back.
In the morning, we could not wait for the programme to begin as we eagerly await the arrival of Osundare and others. While the traditional dancers were performing, I noticed an unceremonious entrance of group of people. I looked closely at each of them and I notice suddenly, a man in glasses clad in a top made of the traditional Adire fabric. “I know this man,” I thought to myself. “Yes, the face looks very familiar. It looks like one I’ve seen on the paperback of a book. Yes, it’s Niyi Osundare, the famous poet,” I said to my classmate who hitherto was engrossed with the performance going on on the makeshift stage.
My classmate and I were utterly amazed by the Osundare’s humble disposition. We were expecting to see him chauffeur-driven in a luxury car. Alas, we were wrong. The pen profession was not just lucrative enough for its practitioners to afford such luxury. Combining it with a teaching job was even worse at the time. Akinwunmi Isola was not different either he was equally dressed in a flowing Agbada made of a simple batik.
But these were people we admired, we desired very much to be like. They were role models for us. We simply loved to be like the Soyinkas, Achebes, Amadis, Ngugis, Osundares, Iyayis of this world. We fell in love with them through their writings. We encountered them on the pages of their novels, poetry and plays. We respect their intellectual prowess and usage of words but when the reality of how poorly paid they were dawn on us, we gave our wish to be like them a second thought. Haba, I hear you say? That was just the simple truth. At the time, it was as if the name writer was synonymous with poverty, wretchedness but their names are well known in the continent some the world over. The trade was not profitable yet they derived joy from it, if not, I don’t think they will still be writing till date.
It did not come to me as a surprise when someone accused Harry Garuba of escaping from the hard economic realities of Nigeria at a reading held in his honour last week at Glendora. It was just right for Garuba, if you ask me, to jump at the teaching appointment he was offered in South Africa. Molara Ogundipe-Lesile, Niyi Osundare even Wole Soyinka are examples for others to follow since they are better appreciated abroad than at home. Many more writers and university teachers are looking for more of this kind of opportunities to teach abroad. I was delighted to see Remi Raji looking fresh and well dressed at the reading. The better times for Nigerian writers abound abroad and not at home since they are still very much the unsung heroes.
Times are really changing for the best for Nigerian writers, if you ask me? Why did I decide to pick on them as my subject this week, you’d ask? I decided to do this for so many reasons. In my undergraduate days, I used to visit the ancient city of Ibadan since it was the hub of literary activities. In fact, as students, we were compelled by our lecturers to attend literary and creative writing workshops in Ibadan.
One fateful weekend, we travelled to Ibadan to see the Heritage Research Library in Adeyipo village. When the trip was announced we were excited, a pack of adventurous students that we were. We were equally thrilled by the thought of meeting Niyi Osundare, Adebayo Faleti and Akinwunmi Isola. These were names we met only on the pages of poetry and drama texts. We were eager to see them in flesh and blood.
When we arrived the village, what we saw surprised us. We had to sleep on mats laid on cemented floors. You can imagine how cold it was that night in the little village of Adeyipo yet we endured it all including the Tiun Tiun (a kind of insect) bites. We could not complain about our plights since nobody was ready to listen to us. Afterall, we were the one in search of knowledge. We were just another Dr. Faustus in that eponymous play of Christopher Marlowe. Yet, we were encouraged by our lecturer, who was with us. He admonished that lying on bare cemented floor was therapeutic for the body particularly, the back.
In the morning, we could not wait for the programme to begin as we eagerly await the arrival of Osundare and others. While the traditional dancers were performing, I noticed an unceremonious entrance of group of people. I looked closely at each of them and I notice suddenly, a man in glasses clad in a top made of the traditional Adire fabric. “I know this man,” I thought to myself. “Yes, the face looks very familiar. It looks like one I’ve seen on the paperback of a book. Yes, it’s Niyi Osundare, the famous poet,” I said to my classmate who hitherto was engrossed with the performance going on on the makeshift stage.
My classmate and I were utterly amazed by the Osundare’s humble disposition. We were expecting to see him chauffeur-driven in a luxury car. Alas, we were wrong. The pen profession was not just lucrative enough for its practitioners to afford such luxury. Combining it with a teaching job was even worse at the time. Akinwunmi Isola was not different either he was equally dressed in a flowing Agbada made of a simple batik.
But these were people we admired, we desired very much to be like. They were role models for us. We simply loved to be like the Soyinkas, Achebes, Amadis, Ngugis, Osundares, Iyayis of this world. We fell in love with them through their writings. We encountered them on the pages of their novels, poetry and plays. We respect their intellectual prowess and usage of words but when the reality of how poorly paid they were dawn on us, we gave our wish to be like them a second thought. Haba, I hear you say? That was just the simple truth. At the time, it was as if the name writer was synonymous with poverty, wretchedness but their names are well known in the continent some the world over. The trade was not profitable yet they derived joy from it, if not, I don’t think they will still be writing till date.
It did not come to me as a surprise when someone accused Harry Garuba of escaping from the hard economic realities of Nigeria at a reading held in his honour last week at Glendora. It was just right for Garuba, if you ask me, to jump at the teaching appointment he was offered in South Africa. Molara Ogundipe-Lesile, Niyi Osundare even Wole Soyinka are examples for others to follow since they are better appreciated abroad than at home. Many more writers and university teachers are looking for more of this kind of opportunities to teach abroad. I was delighted to see Remi Raji looking fresh and well dressed at the reading. The better times for Nigerian writers abound abroad and not at home since they are still very much the unsung heroes.
Another trial of brother Jero
FUNKE ADETUTU
The on going flurry of activities at the Lagos Bar Beach has caught my interest for some time now. Out of curiosity, one Sunday afternoon, I decided to visit the Bar Beach on which bank I ran as a child.
I still recall vividly that at the time, the beach shore was a melting point of different activities, be it recreational, entertainment or religious. A picnicker, a goat pepper soup seller, a musician even a prophet found a place on the Lagos beach. And as if by conspiracy, they so divided the time frame perfectly among one another, such that none disturbed the other.
