tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78880689027817967032024-03-08T03:50:30.486-08:00silversavantTunji Lardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16144485658283473381noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7888068902781796703.post-69655252070938334692013-04-14T03:40:00.001-07:002013-04-14T03:48:11.843-07:00The Poverty Tribe<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><u>The Poverty Tribe<o:p></o:p></u></b></div>
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<b><u>By Tunji Lardner<o:p></o:p></u></b></div>
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Never mind those boastful allusions to greatness that we
routinely make to the world. ‘The giant of Africa’ is the term usually bandied
about, with its corollary being ‘the most
populous country in Africa with over 250 ethnicities and over 400 languages
spoken.’ While that might be true when
projected outwards and relative to other countries on the continent, at home these
numbers dissolve into a tissue of lies about the veracity of our census and
true our demography. Since independence,
we have kept up the big lie about the true and accurate numbers of the various
ethnicities, especially the big three; Igbo, Hausa and Yoruba and with scant
regard for the teeming minority ‘tribes.’ Our political leaders have instead
preferred to maintain and legitimize this fiction, because in a mono-cultural petro-state,
with most of the national income goes to the centre and revenue from the
proceeds of Oil, how much you get, depends on dubious population claims or primordial
claims to land rights, either way, we have collectively chosen to substitute
fact for fiction.</div>
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The truth however is that contrary to all these demographic
claims, there is one large and growing tribe that is possibly larger than the
big three ‘tribes’ put together. The largest tribe in Nigeria today is the
poverty tribe. Now before we start parsing what the definition of poverty is to
confuse and distort its meaning and manifestations in Nigeria today, let me offer
a UN definition that describes poverty <span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">"as the total absence of
opportunities, accompanied by high levels of undernourishment, hunger,
illiteracy, lack of education, physical and mental ailments, emotional and
social instability, unhappiness, sorrow and hopelessness for the future.
Poverty is also characterized by a chronic shortage of economic, social and
political participation, relegating individuals to exclusion as social beings,
preventing access to the benefits of economic and social development and
thereby limiting their cultural development."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> Sounds
familiar? It should, because all our socio-economic indicators validate the
depredations of poverty that is so widespread and all around us that we have
become inured to the destitution, desperation and death by poverty that afflict
most of our compatriots; by some credible estimates, up to 70% of Nigerian live
below the poverty line. In the last five years it has been estimated that the
poverty rate in Nigeria has doubled to manifest as 112 million Nigerians living
the very miserable lives articulated in the preceding UN definition. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> Recently
the venerable Economist Magazine published a list of 80 countries that were
measured on a quality of life index, with the title ‘The lottery of life’ Where
to be born in 2013. According to them, the best place to be born this year is
Switzerland and the worst, right at the very bottom of the list was Nigeria.
Granted that it was not a comprehensive list of countries and a valid point can
be made about the Economist’s predictably snarky reportage about Africa in
general, even so, Nigeria has for a long time been one of the worst places to
be born for mothers and children. The fact is that we have one of the world’s
highest maternal and infant mortality rates, as well as one of the highest HIV
infection rates. Beyond the expected
apologia about Nigeria being a developing country and as such should not be
compared with Switzerland...blah..blah...blah, and the present administration’s trope of a
transformational agenda that is ‘sure and steady,’ the country’s vital signs do
not look too good, Nigeria is sick, some might say terminally so.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> For the
rest of us counting ourselves lucky enough not to belong to this tribe on the
basis of access to material goods and services, well I have news for you. We
all suffer from even more insidious forms of poverty. It is possible to be rich
and still be poor at the same time. I’ve often wonder about this paradox,
especially when engaging with Nigerian plutocrats, mostly the ever changing
roster of the nouveau riche, the latest beneficiaries of a corrupt petro-state.
One gets the impression that in spite of the outward, and I dare say, crass
accumulation and display of material wealth, these individuals at close
quarters resonate with a ringing hollowness, mental shallowness, and a
startling lack of self awareness. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It is this mental shallowness that best describes
the mental poverty, or better still, the poverty of the mind that seems to
afflict many Nigerians and is especially rampant in its leaders. For all the
buck passing and excuses we give about why Nigeria is so dysfunctional, one
simple fact emerges and that is the very poor policy formation and decision
making processes that we presently have in place at all levels of governance.
