A change in marital status has a way of throwing new things your way. First, you may have to deal with change of name, which usually leaves you wondering why you have to give up your maiden name for someone else’s. Men don’t have to do that at all, and some French women still answer their maiden names long after they get married. That notwithstanding, the name just has to change in our own part of the world.
Next is change of residence. As a sign that a woman has been duly sent off, she has to move to her new home! It could be real fun doing this, you know - when you have to decide, for instance, the colours that will grace the walls of your living room and bedroom, the kind of drape that meets your taste and the fabric you want your settee made of. Getting the kitchen fully equipped is in a class of its own.
Yes, that reminds me of an experience I had late last year with a new set of kitchen utensils I bought at Shoprite. I’m a lover of well-designed cooking ware with glass lids and the Kinox brand and one other brand whose name I can’t remember very well now. One of those November evenings, I was at The Palms shopping mall to buy some stuff for the month, and while looking through the racks at Shoprite, I could not find my choice brand; hence, I opted for a Tower set of cooking pots - three pots and a medium-sized frying pan. Tower is a quality brand and I had no idea I needed to consider its durability, so I paid for it.
I liked the burnt orange colour of the pots and of course, the glass lids, so I dashed home, cleaned one of them and cooked the evening meal in it. But to my greatest surprise, by the following morning the coating in the pot was already peeling off, forming tiny lumps that were already mixing up with the content in it. I was sad and angry. “I paid nearly N10, 000 for a set of non-stick pot, only for the coating to go bad the day after?” I said to myself.
Immediately, I removed the content, washed the pot and returned it to the point of purchase. Luckily, the lady at the Customer Care Unit was patient enough to listen to my complaint. I was surprised that Shoprite could boast of such staff since many of them were very rude in the past. “Hold on, madam, while I call the trainee manager for you,” she said. In less than two minutes, the man was with me. I lodged my complaint which he promised to look into, asking that I should give him my cell phone number so he could easily get back to me.
To make a long story short, he did get back to me and I got a refund. The fact that I could get that for the bad product I bought was surprising in a country where goods sold cannot be returned in most cases.
Most stores do not build a good rapport with the clients they service. They rarely demonstrate courteous interactions with customers during and after sales, but the new Shoprite seems to have charted a new and much better course as far as customer service is concerned!
Showing posts with label Lagos. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lagos. Show all posts
Friday, February 4, 2011
Monday, October 25, 2010
This electricity nonsense
I once lived in what I could call a palatial apartment on the Island. It was situated in one of those cosy estates hence, it was tagged by friends and everyone who had visited as ‘the rich man’s area’. Yet the so called rich man abode cried bitterly like any part of the metropolis, nay, country, for adequate power supply.
I could recall those glorious days when I had just moved into the neighbourhood. It was an Eldorado. No power outage and whenever there was, power was back in the twinkle of an eye. There was hardly any night when there was no power supply. It was like a haven until one cold night in December of 2007. There was power outage as usual when a popular soap was airing on TV. The whole family was watching with rapt attention when PHCN struck. Everyone had thought power would be back in the twinkle of an eye, as was the norm. Alas, it was not to be. Seconds, minutes and hours passed, no light, not even a flicker from the bulb. Everyone was disappointed. The generating set which had long been abandoned came alive again. Christmas was a few days away. No power to celebrate the good Lord’s birth. It was awful! That was how the nightmare of the rich began in a hitherto peaceful estate as all manner of noise came out of generating sets all night.
A friend who lived in a room and parlour on the Island also lamented a similar fate. Hers was elegantly christened ‘a mini flat’ by estate agents in order to price it higher; but it is still a room and parlour. It was not even up to a standard room and a parlour on the mainland as the rooms were smaller than average.
For my friend, it was not the room and parlour that was the issue, however. It was the appliances she had in the room and parlour in relation to the monthly bill that almighty PHCN gave her. She had a sound system, a television set, a fridge, an iron, two ceiling fans and, of course, about five bulbs. The challenge was that she did not have a metre which could be dangerous when you are dealing with a powerful entity like PHCN.
According to her, PHCN officials started on the small side whenever they brought the bill, or that was what she thought. In her first year of living in the apartment, her bill was around N1,200 per month which she paid without challenges. Then she realised that because she had a very busy schedule and was hardly at home, she would rather pay her bill in advance. But that was a mistake because it suddenly sent the wrong signals to her electricity benefactor.