Day time was for flourishing church activities - usually when prophets embarked on soul-winning campaign strategies. They usually try all they could to solicit and persuade new members to join their growing membership. Night was for the musicians, Suya and Pepper Soup sellers who expertly arrange their chairs on the sea shore in expectation of the many bank executives who top the list of their patrons. Although most times, and far into the night, many of the prophets were often still seen offering special prayers in form of exorcism for members believed to be due for deliverance or is it spiritual cleansing? Interestingly, today, a lot has changed considerably, especially since the upsurge of sea waves that threatened the millions-of-naira worth prime properties concentrated just meters away from the beach and the erosion that washed away a greater part of the beach. Unfortunately, the concrete barricade mounted on the shore in response to the ocean surge has not really helped matters as the food vendors can no longer erect their tents on the sea side.
Funny enough, as I stood on the elevated platform on the Bar Beach that Sunday afternoon, I realised that inspite of the many bashings the beach has received from the authorities, the bond of unity and love that people have for this beach is still very intact and strong. People still milled around in their tens, some even had the chance to ride on horse backs. The Bar Beach, I swear, still has its magical effects on people like the River Nile that Tayeb Salih, the Egyptian writer, talked about in his novel, A Season of Migration to the North.
And the prophets, you want to know? They were their too. Unperturbed by the barricade, they still flocked around the beach in search of faithful in need of prayer. They were equally attracted by the magic of the seas, if not for anything, at least to make more money from the fanatical members. Remember the Jero character in Wole Soyinka’s famous play, Trial of Brother Jero. The play, interestingly, is the first of his three Jero Plays. The play, I recall, is a farce that focuses on four characters - Jero, Chume, Amope and a Member of Parliament over five scenes. The main character, Jero is a beach prophet who makes his living by prophesying the future of other working class people in the vicinity. Like Jero, the prophets were confident men, tricksters and charlatans. They were the separatist Christian churches who consistently exploit the ignorance of those who run to them for spiritual guidance.
But what I found amazing that sunny afternoon was that the prophets were not the only ones who have monopolised the seaside – want to take a guess? Okay, I’ll help out. There was a group of Imams who stoop in a circle, telling their beads.
“Wonders shall never end for Lagos o!” exclaimed a lady with a mouthful of ice cream. Prophets are no longer the only ones who pray by the sea nowadays; Imams have joined the train too?”
“They have to eat too now,” replied her friend who fixed his gaze on the praying group. “The economy is so bad that they now look for any available avenue to exploit people.”
Well, since Karl Marx said religion is the opium of the masses, then, the prophets are not only the jeros but all the people who flock after them.
The on going flurry of activities at the Lagos Bar Beach has caught my interest for some time now. Out of curiosity, one Sunday afternoon, I decided to visit the Bar Beach on which bank I ran as a child.
I still recall vividly that at the time, the beach shore was a melting point of different activities, be it recreational, entertainment or religious. A picnicker, a goat pepper soup seller, a musician even a prophet found a place on the Lagos beach. And as if by conspiracy, they so divided the time frame perfectly among one another, such that none disturbed the other.
Day time was for flourishing church activities - usually when prophets embarked on soul-winning campaign strategies. They usually try all they could to solicit and persuade new members to join their growing membership. Night was for the musicians, Suya and Pepper Soup sellers who expertly arrange their chairs on the sea shore in expectation of the many bank executives who top the list of their patrons. Although most times, and far into the night, many of the prophets were often still seen offering special prayers in form of exorcism for members believed to be due for deliverance or is it spiritual cleansing? Interestingly, today, a lot has changed considerably, especially since the upsurge of sea waves that threatened the millions-of-naira worth prime properties concentrated just meters away from the beach and the erosion that washed away a greater part of the beach. Unfortunately, the concrete barricade mounted on the shore in response to the ocean surge has not really helped matters as the food vendors can no longer erect their tents on the sea side.
Funny enough, as I stood on the elevated platform on the Bar Beach that Sunday afternoon, I realised that inspite of the many bashings the beach has received from the authorities, the bond of unity and love that people have for this beach is still very intact and strong. People still milled around in their tens, some even had the chance to ride on horse backs. The Bar Beach, I swear, still has its magical effects on people like the River Nile that Tayeb Salih, the Egyptian writer, talked about in his novel, A Season of Migration to the North.
And the prophets, you want to know? They were their too. Unperturbed by the barricade, they still flocked around the beach in search of faithful in need of prayer. They were equally attracted by the magic of the seas, if not for anything, at least to make more money from the fanatical members. Remember the Jero character in Wole Soyinka’s famous play, Trial of Brother Jero. The play, interestingly, is the first of his three Jero Plays. The play, I recall, is a farce that focuses on four characters - Jero, Chume, Amope and a Member of Parliament over five scenes. The main character, Jero is a beach prophet who makes his living by prophesying the future of other working class people in the vicinity. Like Jero, the prophets were confident men, tricksters and charlatans. They were the separatist Christian churches who consistently exploit the ignorance of those who run to them for spiritual guidance.
But what I found amazing that sunny afternoon was that the prophets were not the only ones who have monopolised the seaside – want to take a guess? Okay, I’ll help out. There was a group of Imams who stoop in a circle, telling their beads.
“Wonders shall never end for Lagos o!” exclaimed a lady with a mouthful of ice cream. Prophets are no longer the only ones who pray by the sea nowadays; Imams have joined the train too?”
“They have to eat too now,” replied her friend who fixed his gaze on the praying group. “The economy is so bad that they now look for any available avenue to exploit people.”
Well, since Karl Marx said religion is the opium of the masses, then, the prophets are not only the jeros but all the people who flock after them.
Timeless value of Adire
FUNKE ADETUTU writes that while Adire is a timeless fabric that has traversed the Nigerian shores, several factors make it a thorn in the flesh of local crafters
It is midday. The eerie quietness characteristic of this hour swoops down on the festooned market of Itoku in the rocky town of Abeokuta. The noise of the marketplace is drowned in the quietness of the hour, making it seem as if market is just picking up. But many traders, it seems, are smiling to the bank already.