When we examine government policies closely we discover that they are typically
very short sighted and expedient, primarily designed to fulfil more privatized
interests than ultimately the public good. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Stripped off the theatrics and insularity that
Nigerian governments typically shroud their policy formation and delivery
processes, a policy is really and quite simply what a government chooses to do,
or not do. In this light, it simply means that the persistent and chronic
poverty in the land is a reflection of what our governments and leaders have
chosen to, or not do, over the last fifty odd years. And contrary to the
frequent invocations by politicians and government officials of the devil or
dark forces as being responsibly for our failures; poverty in Nigeria is
man-made, an artefact of our collective creation, because we have failed to
hold our leaders accountable for their misdeeds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Now if indeed the devil has had a hand in
creating this hell on earth, he/she must have done so with the active
connivance of Nigerians, who display such callousness and abject disregard for
their country and country men, that it can be argued that these group of people
(and we all know them) must be indeed possessed by Lucifer. This poverty of the
soul or spirit is writ large in our national psyche. We claim to be deeply
religious, spiritual even, but remain stubbornly amoral, putting up an
impenetrable moral firewall between our public ethics and our private morality.
Take the recent and celebrated case of John Yesufu Yakubu a mid- level civil
servant and our ‘thief de jour’ who is reputed to have made off N32.8, which in
real money is over $140 million of the Police Pension Fund. His was let off by
the Judge and fined N750,000 (about $5,000). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The rich irony of stealing from the Nigerian
police aside, the opportunity cost of this grand larceny to the common wealth
and wellbeing is astounding. I ran some numbers indexed against Nigeria’s 2012
national budget and came up with these figures.
Yakubu’s haul is 536.89% of the budgetary allocation for the Ministry of
Police affairs and 777.31% of the budget for the Independent Corrupt Practices
and other Related Offences Commission (ICPC), which in lay terms means that Mr.
Yakubu can technically afford to run the Police Affairs Ministry and the ICPC
for five and seven years respectively-two of the instruments of state expressly
designed to uphold law and order and put criminals like Yakubu behind bars for
a very long time. Equally stupefying is the fact that one man and his cronies
stole the equivalent of 48.07 of the National budgetary allocation for
Universal Basic Education, which means that perhaps half of Nigeria’s school
age children running into the tens of millions could technically be denied an
education because the system we have co-created allows and encourages people to
steal from the commonwealth, with no real fear of consequences.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">At a personal level, and from the larcenous
vantage point of Mr. Yakubu, I must ask...what accounts for such reptilian greed,
such insatiable pillaging and worse still, such collective numbness and
indifference to an act so dangerous and damaging to the common good, it must be
considered high treason. The answer in a
word is poverty. Nigeria is a rich country full of poor people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Comments can be sent to:
me.tlardner@gmail.com<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Tunji Lardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16144485658283473381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7888068902781796703.post-15917009626062527012013-04-06T15:31:00.000-07:002013-04-06T15:31:27.085-07:00For Chinua Achebe: Writing is easy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i><u><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">For Chinua Achebe:</span></u></i></b><b><u><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> WRITING IS EASY<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></span></div>
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<b><u><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By
Tunji Lardner<o:p></o:p></span></span></u></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The transition of
Chinua Achebe on March 21 this year at age 82 signalled the passing a great
African and a global man of letters. Widely acclaimed as the father of the
modern ‘African novel,’ with the debut fifty-five years ago of his timeless
classic ‘Things fall apart,’ Chinua Achebe can rest easy, and gaze proudly from
his celestial writing desk at the many children he has spawned.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The richly
deserved avalanche of glowing tributes and readings that will be held in his
honour will <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">no doubt speak to
the man’s literary genius, but might not fully capture the sage humanity of his
personage that only a direct interaction with this great man might impress. My
own tribute to the man is borne out of intermittent contact with him over the
last three or so decades beginning with this essay fully reproduced below, and
written as a preface to a cover story about the man and his work. After working