Within a few months, her bill jumped to N3,000.00 per month, then to N4,000.00 and finally to N8,000.00 per month. In all these months, her electricity consumption did not change. In fact, in one of the months, she had no electricity supply for a whole month except for about three or four days, and yet in that same month, her bill moved up from the previous month’s N3,000.00 to N4,000.00. She had to pay for being supplied darkness that month.
She eventually became so fed up that she wrote a letter to the PHCN marketing manager on the Island requesting she be disconnected from the PHCN grid since it had obviously become cheaper for her to generate electricity independently via her generating set than to buy from PHCN. Not surprisingly, she did not get an official reply from PHCN. She said she was not expecting one, anyway. “PHCN have no time for small fries like me,” she told me.
Now, it is Goodluck’s turn to make promises. We are all quietly waiting to see what he would do regarding this. Nigerians are tired of this electricity nonsense!
I could recall those glorious days when I had just moved into the neighbourhood. It was an Eldorado. No power outage and whenever there was, power was back in the twinkle of an eye. There was hardly any night when there was no power supply. It was like a haven until one cold night in December of 2007. There was power outage as usual when a popular soap was airing on TV. The whole family was watching with rapt attention when PHCN struck. Everyone had thought power would be back in the twinkle of an eye, as was the norm. Alas, it was not to be. Seconds, minutes and hours passed, no light, not even a flicker from the bulb. Everyone was disappointed. The generating set which had long been abandoned came alive again. Christmas was a few days away. No power to celebrate the good Lord’s birth. It was awful! That was how the nightmare of the rich began in a hitherto peaceful estate as all manner of noise came out of generating sets all night.
A friend who lived in a room and parlour on the Island also lamented a similar fate. Hers was elegantly christened ‘a mini flat’ by estate agents in order to price it higher; but it is still a room and parlour. It was not even up to a standard room and a parlour on the mainland as the rooms were smaller than average.
For my friend, it was not the room and parlour that was the issue, however. It was the appliances she had in the room and parlour in relation to the monthly bill that almighty PHCN gave her. She had a sound system, a television set, a fridge, an iron, two ceiling fans and, of course, about five bulbs. The challenge was that she did not have a metre which could be dangerous when you are dealing with a powerful entity like PHCN.
According to her, PHCN officials started on the small side whenever they brought the bill, or that was what she thought. In her first year of living in the apartment, her bill was around N1,200 per month which she paid without challenges. Then she realised that because she had a very busy schedule and was hardly at home, she would rather pay her bill in advance. But that was a mistake because it suddenly sent the wrong signals to her electricity benefactor.
Within a few months, her bill jumped to N3,000.00 per month, then to N4,000.00 and finally to N8,000.00 per month. In all these months, her electricity consumption did not change. In fact, in one of the months, she had no electricity supply for a whole month except for about three or four days, and yet in that same month, her bill moved up from the previous month’s N3,000.00 to N4,000.00. She had to pay for being supplied darkness that month.
She eventually became so fed up that she wrote a letter to the PHCN marketing manager on the Island requesting she be disconnected from the PHCN grid since it had obviously become cheaper for her to generate electricity independently via her generating set than to buy from PHCN. Not surprisingly, she did not get an official reply from PHCN. She said she was not expecting one, anyway. “PHCN have no time for small fries like me,” she told me.
The PHCN problem in Nigeria comes in different ways. Like my friend, there are those who have paid for years to be supplied meters but have not been supplied, but still try all they can to pay bills for an electricity consumption that was never measured.There are people who never even pay any bill at all, they just use free electricity, while there are some people who have meters but have no power supply even as the nation marks her 50 years of independence. The promise of power by 2010 since the regimes of Babangida and Abacha is yet to be fulfilled. Obansanjo made many promises, yet none was fulfilled, although it was said that he laid the foundation for his successor to build on. Unfortunately, the power project did not live to see the light of day.
Now, it is Goodluck’s turn to make promises. We are all quietly waiting to see what he would do regarding this. Nigerians are tired of this electricity nonsense!
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Women behind the wheels
On a rainy Saturday morning in August, I had an appointment to meet hence I was somewhat in a hurry. By the time I hit the roads, the entire area was already water logged and traffic logjam was beginning to build up.
