In a city called Romance

In the beginning...
A few weeks ago when we arrived Holland, Abi, our training group’s course leader, sold to us the idea of visiting Paris, which we toyed with for a while. Last weekend, about seven of us finally agreed to embark on this adventurous journey, travelling by road to Paris from Amsterdam ! We spent close to eight hours on the road because the bus had to make some stops along the way.

After the long hours on the road, we were all surprised it wasn’t a tiring journey, as we arrived Paris the early hours of Saturday morning.

Since it was dawn, the weather was quite friendly. It wasn’t therefore much of a problem waiting for nearly two hours for Nardine, our host, to pick us up at the bus station. “I’m really sorry guys for arriving so late to pick you up,” she apologises. “I was held up in traffic.”

We later discovered that the traffic was bad in Galleini that day because of the construction work going on in the Metro line for that route.

After refreshing ourselves, we hit the road almost immediately. The first point of call, of course, was the famous Avenue des Champs-Elysees. It is a very long avenue, lined with trees on both sides. On this road also is world famous fashion designers like Hugo Boss, Louis Vuitton, among others, and this is also where the rich and famous in Paris live.

From this avenue, we moved towards the great Eiffel Tower , Paris ’ hallmark. The week before, I saw a report on CNN on the refurbishment of the tower.

Hence, when we arrived there that evening, the tower stood tall in its resplendent glory. The paint was still shining and there was a long queue of tourists waiting to climb the tower.

We were told the maintenance of the tower includes applying 50 to 60 tons of paint every seven years to protect it from rust, and this happens to be the seventh year. In order to maintain a uniform appearance to an observer who is below, three separate colours of paint are used on the tower, with the darkest at the bottom and the lightest at the top. Occasionally, the colour is changed, as it is currently painted in a shade of brownish-bronze, and named after its designer, Gustave Eiffel, an engineer, and it is the tallest building in Paris and the fifth-tallest structure in France as a whole.

There were many people milling around the tower when we arrived, and it was not a surprise therefore to know that more than 200 million people had visited the tower since its construction in 1889, including 6,719,200 just in 2006. This makes it the most visited monument in the world. It has a 24 meters antenna and the structure itself is 324 metres high.

The first and second levels are accessible by stairways and lifts. A ticket booth at the south tower base sells tickets to access the stairs, which begin at that location. At the first platform, the stairs continue up from the east tower and the third level summit is only accessible by lift.

From the first or second platform, the stairs are open for anyone to ascend or descend, regardless of whether they have purchased a lift ticket or stair ticket. The actual count of stairs includes nine steps to the ticket booth at the base, 328 steps to the first level, 340 steps to the second level, and 18 steps to the lift platform on the second level.

I was able to arrive at this figure because the step count is printed periodically on the side of the stairs to give an indication of progress of ascent. The majority of the ascent allows for an unhindered view of the area directly beneath and around the tower, although some short stretches of the stairway are enclosed.

We exited through the lift on the third level, as we could not continue because it was late. It was past ten in the evening, although the sun was still up! Nature played a trick on us there as we thought we had all the time in the world!

The wait, the hurry

It was only a few minutes past 6 am when the aircraft touched down at Schipol Airport in Amsterdam . It was a very comfortable flight, I must confess, such that we couldn’t even explain how the hours flew by. Imagine a seven-hour flight seeming like just an hour or two hours journey.

For most of us who were lucky to have our seats close to the window, honestly, we did not know the kind of weather that awaited us as we peeped out of the window. The weather was bright and the yellow rays of a May sun was what we thought was a promise kept - of a good weather; but we were wrong. After getting off the airplane, it was a different story altogether. The weather was very cold in spite of the shinning sun.