feverishly to pen the said essay titled ‘Writing is easy;’ I was over the moon,
when word got back to me that he liked it. Me....? Chinua Achebe liked my
essay? Wow...unbelievable! As young journalist, this was to be my bragging
rights for the rest of the year.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now fast-forward
to the early nineties in the US, when a handful of us rode up to meet him then
at Bard College, not too long after his road accident. We were welcomed by his
ever so gracious wife Christie and his son Ikechukwu and as I recall it, the
sounds of Fela wafting in the background and emanating from his study. When I
tentatively inquired about the music, he was to remark that ‘Fela was the sage
of our times,’ clearly genius recognizes genius. <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sitting in the
modest campus issue living room and enveloped by the love and attentiveness of
his wife and son was the great man in a wheel chair, warmly dressed and a
blanket draped over his knees cascading to the floor. His quiet, yet powerful
presence had us acolytes awe struck; there was a luminous sadness and a sober
happiness, coexisting side by side, without friction or contradiction. Like his
writings, there was a measured, balanced, and weighted series of conversations
that we had, mostly about Nigeria, (these were the darker days of the military
as opposed to the present dark days of ‘democracy’) writing, and our sense of our
place in the world. Each point as I
recall was carefully gestated before being delivered in a slow deliberate
cadence, freighted with considerable moral authority and punctuated by his wry
wit interlaced with deeper meanings that occupied my mind on the long drive
back to New York City. Here was an
advanced and enlightened soul, whose humanity and spirit had fully embraced the
wholeness life in its entirety, the good, the bad and the ugly.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I next met him at
Wesleyan college during the joyous celebration of his 70<sup>th</sup> birthday
surrounded by a large crowd of family, friends, and well wishers all enveloping
him with love and admiration. The high point for me was when he lovingly embraced
my then young daughter and somehow managed to cradle her for quite a little bit
in spite of the hubbub of activities around him. Given the timelessness of his
work, his spirit will undoubtedly live on, the man might be gone but his soul
and spirit embedded in his wise words live on. My own little tribute is
therefore to go back in time to uncover a past tribute that in my mind remains
a timeless homage to a truly great man, who could and did write.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On the pale uninspiring walls of our
rather prosaic newsroom is this acerbic epithet credited to Red Smith, an
American sports reporter: “Writing is very easy. All you have to do is sit in
front of a typewriter keyboard until little drops of BLOOD appear on your
forehead.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Peering unremittently from strategic
positions in the newsroom, its message at various times elicits various attitudes.
In the somewhat relaxed atmosphere of post-production recuperation, its
sardonic wit can be laughed off. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of course, ‘writing is easy,’ after
all we have just put to bed another excellent issue of <i>Newswatch.</i> But in
the pre-production madness, with the horrifying spectre of implacable deadlines
— personified by the unsmiling countenance of any of the four big editors, the
import is anything but sanguine.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sanguinary it might be, if a crucial
deadline is not met, but whatever the reasons, the writing must be done.
"A bad book is as much of a labour to write as a good one: it comes as
sincerely from the author's soul," Aldous Huxley wisely observed. True,
and no less truthful, regarding a copy. After the expenditure of so much
calories, a bad story in the end is perhaps twice as laborious<sup> </sup>as a
good one. But what drives men to such torture? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Obviously the need to communicate in a
more permanent fashion must have been the catalyst of this unending agony.
Although evidence for the original alphabet is scarce, it is widely upheld that
the first alphabet came from the lands bordering the eastern shores of the
Mediterranean, including ancient Canaan and Phoenicia circa 1700—1500 BC.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The creationists, on the other hand, are
typically quick to remind us that "in the beginning was the word, and the
word was with God, and the word was God" (John chapter 1, verse 1). If so,
man at some point in antiquity must have stolen the WORD Promethean-like from
the gods, and like Prometheus, who allegedly stole fire from the Greek gods to
give to humanity, writers have to perpetually suffer the retribution of the
gods. Prometheus was chained to a rock by an enraged Zeus, with an eagle sent
to eat his immortal liver which constantly replenished itself. A tale akin to the
agony a writer feels when his pen is willing but his inspira<span style="color: #007f00;">t</span>ion is weak. And a fate many would readily
prescribe tor writers, having suffered the toxicity of a poisoned pen.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But Prometheus has since been unbounded.