A sloppy bend leads to the Adire section of the Itoku market from the adjoining Sapon road. Each side of the bend is lined with stalls made of corrugated iron sheets. Most of these stalls are packed full of different Adire fabrics that are the hallmarks of this ancient town. To the right in-between the booths, a narrow path leads to an open space where the local manufacturers of the Adire are situated.
Against this background, Fatima Adigun is working on a piece of fabric that has been soaked in the steaming dye solution called Aro in the local parlance. Her black brow is puckered in a furrow as she raises the fabric from the pail, smacking her lips in the process. To her left, a young boy is working on a piece of batik material. He places a wooden platform on which the pattern has been neatly crafted on the peach-coloured material, forming a sequential design in the process.
A few yards away, a middle-aged man is pouring a fresh dye solution into a blackened drum placed on a huge fire. He picks up a white linen material which he neatly spreads across a hackneyed dye-stained table, and begins to tie the edges in bits with a long string.
It’s quite amazing all the Adire fabrics gracing shops on the major road are produced in this little space. The settlement is made up of different families who turn out their works in bits, after which they are sold to the wholesalers who also double as retailers.
Madam Olorunse is the female family head of Agbo Ile Fatoki at the Kenta Odutola district, Itoku. She has been in the Adire business for 40 years. This afternoon, she sits atop a wooden stool under a timber makeshift shelter by the side of her home. Work is about to begin for the group of women she supervises. A bagful of blue-coloured powdery substance is placed in front of her and she carefully measures the required quantity into another polythene bag. Holding tightly the loose ends of the bag, she shakes it rigorously. She turns it over with both hands and looks intently at the mixture before she passes it to a young woman who has been sitting in front of her. She wipes her eyes with the edge of her wrapper, sniffles as the dusty particles enter them. Her eyes are red but they appear to perspire rather than tear.
“The first step is to get a large quantity of water to which we’ll add the Aro and other chemicals plus hot water,” Madam Olorunise tells me as she raises up her dye-soaked hands. “We know the right colour, depending on the kind of the Aro that we purchase.” Purple, green, golden, wine, are the popular colours in high demand. Therefore, they know the right kind of Aro to buy. The one with a more pronounced clarity on the water surface is the original, while the inferior kind is called Aro eni.
Adire as a trade began many years ago with the Alabere (knitters) who are also called Olowo odi in the local Yoruba language (the leftist), explains Madam Isiwatu Akinjobi, a shop owner at Itoku who has been in the trade for 50 years. The designs wrought on the Adire fabric vary and it started with Alaro Dudu in those days. There are some called Oniko, (the strings), while there are some others folded into neat pieces. There are some called Alakete (raffia). After the patterns have been carefully sketched on the fabric, it is soaked in the dye solution.
“First, we fold the material, like this for the Eleko (pap) design,” she explains, pointing at a blue-coloured fabric with a comb design on it. “We apply the pap on the textile via a flat piece of metal on which the patterns are neatly drawn.”
In the days of yore when the trade began, machines were nowhere. The crafters used their hands to make all the unique designs. At the time, any error on the fabric is regarded as a style. It comes out with this unusual uniqueness which cannot be ignored. Today, there are more modern designs created by the ingenuity of these local manufacturers with the aid of technology.
38-year-old Abisola Busa is the manager of Alhaja Lateefat Ogunyomi Trading Store. It is so-called because her mother started the business and does not want the trademark to go into extinction. Perhaps, she has one of the largest well-stocked stores with modern designs at Itoku. As someone who has experimented with both old and new designs, Busa explains that technology has taken over even the production of Adire, although it is not on a large scale. Therefore, they are inspired by foreign Ankara materials imported from other parts of Africa like Ghana.
“Most of the designs we do now, we look at the Ankara. We go to the market to see all these Ghana wax. We look at the design and think of how we can bring the design into Adire,” she says.
The difference between the old and modern designs, explains Busa, is that the uniqueness in the old designs are visible as most are handmade, unlike contemporary ones made with machines. “Our mothers sit down then, they don’t work. It is when their husbands go to the farm that they use their thread to do most of these things. When you see them, you see the uniqueness in the designs.”
Akinjobi agrees with Busa that the geometric symbols common in those days are no longer appealing to a segment of the market. “The ones founded by our mothers are different. We have modern ones that we created ourselves like the comb, Eleko designs because we realise that the taste of our customers are changing. There are some that we made with Jacquard material that we fold on the ground before we soak them in dye,” observes Akinjobi.
The crusade started by the Obasanjo administration towards encouraging the use of locally manufactured textile at all levels has helped bring back to limelight traditional fabric like Adire. This has forced many Nigerian designers to look inwards rather than outward to source for materials. Hence, there is a promising future for the Adire fabric as its designs traverse the shores of Nigeria. Most well-known local designers like Frank Oshodi, Ade Bakare, Remi Lagos, among others, have taken the Adire fabric to another level internationally.
“My collections always reflect my cultural heritage and historically relevant symbols that convey nostalgic messages. I also use a variety of interesting styles of Tie and Dye that are influenced strongly by traditional Nigerian printing and dying techniques,” says Oluremi Osholake, manageress, Remi Lagos.
Meanwhile, the business of Adire is expanding by the day, which the high influx of customers across the world testifies to. Busa has a customer in Jos, Plateau State, who buys Adire in large quantity. She uses them to make sandals, bags and toys which she exports.
“Patronage has been very encouraging,” Busa says, smiling. “I have a large order placed by some people who want to do weddings. They need it for Aso ebi (family traditional clothing). Many people are tired of Ankara or lace brocade. They need a change of taste. The laces are too expensive for most people, and they are not as durable as the Adire because they tend to fade off with time. They believe it’s not worth the trouble to spend so much on that kind of material.”
Though statistics indicate that the global textile production will grow by 25 percent in 2020; to which the Asian region will largely contribute, Nigeria seems to be nowhere near this. Countries like Asia have become a hub of textile trade after the abolition of the quota regime, since the start of 2005.
The challenge, therefore, is for government to assist local manufacturers like Madam Olorunise to have a solid value added textile base and invest heavily in the spinning sector. “Our trade suffers a great deal because government has not stepped in to assist us. If they had assisted us, the market for Adire would have gone beyond what is obtainable now. We need government to help us get the materials and expand this market. We need them to build a more modern and organised market for us. It will become a tourist centre where people can be conducted around and can have a first-hand experience of how it is produced,” says Busa.
