Mr. Four Eyes

It’s official, ladies and gentlemen. Yours truly has joined the LXG – the League of Xtra-ocular Gentlemen (he he). Yup, I finally donned my first medicated pair of specs today, after years of balking at the prospect. Looked real debonair in ‘em too (who wouldn’t, framed in Gucci?). ‘Taking a while adjusting to the new ‘visuals’, though – I’m finding it hard to resist the urge to squint, for instance. But things are ‘looking’ pretty good. Makes me wonder why I hadn’t tried this a long time ago... ‘Guess I didn’t wanna get dubbed “Mr. Four-Eyes”. Funny thing. My sister's started calling me that already.

PS: Season’s Greetings, everyone! Celebrate the Reason for the Season – then dig into the venison!

The Rally to Ratify Rape in Pakistan

Something shameless, chauvinistic, and sh*tty happened last Sunday, Dec. 10. Protesters numbering 8000 according to some estimates marched out to denounce the Women Protection Bill, which was passed into law to prevent the injustices usually meted out on women during the prosecution of rape cases in Pakistan. There, until presently, these cases were handled in accordance with the Hudood Ordinances, a set of legislations instituted in 1979 by a military ruler and with absolutely no origins from Islamic dictate. Under these frankly ludicrous rules, a rape victim had either to produce four male witnesses to prove the crime, or face the incredulous possibility of prosecution for adultery. As a result, Pakistani women are inveterately violated without defence, and the defaulters saunter out their cells "with a cigar and a smile", so to speak. Such was what happened in March '05, when five of the men who raped Ms. Mukhtar Mai were acquitted and one of the village elders who ordered the rape had his death sentence commuted to life imprisonment.

Now, what in the world justifies the rape of a woman as punishment for another relative's indiscretions! What surah in which version of the Qu'ran deems it right – make that righteous – to violate a vessel of Allah for the iniquities of another just because this vessel happens to be female? Which of the female protesters from that Sunday march would volunteer for a gang-rape by their male counterparts before suffering the double indignity of incarceration because she could not produce 4 witnesses? And how in the heck is a rape victim under the blur of sexual assault and psychological (never mind physical) prostration supposed to ensure that ONE witness, let alone 4 male witnesses, is on stand-by while the outrage is going on! Even if such an improbability were possible, how many men in witness of a rape would accede to testify, especially where the likelihood is they were hardly 'passive observers' themselves? Hell, that scenario only features in jail showers when some rookie convict makes the damnest error and drops the soap!

Yeah, something real sh*tty happened that Sunday, and quite sadly, there are no indicators that these bigoted bandwagon marches, which are steadily incubating a culture of crime in the name of religion, may not happen again. Isn't there a saying that those who forget their history are more likely to repeat it?

To Blair Is Human...

Why would a man beg forgiveness for a crime he did not commit? The man is British PM Tony Blair. The crime is the dastardly slave trade, an egregious practice that spanned between the 13^th and 20^th century, equated in cruelty only by the Holocaust and certainly unparalleled in its duration of racial subjugation. But as they say, the past is the past. The erring governments have since mended their ways, the victims are long dead, and their descendants now enjoy the full rights of citizenship in these formerly oppressive countries. So why dredge up this frankly forgettable issue from the backwaters of history?

Perhaps the overbearing reason is that, unlike those who pioneered the abolition of slavery, the rest opted to accept it, not to eradicate an injustice, but merely to save face, and would otherwise have voted to jolly well continue reaping the cushy conveniences that black servitude offered. And while the shame has been forgotten, this demeaning mindset has persisted and can still be perceived when races interrelate. Africans are still prejudicially associated with all brawns and no brains, supremacist political parties are allowed legitimacy in European states, and western-sourced loans are stringed with quartets of caveats, each structured to perpetuate rather than truncate dependency. Meanwhile, these governments who are especially swift to slam sanctions on nations that flout fundamental human rights maintain excellent diplomatic ties with Arab emirates and sultanates where traffic in forced labour is still being practised. Even more worrisome is that the bile of this trend has permeated injuriously into black societies in these countries, where products of biracial relationships, or mulattos, are maligned and systematically ostracised.

This is not to deny Africa’s share in the blame, nor does it turn a blind eye to genuine efforts by the West to ‘do the right thing’. But the question remains what is the right thing, and what it certainly ISN’T is brushing the "blighted bugger" under the carpet with a blanket apology every half century or so. Something more concrete than verbal contrition is required, more dignified than a donation is necessary to repose such recollections of history more comfortably in the Western consciousness. Maybe a Mea Culpa Park of sculpted monuments should be dedicated in the capitals of affected African countries by the Western nations that participated, jointly funded between themselves. Maybe a return of pilfered African artefacts should be included in the symbolic reparation. Maybe Tony Blair should marry Condoleezza Rice - after getting divorced first, of course. This floor is open to suggestions...

