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.

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!

Nothing to see, nothing to write

It was fun travelling to Enugu last weekend for the Nigerian Media Merit Award. It was a time to hang out with old friends I had not seen for a long time and to make new ones. The journey was an interesting one, although getting up in the morning to catch the first flight coupled with the scary noise from the aircraft, was not an easy task. Thank God we arrived safely in Enugu despite uncertainties which characterised our trip flying with Arik.

As a first timer, landing on the red soil of Enugu was like being on a strange terrain that is totally different. Amidst chat with Stella Sawyerr of Tell Magazine and Pius Okeosis, a former colleague here at Business Day, and Wole Shadare of The Guardian (who has never stopped telling me he is a fan of this column), I walked towards the arrival hall of the Akanu Ibiam 'International' Airport. But what first hit me was the reality that our luggage were conveyed from the aircraft to the arrival hall manually. There were no conveyor belts, nothing! The men were sweating it out as they strained themselves silly to lift the luggage from the motor car. It was a sorry sight for an "international airport?"

Anyway, we were to eventually survive the luggage "dismay and surprise" as we drove on into town proper on the Coal City BRT bus. It was not exactly a bad ride; at least it afforded us the opportunity to see a few areas in Enugu. At a point, I almost asked myself what happened to the much touted rapid development taking place in Enugu! On the other hand, I reasoned that where we drove through to the Nike Lake Resort, our hotel for the weekend, was the outskirt of town, as such, one may not necessarily expect much in terms of development from the area.

The atmosphere at Nike Lake Resort was though breathtaking. The lake was more like the much needed soothing balm to our aching legs and famished bodies, especially under the hot Enugu sun. Lunch however came rather late since we all left our homes without breakfast and we could not help but heave a sigh of relief when the waiters at long last thought it wise to uncover the ceremonial pans and asked us to help ourselves to lunch. The meal was tasty and I could not turn down Deji Bademosi's (of Channels TV) offer to 'wash down' the meal with a bottle of Amstel Malta he left in my care while he went to help himself with lunch. The day was crowned with the Heroes Night also held by the Lake side which had the likes of Prince Tony Momoh and Ambassador Segun Olusola in attendance.

The following morning was equally interesting but our supposed tour of Enugu city left a bitter taste in our mouth. Our journey began shortly after breakfast at about 11am. We though seemed excited at the thought of touring Enugu and for a first timer like me, it was exciting, as our mini convoy; heavily guarded by policemen (for fear of kidnappers I hear is the beginning of wisdom in Enugu) moved in the full glare of Enugu township that was alive to the rhythm of the scorching sun.

Our first point of call was the newly constructed bridge at New Market road.
There, the government official who was on one of the buses got off to explain to
us the state of the road before the construction of the new bridge. As if that
was not enough, the convoy moved to new estates being constructed in some parts
of the town, we could not believe what we saw and those who got off came back
with a disheartening testimony. After that, we moved to some unknown sites in
other parts of town. By this time, the whole bus had become restless because we
were convinced we could no longer put up with what we were being shown.

"Na wa o!" exclaimed Siju Alabi of Super Screen TV. We were shown some funny sites I cannot make anything out of. "What kind of tour is this?" someone else queried. "We thought we would be shown some historical sites and monuments. What's all these?" we almost asked in unison
In spite of our disdain for the circus show of shame, we were forced to watch, our journey that morning did not come to an end until we were made to visit the stadium where we were told point blank by the guards that we were not expected. This remark angered us all such that we asked to be returned to the hotel.

The state governor was to add salt to our collective injury when he refused to show up at the award night. We were told by Ambassador Segun Olusola that the governor was suffering from food poisoning which he contracted while on one of the campaign tours for the local government elections. It was really sad. If the governor could not make the event, does that also preclude his deputy from representing him? The truth must be told! It was a crazy tour of Enugu and those of us who thought we could write something meaningful about the state as a good tourist destination were highly disappointed. Honestly, there was nothing to write about, except this!

‘No African time, please!’

How possible is it to live in a country where you have to schedule weeks ahead to have a dinner date with a friend? A country where you may not be able to build your dream house without getting approval from the ministry of housing? Also, in a country where employees are paid up to 50 percent income tax and where shopping malls close at 5 pm and don’t even open on public holidays?

It may not be an interesting place to live in, not with the kind of lifestyle I am used to in Nigeria . But, that is the kind of lifestyle that The Netherlands has to offer!

It is this precision for every thing, time in particular, that struck me the first few days I arrived The Netherlands.

One particular evening, I was in a store and it was few minutes to five, their usual closing time, when one of the attendants signaled the one attending to that it was closing time. I was shocked because I was not yet done with my shopping. And I was amazed at how precious time was for the Dutch, and not the money.

Back home, the money counts for a shopkeeper who would not mind staying extra hours if there are still customers in his shop. This is one aspect of The Netherlands that I find fascinating. Their precision for time; they are always on time.

“Is satisfaction measured by such a boring routine or well-structured system?” asked Claire, a journalist from Kenya . “Don’t we always need friends around, reachable anytime? What about the freedom to your own house, have access to the malls, cinemas, and coffee shops 24 hours a day, or at least till bedtime?”

“But that rule does not apply here, it is only applicable in Africa ,” I answered. “Privacy is key here. They don’t interfere in other people’s affair. They close on time because they don’t believe they have to be overworked, beside some of them are paid hourly, so staying extra hours may not be compensated if there is no arrangement for that.”