Since I was running a little late for the meeting, I drove a little faster than I normally would. But no matter how fast I moved, I was still conscious of traffic rules and not to swerve the car into an on-coming vehicle.
Since I was running a little late for the meeting, I drove a little faster than I normally would. But no matter how fast I moved, I was still conscious of traffic rules and not to swerve the car into an on-coming vehicle.
After being schooled in driving rules, at least the Highway Code has become another Bible for me (the fear of Federal Road Safety Corps and LASTMA is the beginning of wisdom); I made sure I did not overtake wrongly in order not to put the lives of other road users in danger.
That morning, there was a driver who tried to overtake me wrongly, because he saw I was a female. The man’s attitude underscored the impatience of most Nigerian drivers. But for the careful driver that I am, I stopped on my track when I realised the man deliberately swerved his bus in my direction.
At this point, I tried to manoeuvre the car, making sure he didn't pass me. But on a second thought, I decided to stay calm to avoid any dent on my car.
I realised too that the man like any other Danfo driver was just another crazy, impatient driver who loved to make trouble. Despite the fact that I did not struggle with him for right of way, he tried all he could to scare me off the road, but I didn't budge. “You be woman o, why you no wan comot for road? You no fit drive like a tasin drifa” he jeered wickedly.
The behaviour of some drivers in the Lagos metropolis has never ceased to amuse me, and at a point it became a cause for worry. I don’t understand why some drivers are so careless about the safety of other road users. Most times while driving, I've seen and heard other male drivers taunting female drivers with comments like 'E no sabi, na woman o, no wonder,' or 'I must drive myself, you no go tell your husband to give you driver?' or 'Na so woman dey drive?,’ are very common comments on our road.
The question then is: are there really that few or no good female drivers on our roads or it’s just that the male drivers are just being sexist? It annoys me on end though, when I see a woman who has no business driving, being a nuisance on the road.
I feel women like that make the male drivers generalise that most women are bad drivers. However, if it is a man, no one says anything, they'd just write it off as one of those things, maybe he's having a bad day, but if it is a woman it becomes a problem.
There is another side to it, when some male drivers realise that a woman is behind the wheel, it’s at that point they will begin to flex their muscles by offering to give instructions on how to ‘turn your hand,’ especially if you are reversing.
Even the most ignorant of them will still offer to help. Hence, at the slightest issue, every man on the road feels he must help you drive or give you directions. I think it's mostly a sexist thing.
And so, I believe there is no woman driving a car on the road that doesn’t know where she is heading. Yet, there are some men who are bad drivers than women. They only try to cover up their inadequacies with ego.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Federal Road Safety Corp or Federal Road Safety Corruption?
The morning of last Saturday started really well for me. I was my giddy, trendy self who was looking forward to a ‘seminar’ a friend invited me to. It was actually a day packed with too many things for me to do.
Aside the seminar, I had to be at Phillip’s wedding. Not the wedding of the man on top, of course. Here at Business Day, in the newsroom, we have two Phillips. The first is the man on top, Phillip Isakpa, the other, Phillip Okafor is the man who handles the Work and Learning section of the paper. It was a wedding I had looked forward to until Federal Road Safety Corps official somewhat spoilt the fun.
I was riding in my friend’s car on my way to Phillip’s wedding after the seminar when we were accosted by the patrol van of the Federal Road Safety Corps at Osborne Road, Ikoyi. Initially, we were a little confused when we were asked to pull over. Even a policeman at a nearby checking point was pointing at the car before us until the FRSC van overtook us and one of the officials on it literarily barked at the policeman that we should pull over.
Eventually we did and got off the car. One of the FRSC officers by the name S.O Akintonde walked up to us asking for my friend’s driving license, which he gave to him.
“Where are the vehicles particulars,” Akintonde asked after he was given the driving license. My friend handed him the documents. My friend and I were still very surprised what he wanted to do with the particulars without an explanation of what our offence was. “What is the problem?,” I asked. None of the two men, O.N Bakare and S.O Akintonde, who stood beside us said anything. My friend could also not understand what the problem was. I moved to the back of the car where O.N Bakare stood with another man, whom I later learnt was the head of the patrol team, I was unable to get his name because he wore a pullover on his uniform.