In his epic lyrical drama, <i>Prometheus
Unbound</i> Shelly, the British poet and philosopher, captured the universal
theme of the principle of good (Prometheus) triumphing over the universal
principle of evil. And although the poetic licence validated by the writer’s
muse permits the amoral, and even the immoral, the enforcement of poetic
justice has been the ethical responsibility of the writer. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But this is a responsibility that has
oftentimes been abdicated for reasons too wide for ready discourse. "The
fact that many people should be shocked by what he writes practically imposes
it as a duty upon the writer to go on shocking them,” Aldous Huxley again
observes. But the shock and the bizarre themes explored by some writers, for
example, Kafka, Tutuola, Fagunwa and Soyinka, are even more shocking when it is
realized that although the writer might draw his inspiration from deep within
his soul, his expiration is necessarily part of his environment. Writers with
varying degrees of refraction mirror the foibles of man, which are
considerable. It is this irksome and self-indicting reminder issued
relentlessly by writers that, although we might be god-like, we must certainly
have feet of clay, that more often than not gets the writer in trouble. Writers
have been beaten, imprisoned and quite routinely killed for putting the word to
paper. And their baffling stubbornness to recant, even in the face of death,
has often times been their very end.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“The moving finger writes, and having
written moves on; nor all thy piety and wit shall lure it back to cancel half a
line. Nor all thy tears wash out a word of it,” remarked Edward Fitzgerald in
the Rubbaiyat of Omar Khayyam.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is the permanency of the written
word that has encapsulated existence. Where would history be if the word was
not put down in whatever language? And what would you read if somebody had not
sat down to write it. But writing it, and writing it well, is the big problem
which the opening quote by Red Smith addresses so wryly.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Of all those acts in which the wise
excel, nature`s chief masterpiece is writing well,” John Sheffield enthused in
his <i>Essay on Poetry</i>, 1682. And the
British man of letters, Francis Bacon, had about five decades earlier advised
that “reading maketh a full man; conference a ready man.” Going by such
wholesome advice, it is clear that a great many men are not “ready,” “exact” or
“full.” Very few people can creditably sustain an idea through one or two
paragraphs, and indeed anybody who can, should be warmly congratulated.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Chinua Achebe is a man who has driven
his soul through many paragraphs. “Language has not the power to speak what
love indites. The soul lies buried in the ink that writes,” John Clare
profoundly observes. The soul of Achebe`s literature, unobscured by quaint
Euro-centric literary appreciation, is organically entwined with his society,
But his art and craftsmanship has successfully elevated indigenous themes to
the heights of universality. His books speak of a man as a homogenous commodity
in a society that is universal. For although Umuofia and Mbanta, the principal
villages in <b><i>Things Fall Apart,</i> </b>his monumental debut, are intensely Igbo
homesteads, the clash of cultures, the nationalistic pride of Okonkwo (the
protagonist) and his tragic end, have world-wide currency. Man is often times
caught in the cross-fire of change, the shifting sands of time, and the rain
storm of fate. To capture all these, for better or for worse, one has to write
well. Albert Chinualumogu Achebe writes well.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Originally
published as the ‘Preface to Cover’ of NEWSWATCH Magazine MARCH 24, 1986 <o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Comments can be sent to:
me.tlardner@gmail.com<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Tunji Lardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16144485658283473381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7888068902781796703.post-84573682499012486092013-04-06T15:22:00.003-07:002013-04-06T15:22:19.721-07:00Through the glass darkly<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Through
the glass darkly<o:p></o:p></span></span></u></b></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By
Tunji Lardner<o:p></o:p></span></span></u></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lately I have been having this recurring
vision that it is at once intriguing as it is disturbing. Now given the
peculiar Nigerian interpretation of the word, I am compelled to preemptively quash
any cynical retort about my ‘seeing visions,’ I must quickly add this
disclaimer, ‘no hallucinogen and or religious epiphany were used in the
production of this vision.’ There, as I
was saying, in the vision I am on the second floor a house, peering through a
square and clear glass window, twice bisected and thus framing the window into
a quadrant of four neat squares. It is invariably dawn with the Sun rising and
steadily brightening the vistas I see as I peer in wonderment through the glass
brightly. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I see a wonderful land, lush and verdant,
