Not yet Utopia

As a young girl, I grew up reading the works of some renowned philosophers like Sir Thomas More, who talked about an ideal society free of troubles - an Utopia, a name for an ideal community or society, according to More.

In one of his books written in 1516, More describes a fictional island in the Atlantic Ocean, possessing a seemingly perfect socio-politico-legal system.
Utopia, a term that has been used to describe both intentional communities that attempted to create an ideal society and fictional societies portrayed in literature. Utopia is now sometimes used pejoratively, in reference to an unrealistic ideal that is impossible to achieve. Social planners, dreamers and religious leaders through the centuries have been haunted by memories of paradise lost and have tried to re-create these lands of earthly peace and contentment, at least on paper. The search for Utopia has created ongoing debates regarding the nature of humans and the best social milieu for a peaceful populace.

The journey to Utopia begins with Plato, a Greek philosopher and disciple of Socrates. When Plato wrote “The Republic” Athens was in decline. The philosopher complained that his fellow citizens had become too individualistic and suggested that they lacked discipline. To achieve a rational society, Plato believed that the common person needed benevolent direction from philosopher-rulers who could be depended on, to do what was best for the Republic.
Plato foreshadows George Orwell’s world of revisionist history and doubletalk when he admits that – in the name of Utopia -- “Our rulers will probably have to make considerable use of lies and deceit for the good of their subjects.”

Plato’s perfect society is composed of three classes of people: the wise, ruling philosophers; the courageous guardian soldiers and officials, and the obedient and temperate workers. The groups are united by their belief in justice and the good of the State. Private property is abolished, jobs are assigned and art is censored to ensure proper morals and attitudes.

The massive, all-seeing government was championed by Plato, who maintained that in a well-functioning society, the State must be supreme. To achieve uniformity, the nuclear family must be dissolved and replaced with communal living. In an early programme of eugenics, the State determines who may have children. Infants deemed healthy are raised in communal nurseries, while those considered defective are abandoned outside the city to die.

However, in the reality of the modern day society, Utopia is beyond our reach. I
believe that the concept of Utopian or an Utopian world does not exist in this
world.

This is because, if I look at the meaning of the word, it possesses something that is related to perfection. That means, if the world is being credited as Utopian, it must hold the hundred percent of peace, hundred percent of happiness, and hundred percent of everything. This would mean that the world is perfect.
Whoever is meant to live in that world will have the opportunity to grab a very perfect life. But that is not the case in our dear country where electricity power is unstable, the roads are in bad shape, there are still many people who cannot afford three square meals; you know, the list is endless.

Hence, I could not help but think the idea of Utopian in this world can only exist in fairy tales or in fictional world. This is because, in a fictional world, man has the right to create the perfection in the settings and characters of a certain fictional work. As a literature student, I have come across this concept in many literary works.

In which case, I came to believe the fictional world was the only place where the ideals of an Utopian can really happen. For example, in the fairy tales ‘Cinderella,’ the main character Cinderella is tailored to marry to her prince charming, and live happily ever after.

Nevertheless, some religious philosophers think an Utopia world only exist beyond here, a world being created by God. They believe the Utopian world only exists in the heavens, created by the Almighty as a reward for His obedience creatures. For them, it is only God who has the power to create the something perfect as the Omnipotent creator of the universe. Hence, the concept of Utopian is actually beyond the human thought.

While the Utopian philosophers disagree on the specifics of paradise, they do tend to hold a similar view of humanity. Generally, they believe that individuals are shaped by their environments and that crime and brutality can be eliminated through social engineering.

For the Utopians therefore, the goal of life is peace and contentment. To create a society without want or fear, these philosophers maintain, the happiness of the individual must be assured. In such an enlightened world, even the rulers would be content and would not be tempted to abuse power to their own gains.
The Utopians are above all optimists, believing that mankind is inching towards paradise. Nigeria as a nation may be far from becoming an Utopian state as we are not inching towards any paradise, the future may be dark as the present if we collectively fail to do anything!

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!

A pale-male’s tale of trepidation, trumpeting

By KEITH BELL
I’m a 40-something pale-male. A few years ago I had the opportunity to work and train journalists at BusinessDay newspaper in Nigeria. I hated Lagos. It’s a dark, grim poverty striken city of 43-million (the population of South Africa). I hated being away from home and my loved ones. I hated the black oily pollution of Lagos. I hated seeing burnt bodies next to the road (victims of mob justice). I hated the traffic-jams (sitting in a car for seven hours to and from work … pictured above). And I was terrified when I contracted malaria three times and typhoid. But I never felt unsafe in Lagos. Nigerians are good, friendly people … fighting everyday to survive. I’ve never seen people who work so hard.