It was much later it dawned on us that we were stopped because of the missing rear plate number. “What happened to your plate number?” Akintonde finally asked after finding his voice. “It got missing and I have applied for another one. But I have a police report with me,” my friend replied.
“Where is the police report,” Akintonde asked. My friend handed it over to him. It was at this point that a man with the pullover came running shouting at the top of his voice: “let m-e has the pa-pers, let me has them, I don’t has ti-me,” he spoke hysterically in disjointed English. Drive the car to our office,” he shouted at my friend. As he moved towards their van, he pulled out a note pad.
“You better go and talk to me before he starts writing on the ticket,” offered O.N Bakare.
“But you have to explain to us what our offense is,” I asked as I walked towards the man with the pullover. “We have a police report which we have given you, what else do you want?”
“Where is your receipt, an evidence that you have applied for another one,” he asked. “I was not given any receipt,” my friend replied.
“You get luck, I did not ask my men to impound your vehicle,” he said. “Impound the vehicle, for what?” I asked annoyed. “It’s not a stolen vehicle. There is a prove of ownership. The car cannot be impounded on account of a missing rear plate number,” I replied.
The man refused to listen to our explanations as he wrote frantically on a form. He did not bother to explain to us the meaning of what he wrote on the form, whether we were supposed to pay some money or not, where and how. He drove off with his men in annoyance because we never offered to bribe him. My friend and I had resolved not to bribe them. We prefer to pay the money into the account of the Federal Government than give them a bribe. That same day, we tried to locate the FRSC office at Sura, where an officer at the gate explained to us where and how to pay the money.
On Monday morning, I went to the UBA, one of the designated banks on the form only to be told by the lady at the customer care service that the FRSC account for plate numbers had not been activated. I had to return to their office for clarification. The officer on duty gave me a teller with the designated account number. “Someone just brought these tellers from the bank this morning,” she explained. The account number is on it.
Since I could not make it back to their office on the same day, I went back on Tuesday morning. An officer named Imam was on duty. After sorting out the details of the particulars collected by his colleagues on Saturday, I seized the opportunity to request for a plate number replacement.
“Plate number replacement is N13, 000,” he said. “That’s expensive, my friend earlier paid N10, 000 to the someone at Ikeja who is yet to bring them,” I answered. “Can’t I see your price list?
“We don’t have a price list,” he replied. “Which bank do I pay the money, can I have the account number?”
“We don’t have an account for that, you have to pay it here,” said Imam while walking out of the office. But I was still sceptical about the amount. Hence, I asked another female offer whose name is R.A Bello, in Yoruba if the amount was being asked to pay was the current fee. “It should be N10, 000. It depends on the officer,” she said while walking away when she saw Imam coming. “Can I see you outside so that we can talk ,” I asked sensing that she did not want the other officer have an inkling of what she had told me.
“Let me have your vehicle license,” she said as she walked up to me. I want to confirm the fee from someone else. She took the paper and walked towards a cubicle. “It’s true that you have to pay N13, 000. It’s a Lagos state number hence it is more expensive than our own (the one issued by FRSC). FRSC’s own costs N10, 000.”
And so, I went back into the office to pay the money to Imam. After he collected the money, I was expecting him to issue a receipt. “Where is the receipt?,” I asked. “We don’t give receipt. What I will do is to give you a note stamped and signed by me with my number on it,” he said. “But we were arrested on Saturday because we did not have a receipt, an evidence that we paid. So what do we do if we were arrested by your men again?” I asked in surprise.
“Don’t worry about that. I will put my number on the note and when you have any trouble you can call me and I will explain to the officer that your plate number is being processed,” Imam explained.
I was beside myself with surprise that day. It was ridiculous and really unbelievable that if FRSC could have accounts in designated banks for the payment of fines why would it not have an account for plate number replacement? I could recalled that our driver got a receipt when he paid a little over N3,000 for the renewal of his driving licence so why would I not be issued for paying N13, 000 for plate number replacement?
I also could not understand why I will have to show a note that could be forged by anyone as a proof that the plate number is being processed instead of a receipt considering the fact that my friend and I were fined for not providing a receipt. The level of corruption at the much respected FRSC is really sad. However, I hope to give you, dear readers, the second part to my story when I go for the plate number in two weeks. Before then, I hope the authorities at FRSC will read this and put things in order. It’s a shame if notes now serves as substitutes for receipt!
Friday, November 21, 2008
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.
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