The pain for Madam Olorunise is that government has not kept its promise to sink boreholes or provide pipe borne water for the community, since water is very crucial to her trade. “It’s been three years that we have told government our needs, but it is yet to do anything about it. There was a time that it promised to buy Aro for us which it is yet to do. We are just tired of airing our problems since they have not done anything to help us in the past,” she laments.
Traders also express displeasure at the ban placed on the importation of some chemicals used in making their products. Most of these products are smuggled into the country via Lagos and Kano.
“Adire business is a good one that government must really show interest in. The materials that we are using to make adire are contraband because none of them is being produced in Nigeria. By the time we travel to Lagos or Kano to get those materials, we encounter difficulties. We want government to look into that issue for us. We use brocade and some of them are manufactured outside the country. We also use foil which is not produced here in Nigeria,” says Akinjobi.
It is midday. The eerie quietness characteristic of this hour swoops down on the festooned market of Itoku in the rocky town of Abeokuta. The noise of the marketplace is drowned in the quietness of the hour, making it seem as if market is just picking up. But many traders, it seems, are smiling to the bank already.
A sloppy bend leads to the Adire section of the Itoku market from the adjoining Sapon road. Each side of the bend is lined with stalls made of corrugated iron sheets. Most of these stalls are packed full of different Adire fabrics that are the hallmarks of this ancient town. To the right in-between the booths, a narrow path leads to an open space where the local manufacturers of the Adire are situated.
Against this background, Fatima Adigun is working on a piece of fabric that has been soaked in the steaming dye solution called Aro in the local parlance. Her black brow is puckered in a furrow as she raises the fabric from the pail, smacking her lips in the process. To her left, a young boy is working on a piece of batik material. He places a wooden platform on which the pattern has been neatly crafted on the peach-coloured material, forming a sequential design in the process.
A few yards away, a middle-aged man is pouring a fresh dye solution into a blackened drum placed on a huge fire. He picks up a white linen material which he neatly spreads across a hackneyed dye-stained table, and begins to tie the edges in bits with a long string.
It’s quite amazing all the Adire fabrics gracing shops on the major road are produced in this little space. The settlement is made up of different families who turn out their works in bits, after which they are sold to the wholesalers who also double as retailers.
Madam Olorunse is the female family head of Agbo Ile Fatoki at the Kenta Odutola district, Itoku. She has been in the Adire business for 40 years. This afternoon, she sits atop a wooden stool under a timber makeshift shelter by the side of her home. Work is about to begin for the group of women she supervises. A bagful of blue-coloured powdery substance is placed in front of her and she carefully measures the required quantity into another polythene bag. Holding tightly the loose ends of the bag, she shakes it rigorously. She turns it over with both hands and looks intently at the mixture before she passes it to a young woman who has been sitting in front of her. She wipes her eyes with the edge of her wrapper, sniffles as the dusty particles enter them. Her eyes are red but they appear to perspire rather than tear.
“The first step is to get a large quantity of water to which we’ll add the Aro and other chemicals plus hot water,” Madam Olorunise tells me as she raises up her dye-soaked hands. “We know the right colour, depending on the kind of the Aro that we purchase.” Purple, green, golden, wine, are the popular colours in high demand. Therefore, they know the right kind of Aro to buy. The one with a more pronounced clarity on the water surface is the original, while the inferior kind is called Aro eni.
Adire as a trade began many years ago with the Alabere (knitters) who are also called Olowo odi in the local Yoruba language (the leftist), explains Madam Isiwatu Akinjobi, a shop owner at Itoku who has been in the trade for 50 years. The designs wrought on the Adire fabric vary and it started with Alaro Dudu in those days. There are some called Oniko, (the strings), while there are some others folded into neat pieces. There are some called Alakete (raffia). After the patterns have been carefully sketched on the fabric, it is soaked in the dye solution.
“First, we fold the material, like this for the Eleko (pap) design,” she explains, pointing at a blue-coloured fabric with a comb design on it. “We apply the pap on the textile via a flat piece of metal on which the patterns are neatly drawn.”
In the days of yore when the trade began, machines were nowhere. The crafters used their hands to make all the unique designs. At the time, any error on the fabric is regarded as a style. It comes out with this unusual uniqueness which cannot be ignored. Today, there are more modern designs created by the ingenuity of these local manufacturers with the aid of technology.
38-year-old Abisola Busa is the manager of Alhaja Lateefat Ogunyomi Trading Store. It is so-called because her mother started the business and does not want the trademark to go into extinction. Perhaps, she has one of the largest well-stocked stores with modern designs at Itoku. As someone who has experimented with both old and new designs, Busa explains that technology has taken over even the production of Adire, although it is not on a large scale. Therefore, they are inspired by foreign Ankara materials imported from other parts of Africa like Ghana.
“Most of the designs we do now, we look at the Ankara. We go to the market to see all these Ghana wax. We look at the design and think of how we can bring the design into Adire,” she says.
The difference between the old and modern designs, explains Busa, is that the uniqueness in the old designs are visible as most are handmade, unlike contemporary ones made with machines. “Our mothers sit down then, they don’t work. It is when their husbands go to the farm that they use their thread to do most of these things. When you see them, you see the uniqueness in the designs.”
Akinjobi agrees with Busa that the geometric symbols common in those days are no longer appealing to a segment of the market. “The ones founded by our mothers are different. We have modern ones that we created ourselves like the comb, Eleko designs because we realise that the taste of our customers are changing. There are some that we made with Jacquard material that we fold on the ground before we soak them in dye,” observes Akinjobi.
The crusade started by the Obasanjo administration towards encouraging the use of locally manufactured textile at all levels has helped bring back to limelight traditional fabric like Adire. This has forced many Nigerian designers to look inwards rather than outward to source for materials. Hence, there is a promising future for the Adire fabric as its designs traverse the shores of Nigeria. Most well-known local designers like Frank Oshodi, Ade Bakare, Remi Lagos, among others, have taken the Adire fabric to another level internationally.