It was a bit of a walk from the foot of the plane to the arrival hall, considering the fact that Schipol is a rather big airport, one a friend considered perhaps the best in Europe . I had to do some metres walk before finally arriving at the customs post. There were four long queues and I had to look at the instructions on the board to know where I actually belong, considering the kind of passport I was carrying. “All Passports” “EU” reads two well-lit black coloured notice boards. There were two lines each for those carrying passports of other nations except the one for the European Union (EU) while there is another for citizens of the EU.
I took my time to look carefully at all the people on each line and I discovered that there were more whites on two of the lines than blacks.

I was also surprised at the manner in which the few blacks on the line conducted themselves. They were completely different from the Nigerians I met at Murtala Mohammed International Airport . It was as if they were not the same people who were in a hurry to get on the plane when it was delayed for some minutes in Lagos . I couldn’t believe that they have refused to jump the queue here in Amsterdam . At the customs point back home in Nigeria , they questioned the authority of the KLM officer who asked that the elderly, pregnant women and parents with young children should be the first sets of people to board the plane.

This incidentally is the practice anywhere in the world but our ‘Naija’ brothers would hear none of this. They were bent on getting on the plane at all cost even though they were very sure the waiting craft was theirs and would sure accommodate all.

“Me too, I be above sixty o,” joked one middle-aged man. “Don’t mind him, jare, forty-something no go enter too, abi which one you dey, oga?” teased another man.
The exchange between the two men went on for some minutes before the officer called those travelling on Business Class and Premium. This caused another discomfort for our dear gentlemen who went into another long exchange, joking about the discrimination.

Even though they are aware there was no basis for their arguments. “Passengers with seat numbers between 44 and 20 should go on board,” announced the officer again.
“What is all this again?” asked a woman who had also been angered by the whole process. “Is economy not economy and what has seat numbers got to do with it?” As expected, the other two men joined in and the “rebuke” continued once again, only to last for another few minutes. My sympathy, funny enough lies with the officer. For me, there’s nothing wrong with the method he adopted. He’s just trying to prevent the expected obstruction caused by passengers whose seats were at the front for those whose seats were at the rear. It’s just a smart way to make boarding faster and easier for all.

But trust Nigerians, we are always in a hurry to get things done, and in most cases, we don’t care how we get them done, we just want them done.
So, when the same people who were eager to get on board by all means in Nigeria patiently waited for their turns at the immigration point in Schipol, I was too surprised at the new spirit which had suddenly taken over them. Here, in Europe , there was no room for such untoward behaviour, hence our people quietly stayed on the line.

My ‘Naija’ experience was not the last I would encounter on my trip. Last Monday, as we journeyed back to the guest house after classes, I had another funny experience with other African folks in the group. Tony, one of the course instructors, had earlier educated us on the code of conducts and some rules governing transportation and road usage in Hilversum . He told us the route number of the bus we were to board to and from the guest house, so that we would not find ourselves on the wrong bus.

And so, after classes, we got on the right bus actually and got off at the right bus stop. But shortly, after the bus drove off, more than half of those of us standing by the roadside crossed to the other side of the road without taking the Zebra Crossing which was further down the road.

“Stop right there!” shouted Mary, another Nigerian from Voice of Nigeria who was also a member of the course group. ‘That’s not how to cross here,” reminded Harry, another journalist from Senegal . “Africans, when are we going to change?” I screamed at the group of defaulters who were already almost half way onto the other side of the road. “It’s not only Africans, the Pakistanis are there too,” corrected Harry.

That was how we made it to Hilversum with our impatient attitude. It’s saddening that we were too impatient as a people to walk only a few metres down the road to use the Zebra Crossing which the Dutch themselves use. It is just a disciplined society too organised with law abiding citizens. I just hope that some day, as a people, we would realize the importance of keeping to law without unnecessarily defaulting as a result of our impatience. I do hope that someday, the disobedient ones won’t get arrested by traffic officers before the end of the course.

A pink date

FUNKE ADETUTU
As a little girl, I grew up to believe that pink is a girly colour not something befitting for a male. But as I grow older and with the various literary theories I was bombarded with in school, I discovered that such view is rooted in one of those patriarchal beliefs that certain norms and stuffs are for women and not men. These are biases that we have unconsciously internalised which the society have accepted as the norm.