like an idyllic savannah, with wonderful and happy people purposefully tilling the land, growing things, making
things, building things and all harmoniously working together to build
something in which the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. This green
paradise stretching far into the horizon and capped at the furthest point by
bright luminous white clouds, with just a hint of azure skies in the
background, immediately conjures up something familiar in my altered state of
consciousness. Even as I struggle to make immediate sense of this green and
white montage, the beguiling beauty of this landscape holds me spell bound; I
look again in bold arcs of looking, taking in the view and tracing it right
back, it seems, to my door steps. I look again at what should be my very own
garden and I see the fractal geometry of this beautiful land fully replicated
in my own backyard, suggesting that it is within reach, literally at my own
doorsteps. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I immediately race down the stairs and in
two bounds I am on the ground floor, pivoting on the balls of my left foot and
making a sharp right, arms out stretched reaching for the door handle. I yank
the door open to be confronted by something not all together unexpected,
familiar even; as I taken in the sight I shake my head in amazement. What lay
before me was a dank, grim and dysfunctional nightmare. I saw people suffering
and shackled by their own fears, greed, violence, cowardice and deceptions,
sloshing through the excrement of their own making, crying no, howling for
someone, anyone, to save them, even though they could save themselves, if only
they chose to. I quickly shut the door on this self-inflicted nightmarish hell
on earth that I strangely felt was co-created by my own complaisance and the
willful complicity of tens of millions of others.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I dejectedly make my way up the stairs and
back to the window. I hazard another
furtive peek at the window and there it was again, that marvelous vision of a
country in which everything worked in consonance and concert for the greater
good. As I take in the beautiful green
horizon that lay boundless in front of me, the significance of the green and
white motif hits me. This is Nigeria, or more realistically this is what
Nigeria could be. I especially look sharply downwards to my own garden and
again, I see my own backyard as being part of this greater whole, and I am
tempted to again rush downstairs to frolick in my garden and partake in the
collective of this joyful celebration of a purposeful, orderly and productive
life, but I restrain myself. I know what
lies in my garden, Nigeria today.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I scratch my head in bemusement, I
wonder aloud about these two different realities. The one the utopian vision of a country that
has been endowed with everything it needs to be a successful global leader, and
the other, the dystopian reality it has created and seems determined to
sustain. Lost in my thoughts, I gaze
through this window, trying to reconcile these two phenomena, the illusions of
greatness and the reality of mediocrity. What is the common denominator in this
puzzle, then as my eyes pull back from staring at the horizon, I took a step
back and actually looked at the window. Suddenly it struck me as I respectively
trained my sight to look intently at the squares from the top right quadrant
right through to the bottom left quadrant. It was the people. It is the people
that can make the difference.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To fully share this vision, I want you to
look in your mind’s eye and imagine that you are looking at the window and
there are four contiguous squares that make up that framework of the window and
each square that you see is a quadrant. You see them? Good. Now imagine with me
as I seek to populate the quadrants with the type of people I saw in the vision.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><u><span lang="EN-US">The
top left quadrant </span></u></b><span lang="EN-US">These are the ruling elite
comprising mostly of the beneficiaries of the Military-Political Complex that
capture the state in 1966, and have since then been rapaciously plundering the
common wealth and deliberately impoverishing their own people to maintain this
dysfunctional and unsustainable status quo. This band of thieves is composed of
the direct inheritors of Nigeria’s political independence whose predation
started almost immediately after the Union Jack was lowered on the 1<sup>st</sup>
of October, 1960. This group comprises of three main classes, the
military-having fought to ‘keep Nigeria one’ regard the wealth of the nation as
war booty to be shared according to their whims, the civil servants and other
apparatchiks of the state for whom the workings of government is simply a toll
gate to extract bribes and rent for every transaction or contract that they
care to implement, ostensibly for the good of the commonwealth, and the
politicians comprising professional political operators and other assignees
from the two previous groups that collectively sustain the graft and patronage
machine, much to the detriment of the common good. These kleptocrats know that the jig is up,
and that after five decades of unrestrained pillaging, the Nigerian state is danger
of collapsing under the weight of its own contradictions, but can’t stop stealing.