AIDS March '06!

It was December 1, World AIDS Day, and boy, what a jamboree it was here in the Canaan City! That’s another name for my town, Calabar, and it was definitely outpouring with the proverbial milk and honey of human kindness for all comers. Live street bands laced the atmosphere with soul-stopping, jazzy music, and the Governor joined in the fun walk to the Millennium Park, wife in tow, to mark the pertinence of the day and declare the Christmas Season open. The crowd of participants was mammoth and mesmerising in its assortment of coloured T-shirts, with slogans like, “Stay Protected – Abstain!” and “ Stamp Out HIV/AIDS” screaming off 'em. The jubilant swarm also carried banners along to indicate what organisations they delegated – and of course, condoms and congeniality were in free flow...

It's Raining Planes!

When H.E. the Sultan of Sokoto and Spiritual Leader of Nigeria’s Umar, Alhaji Muhammadu Maccido was specially thanked for attending the Federal Education Forum at Abuja by President Obasanjo, it never occurred to him that a greater sacrifice than supporting the country’s literacy would be required of him; a sacrifice he belatedly discovered would be too dear to recover. As the twin engines erupted in blood-red flames 2 minutes after going airborne, the final moments must have been scarcely sufficient for Muhammadu to clutch at his incarnadined prayer beads and breathe a desperate “Allah!” before the ADC Boeing 737 succumbed to gravity, hurtling down to the fiery, fatal fate suffered by four other Nigerian planes in the space of one year.

The last time Nigeria sustained such consecutive tragedy was 1996, and back then, they were blamed on the dearth or deplorable state of aviation facilities and equipment at the airports. Typical to the Nigerian situation, however, the relative calm in the skies afterwards induced characteristic slothfulness in effecting reforms, a reprehensible exhibition of complacency that was sternly penalised with the Bellview Boeing crash of October 22, 2005 that claimed all 117 aboard. Such a visceral kick in the stomach prompted the aviation sector to react with knee-jerk speed. There were equipment updates, round-the-clock terminal radar services installed at the airports, and comprehensive audits of landing aircraft instruments to include Distance Measuring Equipments, Very High Omni-Directional Radio Range transmitters and countless other safety paraphernalia. The result? Four more planes have dropped out of ‘heaven’, including a private jet and a military Dornier 228, cutting short in their cursed descent no less than 220 lives, many of whom constituted the crème of Nigeria’s most illustrious citizens. The opening paragraph relates the very latest in this murderous spate of air mishaps that occurred on Sunday, October 22, ‘06, and brings us no closer to resolving the resounding, perturbing query: why?

The government stance has veered from communication lapse, equipment malfunction to pilot error. Meanwhile, conclusive reports on delegated investigations are yet to be issued, and the frankly mysterious circumstances surrounding certain instances have left observers nonplussed. To illustrate, the spatial dispersion of debris and eye-witness accounts suggest the Bellview and ADC planes may have sustained pre-crash explosions, the sources of which are yet indeterminate. In all 5 crash cases investigated, the black boxes are either still missing or undergoing sound-lab analysis. The Dornier dossier is even more enshrouded in mystique, with the military being especially sensitive to media scrutiny, considering its chequered, power-grabbing past and the fact that the crash victims were top army generals. Compound this with the rumour that several important political dignitaries were cautioned via phone not to board the Bellview flight by anonymous secret service details, and we have enough resource to pen a Frederick Forsyth bestseller.

One thing is certain: flying is fast losing its shimmering safety record in Nigeria, and politicians are taking due note. This Wednesday, when presidential hopeful, Rtd. General Ibrahim Babangida, journeyed to claim his presidential ticket at Abuja, he took the bus.

Cornucopia of Compromises

'Seems the past few days have been deluged by compromises. In my country, the government has delegated to assuage the outrage of the populace at the hapless series of plane crashes by sacrificing the affected airline's licence and the aviation minister's job. In the USA, American voters are denying their personal culpabilities in the failure of American society by giving Republicans the axe in parliament. And in Iraq, the majority Shiite parliament is passing into law a set of policies that could herald the return of Saddam's Sunni ex-faithfuls into government. The compromise? Peace, undoubtedly. Now, it's the one compromise I empathise with, God knows they need it. But who's to say this 'deal with the devil' won't entail another compromise...the release of Saddam...

Aso Rock 'n Rumble!

…For those of you just joining in, this is a novelty wrestling rumpus reaching you live from Nigeria’s resplendent Federal Capital Political Arena in Abuja. Spotting the patterned bands on the biceps is the two-time National Champ heavyweight, the formidable Olu “Baba Damager” Sanjo. His opponent, looking fashionable in a pair of striped and star-speckled trunks as well as a stylishly coifed Afro is Olu’s former tag-team partner and Chief Contender, Tiku “The Tornado” Turaki. Both are locked in a ferocious face-off that began in the early parts of this year when Olu dared an unprecedented three-time claim to the National Championships title unopposed.