I loved my colleagues at BusinessDay (Lagos). Beautiful friendly, generous, loving people … people like Charles Ike-Okoh (a life-long friend), Enam Obioso (who still phones to this day with his “how-now” pidgeon English), Monday (my friend, savior and driver), Friday (no joke … that’s his name), Nicholas (who took care of me when I had malaria, bringing me lemon tea), Kirk (who would shake my hand with a firm grip that I would wince in pain in anticipation of another handshake), Funke (a stunning journalist), Amaka, Anne, big Stan (a Kenneth Kaunda look-alike, who at first intimidated me … but wept and queezed the breath out of me when I left … pictured above) and BusinessDay (Lagos) publisher Frank Aigbogun (known for his dazzling smile, bright green, pink and blue shirts … and even brighter ties). I digress, but one day I joked about Frank’s dandy atire … the next day he arrived at work with a beautifully gift-wrapped present. Inside? A dazzling blue shirt … and an even more dazzling blue tie. I miss my friends in Lagos.

source:http://blogs.theherald.co.za/pitch/

It’s useless knowing, is it?

Few days ago, I decided to visit the cinema, after a somewhat long break. The Palms was its usual busy self, as it was a little bit difficult to manuvoure through the teeming crowd. There was a queue at the counter when I arrived at the Genesis Deluxe Cinemas, even though I was unsure of which movie to see, I just joined the queue.
Eventually, I settled for Knowing, the one I thought would be most interesting to see, considering the other options on offer.

The movie opens with an odd, little looking girl in 1959 putting a page full of numbers into her school’s time-capsule that is going to be opened in 50 years time.
Similarly, in the same year, as part of the dedication ceremony for a new elementary school, a group of students is asked to draw pictures to be stored in a time-capsule. But this mysterious little girl, who seems to hear whispered voices, fills her sheet of paper with rows of apparently random numbers instead.

The movie is fast forwarded 50 years to the present where a new generation of students has to examine the contents of the time-capsule and the little girl's cryptic message ends up in the hands of young Caleb Myles. But it is Caleb's father, Professor Ted Myles, played by Nicolas Cage, who makes the startling discovery that the encoded message predicts with pinpoint accuracy the dates, death tolls and coordinates of every major disaster of the past 50 years.

As Ted further unravels, the document's secrets foretell three additional events - the last of which hint at destruction on a global scale and seem to somehow involve Ted and his son.

Ted's attempts to alert the authorities fall on deaf ears, and he takes it upon himself to try to prevent more destruction from taking place. Through happenstance, Ted has his attention drawn to a certain string on the page which seems to have predicted the World Trade Centre 9/11 tragedy.

As he looks up the numbers, he finds that the predictions are all accurate, and there are only three left. Becoming instantly obsessed, Ted tries to figure out the meaning behind the unbelievable numbers, which eventually leads him to the daughter and grandchild of that original mysterious little girl of 1959.
It also leads him to an attempt to prevent one of the tragedies, which doesn’t go quite according to plan. Of course, there are also the mysterious and foreboding people who suddenly seem to be stalking Ted and his son.


This gripping supernatural thriller charts one man's faltering steps towards belief in the ultimate order of the universe, even as he finds himself surrounded by mounting chaos. With the reluctant help from Diana Whelan and Abby, the daughter and granddaughter of the now-deceased author of the cryptic prophecies, Ted's desperate efforts take him on a heart-pounding race against time until he finds himself facing the ultimate disaster-and the ultimate sacrifice of leaving his only son in care of aliens.

Whatever one’s thought on the ultimate story that is played out in Knowing, it’s a film that everyone should see even though the rationale behind the script writer’s conclusion was very much unclear.

For me, the movie seemed to be giving some sort of unclear answers to the questions it raised. It’s just asking questions. The story paid homage to the age-old battle between those who “know” and those who just keep asking questions.
Socrates was the gadfly in that school of thought in Plato’s Socrates Dialogues, because he kept asking questions from those who “knew” until he discovered that those who claimed to know in reality knew nothing.

Most philosophers wonder if there is any physical world at all, and what implications that there might be if there isn’t. Scientists, lay people, and other philosophers scoff at such thought and go on being merry.