“My collections always reflect my cultural heritage and historically relevant symbols that convey nostalgic messages. I also use a variety of interesting styles of Tie and Dye that are influenced strongly by traditional Nigerian printing and dying techniques,” says Oluremi Osholake, manageress, Remi Lagos.
Meanwhile, the business of Adire is expanding by the day, which the high influx of customers across the world testifies to. Busa has a customer in Jos, Plateau State, who buys Adire in large quantity. She uses them to make sandals, bags and toys which she exports.
“Patronage has been very encouraging,” Busa says, smiling. “I have a large order placed by some people who want to do weddings. They need it for Aso ebi (family traditional clothing). Many people are tired of Ankara or lace brocade. They need a change of taste. The laces are too expensive for most people, and they are not as durable as the Adire because they tend to fade off with time. They believe it’s not worth the trouble to spend so much on that kind of material.”
Though statistics indicate that the global textile production will grow by 25 percent in 2020; to which the Asian region will largely contribute, Nigeria seems to be nowhere near this. Countries like Asia have become a hub of textile trade after the abolition of the quota regime, since the start of 2005.
The challenge, therefore, is for government to assist local manufacturers like Madam Olorunise to have a solid value added textile base and invest heavily in the spinning sector. “Our trade suffers a great deal because government has not stepped in to assist us. If they had assisted us, the market for Adire would have gone beyond what is obtainable now. We need government to help us get the materials and expand this market. We need them to build a more modern and organised market for us. It will become a tourist centre where people can be conducted around and can have a first-hand experience of how it is produced,” says Busa.
The pain for Madam Olorunise is that government has not kept its promise to sink boreholes or provide pipe borne water for the community, since water is very crucial to her trade. “It’s been three years that we have told government our needs, but it is yet to do anything about it. There was a time that it promised to buy Aro for us which it is yet to do. We are just tired of airing our problems since they have not done anything to help us in the past,” she laments.
Traders also express displeasure at the ban placed on the importation of some chemicals used in making their products. Most of these products are smuggled into the country via Lagos and Kano.
“Adire business is a good one that government must really show interest in. The materials that we are using to make adire are contraband because none of them is being produced in Nigeria. By the time we travel to Lagos or Kano to get those materials, we encounter difficulties. We want government to look into that issue for us. We use brocade and some of them are manufactured outside the country. We also use foil which is not produced here in Nigeria,” says Akinjobi.
Timeless value of Adire
FUNKE ADETUTU writes that while Adire is a timeless fabric that has traversed the Nigerian shores, several factors make it a thorn in the flesh of local crafters
It is midday. The eerie quietness characteristic of this hour swoops down on the festooned market of Itoku in the rocky town of Abeokuta. The noise of the marketplace is drowned in the quietness of the hour, making it seem as if market is just picking up. But many traders, it seems, are smiling to the bank already.
A sloppy bend leads to the Adire section of the Itoku market from the adjoining Sapon road. Each side of the bend is lined with stalls made of corrugated iron sheets. Most of these stalls are packed full of different Adire fabrics that are the hallmarks of this ancient town. To the right in-between the booths, a narrow path leads to an open space where the local manufacturers of the Adire are situated.
Against this background, Fatima Adigun is working on a piece of fabric that has been soaked in the steaming dye solution called Aro in the local parlance. Her black brow is puckered in a furrow as she raises the fabric from the pail, smacking her lips in the process. To her left, a young boy is working on a piece of batik material. He places a wooden platform on which the pattern has been neatly crafted on the peach-coloured material, forming a sequential design in the process.
A few yards away, a middle-aged man is pouring a fresh dye solution into a blackened drum placed on a huge fire. He picks up a white linen material which he neatly spreads across a hackneyed dye-stained table, and begins to tie the edges in bits with a long string.
It’s quite amazing all the Adire fabrics gracing shops on the major road are produced in this little space. The settlement is made up of different families who turn out their works in bits, after which they are sold to the wholesalers who also double as retailers.
Madam Olorunse is the female family head of Agbo Ile Fatoki at the Kenta Odutola district, Itoku. She has been in the Adire business for 40 years. This afternoon, she sits atop a wooden stool under a timber makeshift shelter by the side of her home. Work is about to begin for the group of women she supervises. A bagful of blue-coloured powdery substance is placed in front of her and she carefully measures the required quantity into another polythene bag. Holding tightly the loose ends of the bag, she shakes it rigorously. She turns it over with both hands and looks intently at the mixture before she passes it to a young woman who has been sitting in front of her. She wipes her eyes with the edge of her wrapper, sniffles as the dusty particles enter them. Her eyes are red but they appear to perspire rather than tear.
“The first step is to get a large quantity of water to which we’ll add the Aro and other chemicals plus hot water,” Madam Olorunise tells me as she raises up her dye-soaked hands. “We know the right colour, depending on the kind of the Aro that we purchase.” Purple, green, golden, wine, are the popular colours in high demand. Therefore, they know the right kind of Aro to buy. The one with a more pronounced clarity on the water surface is the original, while the inferior kind is called Aro eni.
Adire as a trade began many years ago with the Alabere (knitters) who are also called Olowo odi in the local Yoruba language (the leftist), explains Madam Isiwatu Akinjobi, a shop owner at Itoku who has been in the trade for 50 years. The designs wrought on the Adire fabric vary and it started with Alaro Dudu in those days. There are some called Oniko, (the strings), while there are some others folded into neat pieces. There are some called Alakete (raffia). After the patterns have been carefully sketched on the fabric, it is soaked in the dye solution.
“First, we fold the material, like this for the Eleko (pap) design,” she explains, pointing at a blue-coloured fabric with a comb design on it. “We apply the pap on the textile via a flat piece of metal on which the patterns are neatly drawn.”
In the days of yore when the trade began, machines were nowhere. The crafters used their hands to make all the unique designs. At the time, any error on the fabric is regarded as a style. It comes out with this unusual uniqueness which cannot be ignored. Today, there are more modern designs created by the ingenuity of these local manufacturers with the aid of technology.