Although Tiku “The Tornado” triumphed in the first round of fisticuffs by having Olu’s claim suspended, his challenge has since turned irreversibly to tatters by incurring the vehement wrath and rancour of “The Damager”. Using his redoubtable repertoire of power-slams, knee-locks, and rule-flips, Olu’s turned this bout into a handicap match, assailing his adversary with every trick in the book in order to pummel him to submission. First, he emasculated Tiku’s defence by sending off his security chief from the stands, then proceeded to methodically chip away at Tiku’s strong points, dropping deep, devastating rights and lefts to the greed- sorry, groin of the Tornado. Now he’s keeping him off the ropes by fiendishly bearing the Party Suspension bat down Turaki’s back, using Nigeria’s ‘no disqualification’ rule to full advantage like the seasoned pro he is.

So far, the Tornado’s been riding with the punches, refusing to resign, retreat or surrender. But what with Senate fraud investigations, Party suspensions and EFCC graft indictments, only time will tell true the depth of his endurance. If he does withstand the Damager, he just might earn another nickname: Cat with 9 Lives. Watch this space for blow-by-blow updates!

PS: Funny thing: Both are so deeply engrossed in this grudge match, neither has noticed being slowly encircled by a predatory pack of political scavengers, eager to put both outgoing champion and challenger out of their misery. ‘Must be the glasses…

Remembering the Child Soldier

Last week when the Lord’s Resistance Army of Uganda announced they would be releasing child soldiers from within their ranks, my feelings swayed between ebbs of empathy, considering the hapless horrors of war they had endured, and tides of unqualified relief that they’d finally re-unite with the safety and succour of family and community. UN Undersecretary Egeland remarked on this, warmly approving the disbanding of these war juveniles and affirming UN support to enable them rejoin their peers and parents in the villages. That presumably would entail ID verification, the exceptional treat to a hot shower, fresh duds, and then some form of transport – a jalopy-jeep or two – towing them through potholed tracks that snake across the countryside, back to the rural backwaters overrun by drought and disease. Home Sweet Home. What then?

For all the pietistic bluster the UN jabbers on concerning these little ones – protecting the rights of the child soldier, punishing the injustices meted out on the child soldier – precious little is actually done in this regard. There are no resettlement projects to speak of, no prospects of psychological remediation for the traumas they suffered. For many, there are no peers or parents to return to, no joyful whoops of welcome, no home-coming parade, just eerie emptiness. Of all war returnees, child soldiers find it hardest to rehabilitate, because unlike others, their hands have been stained crimson, oftentimes with the blood of relatives, neighbours, siblings, blood they were coerced to spill in the twisted cruelty of conscription exercises. Demonized by society, they are subjected to shifting shoulders and stony stares, fated to eke out a shambles of an existence in dereliction and depthless despair. Even their nights are denied the solace of sleep, haunted by the guilt-ridden memories of war and gore, their minds raw with the sores of sustained abuse and indoctrination, each passing day pushing them progressively towards the fringes of insanity and suicide.

Sadly, their deplorable predicament is endured against the backdrop of a disturbing media silence. While accounts of the “Veterans of Vietnam” are still whipped out periodically whenever news networks wax nostalgic, the story of the child soldier seems to have been unceremoniously shoved under the carpet, with little attention given to their plight post-conflict. What’s worse, some find they may have to suffer the vindictive consequences of their unwitting actions during the war because of a loophole in the international charters supposed to protect them! Because the UN Convention’s Protocol on children in armed conflict confines culpability to soldiers of age 18 and over but is unaccountably vague on the definition of ‘child soldier’, children who turn adult within armed ranks are automatically liable to prosecution (makes one wonder why the terrorist planes missed the UN Headquarters in New York).

The world may not realise it, but ignoring the child soldiers of our time is like smothering a ticking time-bomb by sitting on it. Let’s only hope that by the time it explodes, the whole world then will be “…all ears”?

The Calm Before the Storm

As the World celebrates Global Day of Darfur, it is poignant to note that the UN today is poised on the caprice of circumstances the United States of America found itself on the days preceding March 20, 2003 - the slippery slope of justifying the invasion of a hostile country, a member nation, no less. While the US cited WMD, the UN, should it decide to approve an armed incursion, will be pointing to the 200,000 death toll of Darfur's helpless. With 20-20 hindsight, the US must be ruing now why they didn’t rope in the 5,000 Kurdish victims of Saddam’s chemical experiment as probable cause. ‘Would’ve sufficed, eh? ...Not that the UN won’t be in a bit of a pickle itself if the Darfur aftermath fairs no better than post-Gulf War II. Heads up, people. The sh*t's about to hit the fan!