The next thing they discovered is that the physical world is nothing like it seems, but if we only ask so many questions we get answers we can more or less deal with.
Philosophy, religion, and science keep asking more and more questions that have led to some kind of bizarre ideas and discoveries, as answering the questions is neither here nor there. In the movie, a curiosity of the religious debate is that “it’s either there is God, and there’s no free will, or there is no God and there’s free will. If God knows everything, he knows everything that is going to happen, hence there’s no free will.”

This may be a hard question to tackle, as we all know there is God but that free will may not be absolute. What does knowing mean if man does not have control over anything and he has limited knowledge?

Someone who is trying to do some real work on figuring out life might ask, suppose there is a God and he knows everything about the future of your life. Would we act differently? And, what does that imply for a general outlook on morality? What if there is no physical world? Where is God in that case? Could he show up here? The answer is, but there is a physical world. Someone might as well dismiss the idea that a few of us were captured by aliens and taken to another world where our identities were implanted into us, and we run around like rats in mazes.

If you pay attention to what Knowing is all about, you will find it’s really a great movie. It’s intense though, engaging, intriguing, crafted with brilliance and subtlety. It also features some remarkable special effects sequences, many of which are brilliant and beautiful for their non-realism in something like the way you might think of a darling.

If you sort of pay attention to what it’s about, it’s a fun trip, even if it’s a crazy kind of ride. If you really focus on what it’s about, it’s either tremendously stupid, or mastermind. But, the first rule of knowing is that you can’t deny the hypothetical. But the movie left me to resolve the riddle of the existence of a physical world and a God whose power is beyond human knowledge.

The MJ that never was

I did not get to hear of Michael Jackson’s death until the early hours of last week Friday. It was an impolite shock to me, as it was like a dream, some kind of a nightmare. And I still can not believe that MJ is no more. His figure still looms large on the international music scene even after his death, and this will remain so for a long time to come.

As we all can remember, MJ lived a life full of controversies, one that was rooted in inferiority complex created in him since early childhood. Michael once stated that he was physically and emotionally abused by his father from a young age, enduring incessant rehearsals, whippings and name-calling. His father reportedly nicknamed him Big Nose. This attitude from his father had a lasting but damaging effect on his person, yet he credited his father's strict discipline as playing a large part in his success.

In one dispute as the story goes, his father held him upside down by one leg and punched him over and over again, hitting him on his back and buttock. Joseph, his father, would also trip or push his male children into the walls.

According to a report, one night while Michael was asleep, Joseph climbed into his room through the bedroom window, wearing a fright mask screaming and shouting. Joseph disclosed later that he wanted to teach his children not to leave the windows open when they went to sleep. For years afterwards, Michael admitted suffering nightmares about being kidnapped from his bedroom. In 2003, Joseph admitted to the BBC that he had whipped Michael as a child.

It is believed these disciplinary measures taken by the Jackson ’s father had a negative effect on his son who died a lonely man. Perhaps, this inferiority complex made him wanted to become a white man through and through. He asked that his nose be reshaped and his skin bleached.

MJ lived as a man who wanted to be accepted in a racist American society, and in spite of his world acclaimed fame; he still suffered from social acceptance. Perhaps, he thought the only way he could do this was to become white since that was the condition provided by the then segregated American society. Michael was born a cute African-American guy; normal, if you will permit me to call him that, and very talented. Despite the current, sad stories about his lonely, sad childhood, Michael grew up surrounded by famous people and an adoring public.

It is reported that Michael first spoke openly about his childhood abuses in a 1993 interview with Oprah Winfrey, noting that during his childhood he often cried from loneliness and would sometimes start vomiting upon seeing his father. In his other high profile interview, ‘Living with Michael Jackson, 2003,’ he covered his face with his hand and began crying when talking about his childhood abuses.

Michael recalled that his father sat in a chair with a belt in his hand as he and his siblings rehearsed and that "if you didn't do it the right way, he would tear you up, really get you.” The loneliness he suffered from as a child affected him adversely, even as an adult and the closest person to him until his death was his producer.

If MJ had been brought up by a father who was able to balance leniency and great disciplinary measure may be he would have still been alive. May be he would not have suffered so greatly from loneliness in spite of his vast fan base; may be he would have had a stable marriage; may be he would have struggled with his facial features, and there would have been no need for the several plastic surgeries that marked all the stages of his life.

He would have been a very handsome proud African-American, and not have strove to become a white man.

‘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.