38-year-old Abisola Busa is the manager of Alhaja Lateefat Ogunyomi Trading Store. It is so-called because her mother started the business and does not want the trademark to go into extinction. Perhaps, she has one of the largest well-stocked stores with modern designs at Itoku. As someone who has experimented with both old and new designs, Busa explains that technology has taken over even the production of Adire, although it is not on a large scale. Therefore, they are inspired by foreign Ankara materials imported from other parts of Africa like Ghana.
“Most of the designs we do now, we look at the Ankara. We go to the market to see all these Ghana wax. We look at the design and think of how we can bring the design into Adire,” she says.
The difference between the old and modern designs, explains Busa, is that the uniqueness in the old designs are visible as most are handmade, unlike contemporary ones made with machines. “Our mothers sit down then, they don’t work. It is when their husbands go to the farm that they use their thread to do most of these things. When you see them, you see the uniqueness in the designs.”
Akinjobi agrees with Busa that the geometric symbols common in those days are no longer appealing to a segment of the market. “The ones founded by our mothers are different. We have modern ones that we created ourselves like the comb, Eleko designs because we realise that the taste of our customers are changing. There are some that we made with Jacquard material that we fold on the ground before we soak them in dye,” observes Akinjobi.
The crusade started by the Obasanjo administration towards encouraging the use of locally manufactured textile at all levels has helped bring back to limelight traditional fabric like Adire. This has forced many Nigerian designers to look inwards rather than outward to source for materials. Hence, there is a promising future for the Adire fabric as its designs traverse the shores of Nigeria. Most well-known local designers like Frank Oshodi, Ade Bakare, Remi Lagos, among others, have taken the Adire fabric to another level internationally.
“My collections always reflect my cultural heritage and historically relevant symbols that convey nostalgic messages. I also use a variety of interesting styles of Tie and Dye that are influenced strongly by traditional Nigerian printing and dying techniques,” says Oluremi Osholake, manageress, Remi Lagos.
Meanwhile, the business of Adire is expanding by the day, which the high influx of customers across the world testifies to. Busa has a customer in Jos, Plateau State, who buys Adire in large quantity. She uses them to make sandals, bags and toys which she exports.
“Patronage has been very encouraging,” Busa says, smiling. “I have a large order placed by some people who want to do weddings. They need it for Aso ebi (family traditional clothing). Many people are tired of Ankara or lace brocade. They need a change of taste. The laces are too expensive for most people, and they are not as durable as the Adire because they tend to fade off with time. They believe it’s not worth the trouble to spend so much on that kind of material.”
Though statistics indicate that the global textile production will grow by 25 percent in 2020; to which the Asian region will largely contribute, Nigeria seems to be nowhere near this. Countries like Asia have become a hub of textile trade after the abolition of the quota regime, since the start of 2005.
The challenge, therefore, is for government to assist local manufacturers like Madam Olorunise to have a solid value added textile base and invest heavily in the spinning sector. “Our trade suffers a great deal because government has not stepped in to assist us. If they had assisted us, the market for Adire would have gone beyond what is obtainable now. We need government to help us get the materials and expand this market. We need them to build a more modern and organised market for us. It will become a tourist centre where people can be conducted around and can have a first-hand experience of how it is produced,” says Busa.
The pain for Madam Olorunise is that government has not kept its promise to sink boreholes or provide pipe borne water for the community, since water is very crucial to her trade. “It’s been three years that we have told government our needs, but it is yet to do anything about it. There was a time that it promised to buy Aro for us which it is yet to do. We are just tired of airing our problems since they have not done anything to help us in the past,” she laments.
Traders also express displeasure at the ban placed on the importation of some chemicals used in making their products. Most of these products are smuggled into the country via Lagos and Kano.
“Adire business is a good one that government must really show interest in. The materials that we are using to make adire are contraband because none of them is being produced in Nigeria. By the time we travel to Lagos or Kano to get those materials, we encounter difficulties. We want government to look into that issue for us. We use brocade and some of them are manufactured outside the country. We also use foil which is not produced here in Nigeria,” says Akinjobi.
It is midday. The eerie quietness characteristic of this hour swoops down on the festooned market of Itoku in the rocky town of Abeokuta. The noise of the marketplace is drowned in the quietness of the hour, making it seem as if market is just picking up. But many traders, it seems, are smiling to the bank already.
A sloppy bend leads to the Adire section of the Itoku market from the adjoining Sapon road. Each side of the bend is lined with stalls made of corrugated iron sheets. Most of these stalls are packed full of different Adire fabrics that are the hallmarks of this ancient town. To the right in-between the booths, a narrow path leads to an open space where the local manufacturers of the Adire are situated.
Against this background, Fatima Adigun is working on a piece of fabric that has been soaked in the steaming dye solution called Aro in the local parlance. Her black brow is puckered in a furrow as she raises the fabric from the pail, smacking her lips in the process. To her left, a young boy is working on a piece of batik material. He places a wooden platform on which the pattern has been neatly crafted on the peach-coloured material, forming a sequential design in the process.
A few yards away, a middle-aged man is pouring a fresh dye solution into a blackened drum placed on a huge fire. He picks up a white linen material which he neatly spreads across a hackneyed dye-stained table, and begins to tie the edges in bits with a long string.
It’s quite amazing all the Adire fabrics gracing shops on the major road are produced in this little space. The settlement is made up of different families who turn out their works in bits, after which they are sold to the wholesalers who also double as retailers.
Madam Olorunse is the female family head of Agbo Ile Fatoki at the Kenta Odutola district, Itoku. She has been in the Adire business for 40 years. This afternoon, she sits atop a wooden stool under a timber makeshift shelter by the side of her home. Work is about to begin for the group of women she supervises. A bagful of blue-coloured powdery substance is placed in front of her and she carefully measures the required quantity into another polythene bag. Holding tightly the loose ends of the bag, she shakes it rigorously. She turns it over with both hands and looks intently at the mixture before she passes it to a young woman who has been sitting in front of her. She wipes her eyes with the edge of her wrapper, sniffles as the dusty particles enter them. Her eyes are red but they appear to perspire rather than tear.