The society believes pink is the colour of universal love. Hence, love is a women affair and not for men? Pink no doubt is a quiet colour and women are expected to be the passive kinds. Lovers of beauty favour pink, beauty is associated with women, hence they must like pink. A pink carnation means “I will never forget you” the women are ‘men-wrapper.’ These are some of the different ways women have been classified as a result of cultural biases deeply-rooted in patriarchy.

Abroad, there is a Pink Energy Pink which is a combination of red and white. The quality of energy in pink is determined by how much red is present. Since colour White is the potential for fullness, the red helps you to achieve that potential. Pink combines these energies. Shades of deep pink, such as magenta, are effective in neutralising disorder and violence. Some prisons use limited deep pink tones to diffuse aggressive behaviour. Pink provides feelings of caring, tenderness, self-worth and love, acceptance. “Put some pink in your life when you want: calm feelings that neutralise disorder relaxation acceptance, contentment.”

However, the society have come to accept these classifications such that women have consciously accepted these biases. Therefore, anything that has to do with women is synonymous with colour pink. The first example that comes to mind is the BankPHB Pink Account. Again, Pink is associated with the woman. She loves luxury and the good things of life; as if men don’t want such things too. And then, the upcoming ‘Pink Ball’ event for cancer awareness is associated with colour pink. Such is the life of the woman!

One thing that struck my mind while meditating over this, is the fact that there could be some kind of synergy between the pink associations, if you’ll permit me to call it that. Why can’t BankPHB and the Pink Ball organised by Genevieve Magazine do something together on breast cancer awareness since it’s all about the woman? The BankPHB Pink Account could do something for women in that regard as they’ll need all the support they can get to combat this dreadful disease called cancer. The life of the woman after all, is truly in danger.

Two nights ago, I saw an advert on TV urging charitable Nigerians to donate some money for a female breast cancer victim. It was really pathetic. I was sad when I saw how a once beautiful pair of breasts have now been eaten up by cancer. As the Pink Ball comes up later this month, I hope the Pink Account owners would consider doing something for women in this regard. It’s a about the enemy of their lives which could be silenced, at least with a Pink date.

FEEDBACK!
I am an Indian and I have been living in Nigeria for the past five years. BBC and CNN journalists have been rubbishing India, may be sub-consciously, but I hadn't expected a Nigerian sister to portray India so badly in her article published last Friday under the title, "Incredible India."
I am a trained journalist and I have been published by BusinessDay on five occasions and hence, I am sure that my views would merit your attention.
You wrote so dangerously about the caste system in India. Caste system is still prevalent in India but discrimination based upon caste, creed or colour is a punishable offence in India. Most often, non-bailable arrest warrants are issued if anyone is found indulging in such acts.
In industrial India and the urban India (50 percent) people of my generation don't bother about which caste you belong to and my daughter's generation doesn't even know what caste system is all about!
India is a vast country and our Prime Minister is a Sikh by religion. The community that practices Sikhism constitutes less than 1 percent of India's population. The leader of the ruling party (Indian National Congress) is an Italian-born Christian and Christians constitute less than 3 percent of India's population.
Our Vice President is a Muslim and the immediate past President was a Muslim too. Muslims form less than 16 percent of India's population. You also wrote that India is a country that practices "Sati." Sorry Tutu, we are not a nation that puts its widows on the funeral pyre.
In the last 50 years, the number of Sati cases is less than five! Your column is widely read and it helps people form an opinion about India. I really plead with you to exercise caution my sister.
Sudhir Bisht
sudhir_bisht@rediffmail.com
sudhir_bisht@hotmail.com
+234 7083239485

Once upon a generation of Oloola

Oloola is a generational craft which spans many centuries, but modern incursions are slowly but surely making the craft a dying culture, writes FUNKE ADETUTU

One rainy July morning, the Ayankola household at Oke Agunpopo area of Oyo Town, Oyo State, wakes up to the noise generated by thunder and torrents of rain whipping across the roof. This, surely, is a fitting background for what is about to take place this morning: all the young children in the household are lined up for the August visit of the Oloona, a Yoruba word meaning “owner of marks”.