It is too easy, and besides the odds of you being brought to justice is
virtually zero. The present crop of brigands know that they are riding the
tiger but are too afraid to dismount for fear of been eaten. The group
numbering no more than 5% (five percent)t of the population have access to over
80% (eighty percent) of its wealth and are fully replicated at both the federal
, state, and local governments of this country. Their educational attainment
ranges from the barely literate, to the well educated, nonetheless they have
found common ground in grand larceny and effectively they are ‘our ogas at the
top.’</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><u><span lang="EN-US">The
top right quadrant </span></u></b><span lang="EN-US">This group is roughly the traditional
middle class of Nigerians whose membership in the fluid and uncertain dynamics
of Nigerian class formation is constantly changing with each regime. They owe
their class ascendency by virtue of their kinship and proximity to the ruling
elite in the aforementioned top left quadrant. They are the educated
professionals in the main, but depend on the patronage machine to successfully
ply their trade. When called upon, they
migrate seamlessly and sideways into the left quadrant, and once there, fight
doggedly to remain in that space. For the rest of them, they wait with anxious
anticipation for ‘their turn’ to feed at the trough. For this middling class,
their constant complaint about the system without any real resolve to make the necessary
sacrifices for real transformational change had come to define the nation’s
character. This group has created a country where its potential leaders are too
cynical, afraid and self-absorbed to fully understand the dynamics of its own
extinction. For them salvation lies mostly in the ‘divine intervention’ that
hopefully will nudge them sideways into the state subsidized creature comforts
of life in the top left quadrant. Even though they frequently travel
internationally to see and enjoy the results of other nation’s sacrifice,
planning and hard work, their deluded sense of ‘Nigeria’s exceptionalism,’ and
their inherent laziness and habituated value system of expecting reward and
benefits without any real or meaningful effort or production, means that they cannot and will not change the
system for the better. And although they worry about the diminishing horizons
for themselves and their families, they are immobilized by fear, uncertainties
and doubt to mount a sustained campaign to transform their country. They
constitute perhaps 20% (twenty percent) of the population and are fully
represented at all levels of the body politic. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><u><span lang="EN-US">The
bottom left quadrants </span></u></b><span lang="EN-US">This group is the
potential creators of a utopian Nigeria, or more realistically a new Nigeria.
They are drawn from all quadrants and exist in and out of Nigeria. And with the
return in increasing numbers of members of the Diaspora, there exists the
prospects of the formation of a new middle class with considerable intellectual
and financial capital to deploy in a last ditched attempt to salvage Nigeria
before it collapses. What they presently lack is the social capital to
successfully organize to occupy the top left quadrant. This group is the brain
trust of the nation and it is staffed by creative and innovative Nigerians who
have the technical skills as well as the right moral attitude to bring the much
needed change in the country. However, they are viewed with suspicion by the
people in the top right quadrant who don’t want anyone to ‘rock the boat’ or in
that peculiar Nigerian expression ‘heat up the polity,’ because any potential
change of the system could possibly dislodge them from their positions in line
for feeding at the trough. The sentiments from the top right quadrant is even
more sinister, they do not want these potential change agents anywhere near
their quadrant, so they invariably deploy their strategy of the three ‘Cs:’
conscription, cooption and finally coercion to neutralize them. In spite of these threats, an increasing
number of Nigerians from all quadrants are looking to this group for answers.