P.S.: Jay-jay and SooS, you guys rock! Keep those comments coming, y'hear?

Dreams

“...Debbie, wtf!!!” I screamed, fighting the Herculean urge to cuff the hell out of her mangy head. Debbie’s our 9-month old puppy, and she can’t tell turd from tofu. It was Saturday, I had just let her into my room, and within the few minutes I’d turned to work at my laptop, she had clambered on my bed and tinkled a nice puddle of piss on my favourite sheets. The poor thing isn’t exactly toilet-trained, so I could only huff impotently as I took her back out and chained her to the barrow beneath the staircase. Seeing no other proper outlet, I vented my frustration on the blasted laundry. It was while scrubbing hotly at the sheets that Game's song, 'Dreams' came to mind and inspired all that verbiage below. Funny how funky-smelling laundry makes one wax philosophical, don'tcha think? Must be the vapors...

Dreams. They may forever dwell in the ephemeral. They may never come to be. But they will never lose their luscious allure, their ability to consummately captivate the resources of man’s mind, to transport it past the breathless heights of euphoric self-discovery to the nether realms of virtual grandeur, extending the ends of man’s deepest desires to the limitless fringes of the phantasmal from the finite frontiers of fulsome reality.

Nonetheless, reality is the bird in hand, and I have yet to teach it how to fly. Considering what time is now at my avail, the only term to describe my prior dilatoriness is “SCANDALOUS!” (smirk) I’m sure it’ll work out somehow, but I guess it’s worth remembering the essence now is to make hay, not haste. You’ll be rooting at the stands for me meanwhile, won’t you? I thought so.

Mother: A Portraiture...

“Your turn,” she says to me, after deftly moving her counters into position on the ludo board. That’s my mother playing her favourite board game with her favourite son - me. Not that she has much of a choice, being I am the only male of six children. Nevertheless, that fact scarcely bothers her when she sees her chance to move in for the kill. Her entire persona is obvious just by watching her then, swirling the dice with deliberate care and cunning, her lucent brown eyes catching mine mischievously whenever I look away from the boards to the cup between her tapered fingers morosely. “Nfam-eee,” she cries mockingly to invoke the caprice of the gods in her favour, then slams the cup upside down with authority. A wry smile creases her face as she lifts the receptacle to reveal the dice declaring a lucky 6-5. Hardly surprising. My mother has always been lucky, surviving 3 gruesome years as a field nurse in the Biafran jungle when her guardian uncle was separated from her during the Nigerian Civil War. Usually, I should be smiling back, but at 7 down, I’m a sore loser, and a frown still frames my face. “Are you hungry?” her voice piquant with concern. Already she’s on her feet and sprightly stepping toward the kitchen, her gait unaffected by her 60-odd years on planet earth “I’m fine,” I hasten to assure her, laughing a little. It takes some convincing, but soon she resumes her seat at the table, and I brace myself to suffer certain defeat yet again by this caring, cunning, uncomplicated woman…

On Tenterhooks and Threshholds...

A lot's happened since my last posting. I successfully defended my undergrad project on the 23rd of June, completed 3 essay entries (flexin' those atrophied writer muscles, y'all), and was gifted by a dear family friend with every photo geek's dream - a 5.0 megapix Olympus!
A bit reflective of the scenario in my country as well; everything's spinning in a dizzy flux - for the better, I hope. We've got political activity peaking at seismic proportions 'cos of the elections coming up next year, and the ethnic squabble's agog with several groups decrying marginalization and seeking the top office of President. I hate to say, "Meet the new boss, same as the old...", but the prospect of true change is one thing you don't want to hold your breath for in Nigeria. An interesting development in the North, though: 'seems the youth are breaking from the norm of supporting the political godfathers after all. Twice this month, they prevented the Convention of Northern Governors from conferring, with the protest for power shift to the South come 2007, stating their deep disgruntlement with the performance of their gaffers thus far...
I wonder, though, what with all the hullabaloo over the need for AIDS to be decimated from the sub-continent, why noone has harried the Nigerian government to release the report on the baby who got infected with the virus at LUTH via tainted samples from the ir blood bank? That a choke was applied by government implies a vested interest on the part of certain officials - or does it...? Later.

The Days of Small Beginnings...

Well, well, what have we here? (Ha!) Looks like I've finally set up my own blog, something I've always wanted to do but reneged on for godzillions of years. It's fitting anyway, being that I turned a year older this month. Well people, you're welcome wherever you're from, and it might get wordy, it might wax effusive, but I assure my blog's gonna be anything BUT humdrum. Here's to the first in the rest of those days of small beginnings...