“The first step is to get a large quantity of water to which we’ll add the Aro and other chemicals plus hot water,” Madam Olorunise tells me as she raises up her dye-soaked hands. “We know the right colour, depending on the kind of the Aro that we purchase.” Purple, green, golden, wine, are the popular colours in high demand. Therefore, they know the right kind of Aro to buy. The one with a more pronounced clarity on the water surface is the original, while the inferior kind is called Aro eni.
Adire as a trade began many years ago with the Alabere (knitters) who are also called Olowo odi in the local Yoruba language (the leftist), explains Madam Isiwatu Akinjobi, a shop owner at Itoku who has been in the trade for 50 years. The designs wrought on the Adire fabric vary and it started with Alaro Dudu in those days. There are some called Oniko, (the strings), while there are some others folded into neat pieces. There are some called Alakete (raffia). After the patterns have been carefully sketched on the fabric, it is soaked in the dye solution.
“First, we fold the material, like this for the Eleko (pap) design,” she explains, pointing at a blue-coloured fabric with a comb design on it. “We apply the pap on the textile via a flat piece of metal on which the patterns are neatly drawn.”
In the days of yore when the trade began, machines were nowhere. The crafters used their hands to make all the unique designs. At the time, any error on the fabric is regarded as a style. It comes out with this unusual uniqueness which cannot be ignored. Today, there are more modern designs created by the ingenuity of these local manufacturers with the aid of technology.
38-year-old Abisola Busa is the manager of Alhaja Lateefat Ogunyomi Trading Store. It is so-called because her mother started the business and does not want the trademark to go into extinction. Perhaps, she has one of the largest well-stocked stores with modern designs at Itoku. As someone who has experimented with both old and new designs, Busa explains that technology has taken over even the production of Adire, although it is not on a large scale. Therefore, they are inspired by foreign Ankara materials imported from other parts of Africa like Ghana.
“Most of the designs we do now, we look at the Ankara. We go to the market to see all these Ghana wax. We look at the design and think of how we can bring the design into Adire,” she says.
The difference between the old and modern designs, explains Busa, is that the uniqueness in the old designs are visible as most are handmade, unlike contemporary ones made with machines. “Our mothers sit down then, they don’t work. It is when their husbands go to the farm that they use their thread to do most of these things. When you see them, you see the uniqueness in the designs.”
Akinjobi agrees with Busa that the geometric symbols common in those days are no longer appealing to a segment of the market. “The ones founded by our mothers are different. We have modern ones that we created ourselves like the comb, Eleko designs because we realise that the taste of our customers are changing. There are some that we made with Jacquard material that we fold on the ground before we soak them in dye,” observes Akinjobi.
The crusade started by the Obasanjo administration towards encouraging the use of locally manufactured textile at all levels has helped bring back to limelight traditional fabric like Adire. This has forced many Nigerian designers to look inwards rather than outward to source for materials. Hence, there is a promising future for the Adire fabric as its designs traverse the shores of Nigeria. Most well-known local designers like Frank Oshodi, Ade Bakare, Remi Lagos, among others, have taken the Adire fabric to another level internationally.
“My collections always reflect my cultural heritage and historically relevant symbols that convey nostalgic messages. I also use a variety of interesting styles of Tie and Dye that are influenced strongly by traditional Nigerian printing and dying techniques,” says Oluremi Osholake, manageress, Remi Lagos.
Meanwhile, the business of Adire is expanding by the day, which the high influx of customers across the world testifies to. Busa has a customer in Jos, Plateau State, who buys Adire in large quantity. She uses them to make sandals, bags and toys which she exports.
“Patronage has been very encouraging,” Busa says, smiling. “I have a large order placed by some people who want to do weddings. They need it for Aso ebi (family traditional clothing). Many people are tired of Ankara or lace brocade. They need a change of taste. The laces are too expensive for most people, and they are not as durable as the Adire because they tend to fade off with time. They believe it’s not worth the trouble to spend so much on that kind of material.”
Though statistics indicate that the global textile production will grow by 25 percent in 2020; to which the Asian region will largely contribute, Nigeria seems to be nowhere near this. Countries like Asia have become a hub of textile trade after the abolition of the quota regime, since the start of 2005.
The challenge, therefore, is for government to assist local manufacturers like Madam Olorunise to have a solid value added textile base and invest heavily in the spinning sector. “Our trade suffers a great deal because government has not stepped in to assist us. If they had assisted us, the market for Adire would have gone beyond what is obtainable now. We need government to help us get the materials and expand this market. We need them to build a more modern and organised market for us. It will become a tourist centre where people can be conducted around and can have a first-hand experience of how it is produced,” says Busa.
The pain for Madam Olorunise is that government has not kept its promise to sink boreholes or provide pipe borne water for the community, since water is very crucial to her trade. “It’s been three years that we have told government our needs, but it is yet to do anything about it. There was a time that it promised to buy Aro for us which it is yet to do. We are just tired of airing our problems since they have not done anything to help us in the past,” she laments.
Traders also express displeasure at the ban placed on the importation of some chemicals used in making their products. Most of these products are smuggled into the country via Lagos and Kano.
“Adire business is a good one that government must really show interest in. The materials that we are using to make adire are contraband because none of them is being produced in Nigeria. By the time we travel to Lagos or Kano to get those materials, we encounter difficulties. We want government to look into that issue for us. We use brocade and some of them are manufactured outside the country. We also use foil which is not produced here in Nigeria,” says Akinjobi.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
It’s a puppy not a choice property
There are so many unique and unusual things about this enigmatic personality called Obama. The strength of his uniqueness lies in his style. I’ll simply say his style is just different from that of many other men. I’m not gushing about him. Oh! Not at all! I’m just amazed that his kind of person still exists in this century, or should I say his kind of man is very uncommon in Africa?
This brings to mind the couplet that end the famous lines of William Shakespeare’s sonnet, Let me not to the Marriage of True Minds, “If this be error and upon me proved, /I never writ, nor no man ever loved.” I’ll take few steps away from Shakespeare since I’m not in love and rather say: If this be an error and upon me proved. I never writ, nor no man like Obama ever lived in Africa!