“In Lagos , it is possible for me to pick a bus at any point and at any time on arrival at the bus stops, but Holland does not afford me that luxury of moving at my own pace. It has to be at the tempo determined by the bus schedules,” added Mary.

Nigeria , as we all know it, is a country where bus drivers and their conductors beckon at prospective passengers, announcing their routes. Walking by the road side is enough to attract their attention, as the bus drivers and conductors compete to be the first to get a passenger on board.

This is not the norm in The Netherlands, as you dare not try to stop the bus after it has left the bus stop!

In The Netherlands, schedules are strictly observed because people want to have their privacy to do the things they want to do. This is not the practice in Nigeria . A friend or relative can visit you without prior notice, and most times we take it in our strides without expressing any kind of displeasure. We inconvenient ourselves because we want to be polite, and that’s not the case here, as displeasures are voiced not hidden.

Timeliness is a practice that cuts through all aspect of the Dutch society. The trains and buses are always on time. Most times in the mornings, I see people running to catch up the train or bus as soon as they spot it from a distance, as no bus or train will wait for you.

Everything is about punctuality because it has to be at the next stop where other passengers are waiting. And if it would arrive late, it is announced. This is not a country where you have bus conductors shouting at the top of their voices for passengers. Each bus has its route and the time it must be at the bus stop. If you are one minute late, it will not stop anymore as soon as the passengers are on board.

The situation is not different with the offices. Every worker gets to the office on time, closes at 5pm on the dot. I could recall an incidence that happened last week when Joeri, one of our course instructors, deciding to stay a little late teaching us. “Joeri, you are still teaching. It’s weekend,” observed Abi, the course leader, as she walked into the room. “I know,” replied Jeori. Jeori is just one of the few who stay back for an extra minute or two.

The Dutch have a balanced look at life. The 40-hour work week is strictly dedicated to performing their jobs. The rest of the time is devoted to rest. Weekends are devoted to gardening or attending family or friend’s affairs, as travelling is also part of their yearly itinerary.

In The Netherlands, no African time, every thing is programmed!

In the belly of the earth

The rumbling sound of the approaching metro jolted me back to life after we have had a long walk through some streets of Paris . Walking up and down the metro station was an excruciating task for a tired soul, but I did not have a choice but muster enough strength to carry on.

“We have to hurry,” I managed to tell Nadine, my host, Mary, Toili, Farooque and Hammed, my friends. I don’t want us to miss that Metro just arriving.

“Don’t worry about that,” replied Nadine. Metro arrives every five minutes. There’s no need to hurry before we climb down the stairs another would have arrived.”

Climbing up and down the flight of stairs added to the tiredness, and I was left wondering how France was able to construct its metro numbering about three levels. Paris has one of the best metro systems in the world, as it is possible to go to any part of the city within 30 minutes with proper knowledge of the metro.

It could be really confusing for a first time tourist who may be at a loss on which route to take. To make things worse, all the information on the schedule boards were written in French. Almost everyone was holding a map, including some residents of Paris !


On a particular afternoon, Nadine, Mary and I almost missed our way, even with Nadine a resident, with us. After climbing several stairs, we realised we were taking the wrong exit to board the metro, and nothing could be more hurting to climb the flight of stairs again. On this wing, there were no elevators unlike what we had previously seen at other stops, as the number of minutes it took us to walk around the station was enough to get on the next metro.

Hence that evening, the somewhat long walk at the metro station, added to my tiredness. When we arrived at the foot of the metro, it was packed full. Yet we managed to secure a standing position in one of the coaches.

“This is Molue,” exclaimed Mary. “This is a re-enactment of what we have in Matatus in Kenya ,” added Toili.


We were all surprised at the possibility of having an overloaded metro in a city like Paris, a town in the heart of Europe . We thought that was only possible in Africa , a continent believed to be synonymous with every negative thing you can think of.

However, that was not the only negative thing we discover about Europe . Nadine had earlier warned us to be careful with our bags, as there were bag snatchers and pick-pockets, or call it pick-bags in Paris .

On a typical metro, like the Danfos and Molues in Nigeria , there were all kinds of people with different faces. There were beggars, as well as those who played musical instruments for money. On a particular day, we ran into a young boy with needle marks all over his arm, begging for money to eat.


According to him, he could not get money from government to feed himself and was unable to get a job too. His story was interesting to me because I felt he was still very young and should have been in school. Obviously, the needle marks on his arms showed he had been into drug. Nobody made any attempt to give him money, except an old woman who dropped a coin into his palm.


For me, Nigeria is not the only country where hawking or begging in buses is common, as the Paris example has shown.

With this scenario in a town termed the world’s most beautiful city, it is therefore not right for Western nations to keep labeling Nigeria , or even any African country, as bad. I saw some people who did not even have metro tickets jumping over the security bars.

To access the metro, you have to slot in your ticket through a hole. As soon as the machine reads it, the bar turns, giving you a right of passage. But there were commuters who blocked the bar with their stretched legs because they had no ticket, which is a criminal act.

Although, it is always possible to purchase metro-season ticket to travel, this is cheaper. The Paris metro tickets are available for full day, one week, 10 days, one month, and so on, but these people just refused buying.

Therefore, Nigeria is not the only country crime abound, it is everywhere.


Going underground in a metro took me into another world, a world different from what was happening above, in the open air.

I was able to see another side of Paris , the reality of what goes on in the belly of the earth.

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.