“Oloola de o!” (meaning Oloola is here! ) announces the Oloola. He is a dark, elderly man with thick tribal marks visible on his face despite his sagging skin. He spots Buba and Soro, the Yoruba traditional wear, with a satchel slung on his shoulder. After exchanging pleasantries with family heads and their wives, he sits on a wooden stool, adjusts his cap and upturns his bag which disgorges its contents: a sharp knife which glitters in the dimly-lit hallway, a big snail and some powdery substance. The children who seem unaware of what is about to take place are lined up before him according to their age.

“How many marks do you want on this child’s face?” asks the Oloola, pointing at the first child on the line. “We want you to do Keke for him,” answers the family head. And so, the child’s mother pulls his son to herself and holds him tightly in-between her thighs, while the Oloola brings out his knife. On spotting the knife, the child breaks into wracking sobs, but is quickly assured by the Oloola that the knife would do him no harm. The process then begins in earnest.

The Ayankola household is just one among many that still get their children’s faces marked with the Oloola’s knife, a practice which most people, as a result of civilisation, are fast rethinking. This may also be having a direct effect on the Oloola who knows no other trade than decorating people’s faces with facial marks.
The Oloola’s trade, explains Samuel Ogundeji, an Oloola at Ilaka area of Oyo town, dates back to eons of centuries, even before the advent of colonialism among the Yoruba people in South-West Nigeria.

All the descendants of the Oloola are familiar with the practice, even the educated ones. This is not surprising because only males born into the Oloola household can practice the trade.
“It is a generational trade known to a particular household called Oloola. Tribal marks are different from any other trade. It’s a generational craft because our fathers handed it down to us,” says Ogundeji. “We have researched into it and discovered that it does not affect religion in any way. Where our own trade differs from others is that we have a house called Oloola, an abode of tribal marks. It is not that we have a particular place where people can bring their children. Those who have just given birth would come from their respective homes to tell us they want to do tribal marks, and we would go there to grant their wish.”

In times past, facial tribal marks were more or less a form of identity in Yorubaland, so it is only natural that Ogundeji would explain that facial marks have variants, which are synonymous with each household. For instance, Keke has different variants: Keke of Owu, called Keke Olowu which is common with the Olowu. There is another one called Gombo, which is not synonymous with any household but cuts across different households. There are yet others called Meeje meaning “Seven,” Pele, meaning three horizontal lines and Ture, which is synonymous with the Olokun Esin household.

Amusa Oladokun is the Olori Oloola of Oyo. Given the title by the Alaafin of Oyo, Oba Lamidi Adeyemi, he is therefore the only one with the right to do facial marks for the descendants of the King. “If you see anyone that has six marks on his face, it means he is the Alaafin’s child or is related to him. The Ture, that is their mark, the Keke called Alodi, that is their sign. The Alare who lives up the road, they have Pele with four on each side. That is their identity. The other kinds are all over the place. Those with 11 marks are there. They would have eight on one side, with three at the top. There are those with seven, three upward and four at the bottom. There are those with four or eight Baamu. It comes in different forms,” explains Oladokun.

With these variants, Ogundeji says those without tribal marks are often taunted by wearers, who say they cannot afford to pay the bill of an Oloola. But that is all in the past, as Ogundeji observes.