Well, I say Africa because Obama, a black man who lived nearly all his life in America has shown that certain behavioural norms are peculiar to men who lived abroad in terms of leadership qualities, I’ll quickly add. In terms of love, certain behaviours are universal for men but that is a topic for another day! Let’s go back to the Obama issue.
Obama brought to bare his true ideals when he gave his victory speech some weeks back. I was shocked to hear that all he could promise his two daughters was a mere puppy and nothing more. “Sasha and Malia I love you both more than you can imagine. And you have earned the new puppy that's coming with us to the new White House,” he said.
I saw in the man who stood on the podium in Chicago that day, a selfless leader that is committed to changing the fate of the middle class American family for the best. He wasn’t thinking of how to build choice properties for his two daughters in a prime estate in Washington or New York. All he could assure them was a puppy!
If it were in Africa nay Nigeria, puppy would have been out of the question. Beautiful houses, exotic cars, holidays abroad, expensive jewelleries will top the list of such promises for the first children. What is a puppy to the children of a typical African or Nigerian leader? An average Nigerian leader would rather promise his child a corner piece whose architectural design is yet unknown or seen. At least, I know of past heads of states whose sons still benefit from the largesse of their father’s position while in and out of office. A toddling child of the chairman of a local government in Nigeria can boast of a building put up in his name not to talk of a grown child who would probably be the one to demand an exotic building of his father. In fact, down here, we’ve had cases of choice properties are being built or bought for yet to be delivered babies of African heads of governments “in advance.”
But in America, Michelle Obama’s position on this is also instructive. She is an epitome of an ideal First Lady. She supported her husband’s promise of a puppy. What would a typical Nigerian First Lady do, you’d ask? She would tell her husband to buy landed properties in her children’s name to secure their future. Their schools must be changed instantly to either Oxford or Harvard. “My children do not deserve to be in any of these local schools,” she’ll say. They have to study abroad now that we have become the first family in this country.”
Michelle recently in an interview had also revealed that their daughters, would have to wait at least two more months for the puppy which her husband publicly promised them on election night. "We're on call mode on the dog front. Because the deal with the dog was that we would get the dog after we got settled. Because as responsible owners we - I don't think it would be good to get a dog in the midst of transition," she said.
That Shasha and Malia will have to wait for two months for their puppy is equally surprising. The promise will not even be delivered immediately! I’m sure if the Obamas were to be Nigerians, the first thing would be for them to begin making moves on which areas they consider good enough for the kind of property their children deserve and which country is best to open foreign accounts in their names.
“The primary focus for the first year,” Michelle said, “will be making sure the kids make it through the transition. But there are many issues that I care deeply about.” But a typical Nigerian First Lady will concern herself with how to look good, the latest clothes to wear, among others.
The Obama ideals surely rubbed off on his family and it is this ideal that they all stand for. Without doubt, it’s high time Nigerian leaders borrowed a leaf from the Obama example.
This brings to mind the couplet that end the famous lines of William Shakespeare’s sonnet, Let me not to the Marriage of True Minds, “If this be error and upon me proved, /I never writ, nor no man ever loved.” I’ll take few steps away from Shakespeare since I’m not in love and rather say: If this be an error and upon me proved. I never writ, nor no man like Obama ever lived in Africa!
Well, I say Africa because Obama, a black man who lived nearly all his life in America has shown that certain behavioural norms are peculiar to men who lived abroad in terms of leadership qualities, I’ll quickly add. In terms of love, certain behaviours are universal for men but that is a topic for another day! Let’s go back to the Obama issue.
Obama brought to bare his true ideals when he gave his victory speech some weeks back. I was shocked to hear that all he could promise his two daughters was a mere puppy and nothing more. “Sasha and Malia I love you both more than you can imagine. And you have earned the new puppy that's coming with us to the new White House,” he said.
I saw in the man who stood on the podium in Chicago that day, a selfless leader that is committed to changing the fate of the middle class American family for the best. He wasn’t thinking of how to build choice properties for his two daughters in a prime estate in Washington or New York. All he could assure them was a puppy!
If it were in Africa nay Nigeria, puppy would have been out of the question. Beautiful houses, exotic cars, holidays abroad, expensive jewelleries will top the list of such promises for the first children. What is a puppy to the children of a typical African or Nigerian leader? An average Nigerian leader would rather promise his child a corner piece whose architectural design is yet unknown or seen. At least, I know of past heads of states whose sons still benefit from the largesse of their father’s position while in and out of office. A toddling child of the chairman of a local government in Nigeria can boast of a building put up in his name not to talk of a grown child who would probably be the one to demand an exotic building of his father. In fact, down here, we’ve had cases of choice properties are being built or bought for yet to be delivered babies of African heads of governments “in advance.”
But in America, Michelle Obama’s position on this is also instructive. She is an epitome of an ideal First Lady. She supported her husband’s promise of a puppy. What would a typical Nigerian First Lady do, you’d ask? She would tell her husband to buy landed properties in her children’s name to secure their future. Their schools must be changed instantly to either Oxford or Harvard. “My children do not deserve to be in any of these local schools,” she’ll say. They have to study abroad now that we have become the first family in this country.”
Michelle recently in an interview had also revealed that their daughters, would have to wait at least two more months for the puppy which her husband publicly promised them on election night. "We're on call mode on the dog front. Because the deal with the dog was that we would get the dog after we got settled. Because as responsible owners we - I don't think it would be good to get a dog in the midst of transition," she said.
That Shasha and Malia will have to wait for two months for their puppy is equally surprising. The promise will not even be delivered immediately! I’m sure if the Obamas were to be Nigerians, the first thing would be for them to begin making moves on which areas they consider good enough for the kind of property their children deserve and which country is best to open foreign accounts in their names.
“The primary focus for the first year,” Michelle said, “will be making sure the kids make it through the transition. But there are many issues that I care deeply about.” But a typical Nigerian First Lady will concern herself with how to look good, the latest clothes to wear, among others.
The Obama ideals surely rubbed off on his family and it is this ideal that they all stand for. Without doubt, it’s high time Nigerian leaders borrowed a leaf from the Obama example.
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