They constitute perhaps less than 5% (five percent) of the population.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><u><span lang="EN-US">The
bottom right quadrant</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US"> The actions of this group
over the next decade will determine if Nigeria survives as a nation. This is
the largest demographic unit and comprises the over 70% (seventy percent) of
Nigerians who are under the age of 30 (thirty) and not so coincidentally, the
70% (seventy percent) of Nigerians who are living below the poverty line. So as
you look more closely at this quadrant, you do the math. If 70% (seventy percent) of your population is
at once young and poor, living on the
marginalized edge of destitution, disease, ignorance and hopelessness, then by
proportionate extrapolation, your country Nigeria, is a rich country full of
poor people. Furthermore, this ‘poverty tribe’ contrary to the usual ethnic
classifications is the largest tribe in Nigeria. The poverty tribe in reality
cuts across the broad demographics and ethnicities, whilst mostly hidden from
view in our rural villages, in the large urban cities, we still see glimpse of
this growing tribe every day in our streets, begging, hustling, stealing and
trying to eke out a miserable living under the hot tropical sun. This group does
not really care about the preservation of this system or political order,
because the system historically has not cared for them. Even so, they are
acutely aware of their privations and ceaseless hardships against a backdrop of
the relative comforts and affluence of the other three quadrants and they are
angry, very angry. We must recognize that we are all sitting on a tinderbox
perched atop an oil drum of explosives and that this group will have no
hesitation whatsoever to one day in fit of blind rage light the fuse. They really have nothing invested in the
system because the system has invested nothing in them, and therefore they have
nothing to lose if the whole place goes up in flames. As you read this, consider that you also might
be collateral damage if this scenario ever plays out fully.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, which quadrant or quadrants do you
belong to?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Comments can be sent to:
me.tlardner@gmail.com</span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Tunji Lardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16144485658283473381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7888068902781796703.post-4237995084976684012013-04-06T10:47:00.005-07:002013-04-06T15:29:24.092-07:00My Oga at the top Redux<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My
Oga at the top Redux<o:p></o:p></span></span></u></b></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By
Tunji Lardner<o:p></o:p></span></span></u></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Poor guy; Obafaiye Shem, the Lagos State Commandant of the Nigeria
Security and Civil Defense Corp (NSCDC) , whose meteoric rise to digital media
fame on account of a truly comical interview on Nigeria’s Channel TV must rue
day he stuttered the words ‘my oga at the top.’ In a truly classic display of evasion in the
face of pointed questioning and craven obsequiousness to his Oga at the top,
jabbing his fore finger heaven wards, he unwittingly created an Internet phenomena,
even as he spawned an instant cultural meme and wrote his words forever into
the Nigerian urban lexicon. The full story
of the actual scandal he was ineptly trying to explain away and the extent of
this viral contagion can be explored further in the links below:</span></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">THE ISSUE</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Scandal Reports and the background:</span></span></b></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">August 25, 2012</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://bit.ly/Z3mWtS" target="_blank"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1155cc; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://bit.ly/Z3mWtS</span></span></a></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">February 17, 2012</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://bit.ly/Z3mMD1" target="_blank"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1155cc; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://bit.ly/Z3mMD1</span></span></a></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Senate investigation:</span></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://dailytimes.com.ng/article/federal-ministry-interior-denounces-illegal-websites" target="_blank"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1155cc; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://dailytimes.com.ng/article/federal-ministry-interior-denounces-illegal-websites</span></span></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Consider that the</span></b><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> <b>Lagos State Commandant of the NSCDC has a
Facebook page</b>:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/obafaiye.shemsunday" target="_blank"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1155cc; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">http://www.facebook.com/obafaiye.shemsunday</span></a></span><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The Channels Interview (a
snippet):</span></b><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=F9ZV8pfJS34" target="_blank"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1155cc; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=F9ZV8pfJS34</span></a></span><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">THE MEME</span></b><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Website:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://www.ogaatthetop.com/" target="_blank"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1155cc; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">http://www.ogaatthetop.com/</span></a></span><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> (Under construction already!)