Meanwhile, this dying culture has become an issue, not only for the Oloolas but in the four walls of the university system. Kehinde Oladeji, an expert on African and Asian Studies and a lecturer in the Department of Language, University of Lagos, says facial marks have become irrelevant as a result of modernisation. “Facial marks were for identification during the inter-tribal wars and slavery. It was a simple means of knowing where someone was from, as it is said in Yoruba that a person with tribal marks will not remain missing for too long. Such a person, if separated from his relations during war or other conflicts, would meet someone who would identify his town and even his family, through his facial marks,” he explains.
However, such wars no longer exist with the advent of modernism and technology, both of which make having facial marking obsolete. Hence, Oladeji observes that in most towns across the country, it is difficult to come across tribal marks on the faces of people younger than 35 years old. “The culture may linger a while with traditional institutions, but they will let go with time,” he adds.

Demola Dasylva, a doctor of literature at the Department of English, University of Ibadan (UI), however disagrees with Oladeji’s view on the issue. Dasylva says facial marks may remain with traditional institutions for a long time to come. “Some aspects of culture are so integrated that you cannot change them. Great Britain is a developed democracy, yet the monarchy there is accorded so much respect. If having facial marks is a condition for being made an Oba, Emir or Eze in any part of the country, concerned princes will be avoiding scarification at their own risk,” he observes.

In spite of these divergent views, facial marks perform dual roles in the Yoruba culture, first for their aesthetics and second for their functionality.
Ohiomamhe Elugbe of the Department of Languages, UI, on his part, describes facial marks as mere inoculation against certain diseases, it is used as a measure to prevent Abiku children from their cycle of deaths.

As for Akin Onipede, a visual artist, facial marks are symbols of pride and identity, especially among the Yorubas. This view greatly influenced one of his works he titled: National Award, which is a piece that features the Queen of England spotting a facial mark called Meeje. This, Onipede, explains offers multi-dimensional viewpoints and meanings: “It could be seen from the point of view of a country or people offering distinguished citizens or individuals one of the highest awards in the land such as KBE, OBE, MBE, GCFR, OFR. But then, this will appear normal. But an award to the Queen has to be unique and reflective of the culture of the person giving it.”

Therefore, tribal marks, for Onipede, are the most befitting award that the Queen of England can be given, and his art is just one of the means artists employ to prevent the total erosion of a people’s vibrant culture.

Incredible India!

I was trudging home from work last Tuesday when I ran into an Indian family. I was attracted by their musical accent and the style of their stride in Oniru Estate’s cold night.
As the group approached me, I could easily identify the father and mother, but found it almost impossible naming the kids. They all seemed to share the same looks and height. But on second thoughts, I felt some of the kids could be relatives of the family.
As they drew closer, the proximity of the couple brought to my mind the Indian tradition of the woman asking for the hand of the man in marriage. I also recalled the popular 1980s Indian movie titled: Dusnumbari.
Yet again, I remembered a discussion I had with two Indian journalists whom I met in South Africa: Amita Shinde of Mid Day, India and Meher Bruno Castelino, a freelance journalist for several Indian publications. They both admitted that India has much cultural and religious diversity, a trend which also extends to dating habits.
“In most cases, dating in this region starts after parents arrange marriage. In this article, we will look at the culture and past of this region. It would be really very difficult to comprehend the dating habits of this area unless we have a look into its historical background,” said Amita.
From Meher, I learnt that Indians in upper North India are known as a warrior class, as historically all the invasions in India were through this route. Muslim invaders, beginning with the Muslim King ‘Babar’ entered India through this route. During invasions, the looting of property and the rape of females were common. It was normal to abandon the raped woman, even if she was married. And some fathers would abandon a girl child if she was raped. People practised monogamy almost as a religion here. Although not as true now, divorce was a major taboo.
“At the time of the wedding, the bride’s father would sing the folk song “Teri Doli jaayegi te arthi hi aayegi”; meaning “I am sending you off as a bride and may you come out of your husband’s house only on a pyre and not otherwise”. Another famous saying was “Sada Suhagan Rahe”, meaning “may you never become a widow”; that is you should die earlier than your husband,” Meher explained to me.
My friends were of the opinion that more than 80 percent of marriages are arranged by parents. Parents first look for a suitable match. After they choose one, the boy and girl are made to see each other. And if they happen to like each other, dating starts from that point onwards.
In the case of love marriages also, it was generally expected that both boy and girl seek parents’ approval. In many cases, the father of the girl had to approve, even against his wishes, because the family name would be smeared if the girl should elope with the boy.
In cases where a woman did marry without her father’s approval, any younger sister would find it difficult to get a match for her.
For choosing a date, social considerations weighed very heavily. At the time of marriage, the bride’s father had to give heavy gifts to relatives of the groom, which the Indians also call dowry. Before marriage, a list of such relatives was given to the father of the bride-to-be.
“In Bania community, even dowry is negotiated based on the expenses incurred on the son’s education and how much the boy is earning. Dowry is illegal, but still it continues unabated. It is insulting for a boy to get a bride without a dowry, and even today, on and off one can hear instances that a new bride is burned alive because of insufficient dowry,” Meher added with a sigh.
What I found disheartening about the whole Indian marriage was that in the lower North India state of Rajasthan, ladies used to observe ‘Sati’ a ceremony which makes a lady sit on the burning pyre of her dead husband and burn herself alive. “Now sati, though still there in some small areas, is illegal. While widowers had no restriction on getting married again, widows getting remarried was absolutely forbidden, even in cases where a girl becomes a widow at a young age of 20,” observed Amita.
I believe like any society, these values had an enormous impact on the Indian society as many cultural ceremonies witnessed generations and generations of illiterate women. Since women, till the 1950s in most parts of India were generally not very educated, and certainly not professionally qualified. But then, the society has emerged an incredible one regardless of her population and what the west would term barbaric culture.

Lagos renewal projects and plight of the displaced

The on-going road construction in most parts of the Lagos metropolis, particularly Lekki, has rendered many residents homeless, writes FUNKE ADETUTU


Adetokunbo Ademola Street on Victoria Island is a beehive of activities this sunny April morning. Cars and buses crisscross the busy street while their movement is occasionally interrupted by the red signal of the traffic light at a nearby junction. As a commercial lane, all kinds of buildings are situated on either side of this rather long road. And it is among these buildings that the Archbishop Taylor Memorial School is located.
Overlooking the school is the popular Eko Hotel and Suites. The school building is dwarfed by the imposing height of the hotel which is nestled on a vast acre of land across the road. Passers-by may be unaware that behind the yellow wall of this school lie countless stories hidden in the hearts of its pupils.
Eight-year-old Joy Sule is a Primary Four pupil of this school. She looks bright, yet forlorn in her blue uniform which is marked by little brownish stains. Her brown oversized rubber sandal is dusty while her little toes peep through the large hole in her white-turned-brown socks. A native of Abeokuta, she has been living with her grandmother since she was five but now lives with her sister. Her mother, who used to live somewhere along the Lekki/Ajah Road, has been rendered homeless due to the on-going road construction in that part of the Lagos Metropolis. She now lives in one of the shacks at the bar beach.
Asked about her father, Joy’s face is puckered in a furrow redolent of pain and dejection. “My father is mad,” she replies sharply but innocently.
Equally pathetic is the story of five-year-old Mariam Victor who is unsure of her surname. Her mother died about two weeks ago and she has yet to be informed at the time of this report. She now lives with a police officer’s wife at the Police Barracks, Bar Beach. Joy and Mariam are just two of the numerous children affected by the ongoing reconstruction effort at Lekki. Their young hearts bear this burden even as they sit for their second term exams this morning.
Sad as it is, the trauma of these children may serve as an eye-opener for many people who may not know the enormity of the socio-economic problems that low-income workers or unemployed families in the metropolis have been facing, as there are new dimensions in respect of children whose parents are alive but have become destitute. This may result from one of the parents being too ill to work or the other disappearing due to poverty or job loss. Hence, some children like Joy and her peers who seek refuge at a school have been exposed to enormous deprivations.
Joseph Abolade, an education consultant, finds these deprivations intolerable, particularly in a city like Lagos where the government appears to be trying very hard to better the lot of residents without knowing the amount of suffering they have been experiencing.
As the head of a team set up by the Lekki Concession Company to look into the plight of the displaced people of Lekki and its environs, Abolade explains that being rendered homeless is too much for a parent let alone a child who has to combine this with study (for those who have the benefit of education).
He observes that children are not the only ones affected as parents, some of whom have been sleeping in the open or in shacks have lost their jobs. Thus, the story of 40- year-old Funmilayo Ajayi is quite instructive. She is among those who have sought refuge in one of the classrooms at the Archbishop Taylor Memorial School. She has been living on the school premises for two years while she had lived at Alasia on Victoria Island for 15 years before her shop was demolished. Funmilayo has been surviving on the meagre money she earns from selling Eko, otherwise called Pap, and sweeping the school premises. “We were not given any notice before the demolition,” she laments in a shaky voice. “We live here in the school premises. Although they are not inconveniencing us, yet it’s not a conducive place to live in. The school is owned by government and I can’t live here forever. We can all be asked to leave any time.”
Ajayi’s immediate concern is shelter for herself and her daughter, who is a pupil of the Archbishop Taylor Memorial School. “All my children are girls. I’m concerned about their future. I don’t want them to pass through what I have passed through. I’m concerned about their education,” she says.
Going back to her village in Saki, Oyo State is not an option Ajayi would consider as the state government has suggested. This is because she believes she would be unable to reconnect with a society she left many years ago.
“It would not be easy for those who have left their respective hometowns to return after so many years,” observes Marion Sikuade, director, Childlife Line, a non-governmental organisation. “What do they want to return to? Nothing. There is no house, money or job. One can also imagine the psychological effect it will have on them. Their ego would be bruised.”
Abolade also explains that the expectation of most people who migrate to Lagos from other states to make quick wealth is one of the factors that would make the state government’s pronouncement impossible. “Once a person has come to Lagos, the expectation is that he will go back a richer person, a person to whom people can now look up and say ‘what have you brought back for us from Lagos?’ Therefore, many of them will find it difficult to go back because of the shame. They will rather stay here and continue to suffer,” he says.
Therefore, one of the crucial needs of Lagos inhabitants is housing, for which reason Elijah Olapade, managing consultant, Elijah Olapade and Company, an estate surveying company, suggests that the state government declare housing an emergency. “It is sad that so many millions of people even here in Lagos are homeless,” he laments. “I believe that it is possible for the state government to replicate the kind of Council flats available in the UK. The Land Use Act is also a problem. People have been clamouring for a review of the Land Use Act. The Act was to make land available for people but the reverse is the case. The Land Use Act has recovered land from people and has put it in the pocket of government. What the Federal Government should do, because Lagos State alone cannot do this, is that there should be a policy guideline that will protect the interest of the populace when housing is concerned.”
Hence, finding an immediate solution is something that may not be within reach because the displaced people don’t even know who to turn to. “One thing I experienced is that after I have interviewed them, they look up to you and say ‘what help can you render me now?’ here and now,” says Abolade. “And you become powerless because their is no help you can render. Even if you dip your hands into the pocket and give then N200 or more; the question is, how far does that go? You find cases like that which make you rather numb and depressed. I’m not putting this at the feet of anybody. It’s just that Lagos is such a magnet which draws people from other parts of the country.”
The solutions to the myriad of problems plaguing the state do not lie solely with the government, declares Abolade; although he thinks the country should work at a system whereby people would be kept busy doing something. “There has to be a very virile ministry of employment; people that will keep data of where labour is available. It is a very complex issue because how do you know who is working at building sites and all that? It means we have to register all artisans. The government ought to be kept informed about where work is going on,” he explains.
Also, he suggests that government should put in place social security benefits for its citizens. “It is complex and mind-boggling because some of our people are too dishonest. Even when they have a job doing, when they know that money is available from government they will tell you they have no job to do. Hence, that is a big problem but that does not mean if government has the chance it cannot start it off.”
Nevertheless, some corporate organisations like the Lekki Concession Company have started helping some of the displaced people.
“The first step is to understand what the problems are. It is for this reason we have engaged the service of professionals who are knowledgeable in the field of taking care of street children and displaced people. It is after we have understood the problems that we can proffer solutions. It is because we want to help that we have carried out a survey,” says Charles Imevbore, head, corporate affairs and communication, LCC.
The infrastructural development in Lagos State is a positive development that most of its residents are happy with but the displaced people feel short-changed by the whole process. And so, they patiently await compensations that will better their lot.

On the verge of breaking down

FUNKE ADETUTU

In the mid-1990s when R. Kelly released his album, I believe I can Fly, it was a hit. It was played in every nook and cranny of the country. So it was no surprise that as a student then, I was captivated by the inspirational lyric and Kelly’s great voice. In fact, it got to a point I had to learn the lyric by heart. It was the song I loved to listen to whenever my spirit was low or I was experiencing difficult times.
I can still vividly remember a particular line of the song which has remained on my mind ever since: “See I was on the verge of breaking down, sometimes silence can seem so loud.”
About two months ago, I chanced upon Isabel Allende’s novel, Paula, which I began to read almost immediately. That was the first time I would be coming upon Allende’s book. I’ve heard of House of the Spirits, which was her first novel but I have never read it. I was captivated by the first line of Paula. And it was after I had gone more than halfway into the novel that I realised how instructive it was for Isabel Allende to have begun her novel that way. “Listen, Paula, I am going to tell you a story, so that when you wake up you will not feel so lost. The legend of our family begins at the end of the last century...” read the first and second lines. For me, there is no better way a great writer can start a novel of this nature, especially when the writer is in such great despair.
Paula is a true-life story about the anguish of the author whose daughter, Paula, falls gravely ill and thereafter sinks into a coma. The novel was written during the interminable hours the author spent in the corridors of a Madrid hospital (which she called the corridor of lost steps) and in the hotel room where she lived for several months, as well as beside her daughter’s bed back home in California, USA during the summer and fall of 1992.
It was an agonising period for Isabel Allende who had passed through so much in life marriage-wise besides being born into a family which was at the centre of the 1970s political turmoil in Chile.
For me, the narrative is more than a memoir. It is a tender, moving and vivid record of a mother’s agony at the bedside of her daughter. It’s a long letter written by a mother to a dying child in an effort to restore her fast ebbing life. The author shares with the readers her most intimate feelings which results in an emotionally charged, spellbinding memoir.
Life throws all sorts of things our way, and for some people, the best way to pour out the anguish lurked in the inner recesses of their minds is to write. Through their writings, many authors have climbed huge mountains and surmounted great challenges. For most authors and musicians, the deeper the wound, the more private the grave until they let it out through their music or book.
All they need is a medium that will enable them pour out that emotion, the feeling that has been bottled up in their minds; and writing provides the veritable platform on which to do so. Hence, writing, like music, is an escape from emotion for most people when they are alone, when the days are longer and the nights darker; when solitude leaves them bitter. They have more than enough to write once they are blown on all sides by the strong wind of hopelessness. Therefore, they have nothing else to do but remember. Remember the dark days
Their unvoiced wail is usually so intense such that their readers or listeners cannot help but hear it. Little wonder, then, that Paula is a pretty lengthy narrative filled with weariness and pain. It’s a combination of long periods of angry silence during the author’s childhood and adolescence.
In the long silent hours of writing, authors trample on memories; all that happened in one instant of their lives, as if their entire lives are a single, unfathomable image. The child, boy or girl they were, the woman or man they are, the old man or woman they shall be, are all water in the same rushing torrent. Their memories are like a Mexican Mural in which all times are simultaneous.
This is the way I have learnt to go. To either be like the novelist by putting my experience down on paper or singing. I have learnt to tread the path of the writer who, on the verge of breaking down, puts her feelings into writing.