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://www.myogaatthetop.com/" target="_blank"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1155cc; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">http://www.myogaatthetop.com/</span></a></span><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> (Domain name speculators)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Facebook pages:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/My-Oga-At-The-Top/173989725978821?ref=stream" target="_blank"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1155cc; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">http://www.facebook.com/pages/My-Oga-At-The-Top/173989725978821?ref=stream</span></a></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/MyOgaAtTheT0p" target="_blank"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1155cc; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">http://www.facebook.com/MyOgaAtTheT0p</span></a></span><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/My-Oga-At-The-Top/476038165784454" target="_blank"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1155cc; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">http://www.facebook.com/pages/My-Oga-At-The-Top/476038165784454</span></a></span><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/My-oga-at-the-top/250967005040123" target="_blank"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1155cc; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">http://www.facebook.com/pages/My-oga-at-the-top/250967005040123</span></a></span><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/groups/436185913134057/" target="_blank"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1155cc; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">http://www.facebook.com/groups/436185913134057/</span></a></span><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">T-shirts:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://on.fb.me/XNJ7sp" target="_blank"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1155cc; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">http://on.fb.me/XNJ7sp</span></a></span><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10151375129029480&set=a.387409149479.163184.703289479&type=1&theater" target="_blank"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1155cc; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10151375129029480&set=a.387409149479.163184.703289479&type=1&theater</span></a></span><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Music Videos:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1gCFZMPbReQ&feature=share" target="_blank"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1155cc; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1gCFZMPbReQ&feature=share</span></a></span><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p0MeZbdDHkU" target="_blank"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1155cc; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p0MeZbdDHkU</span></a></span><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #464646; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To some readers an explanation
of the meaning of the word ‘meme’ might be necessary. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #464646; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Meme [meem] <b><i>noun</i></b>: a cultural item
that is transmitted by repetition in a manner analogous to the biological
transmission of genes. In the digital world, this cultural item can go ‘viral’
as was the case here. Now, the meaning of the word ‘oga’ so familiar with
Nigerians and other Africans as a distinctly Nigerian cultural trope requires some
effort. The easiest transliteration is to equate ‘Oga’ with the boss, the big
kahuna, the capo, the master, the big shot, the shot caller, de man, (as in ‘he
de man’), you get the idea. Another variant is the ‘Oga pata-pata,’ as in the
Boss of all bosses, or as my Sicilian friends would say ‘Capo de tutti capi’
a.k.a. The Godfather.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #464646; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is a safe bet to assume that
when Commandant Shem was referring to his ‘Oga’ at the top, he was referring to
the personage of Dr. Ade Abolurin the
Commandant General of the NSCDC ensconced like most other ‘ogas’ in that most
hierarchical of cities, Abuja, where our own boss of all bosses, the President resides. In sticking to the time honored
script of publicly pledging loyalty and fealty to his immediate ‘oga’ on the
hierarchical and mostly patriarchal totem pole, Shem was simply delegating
upwards the task of revealing his agency’s web address, ordinarily a fact that should
reside in the public domain. However his conditioning like most public servants
was not to advance the public good, but to propitiate the gods of the civil
service and damn the public’s right to know.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #464646; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">However in this rare instance,
the public’s right, specifically the digital public’s right to know pushed back
hard. In unwittingly creating Nigeria’s first real digital meme, Shem’s ‘my oga
at the top’ faux pas, was in actuality the collision of an analogue thinking
monolith with a digital generation whose domain the World Wide Web. Shem and his numerous ‘ogas’ will have reasons
to fear in the near future if these digital natives push home their advantage
on all fronts to bring thieving politicians, inept and corrupt civil servants and
irresponsible governments to heel to the tenets of open, transparent and
accountable governance.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #464646; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was also a battle between the
rigid, mafia like hierarchies where all knowledge is deemed to reside in the mounting
stacks of different ‘ogas’ embedded in the civil service machinery and the
newly evolving paradigm of flatten inclusive hierarchies of distributed
knowledge and participation in which the collective wisdom and input of all
stakeholders are deemed necessary for successful decision making as well as
successful outcomes, in a word good governance.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #464646; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The relentless social media
parodies about ‘my oga at the top’ also signals the digital unmasking of the analogue
Nigerian ‘big man-oga’ masquerade in the digital public square. For too long
the myth of the invincibility of the Nigerian ‘big man’ and by extension that
bogus self referenced titled of being ‘The Giant of Africa,’ has gone
unchallenged in spite of the declining
quality of life for most Nigerians over the last five decades. I would argue that to understand the Nigerian
‘oga’ mythos is to delve into the pre-colonial patriarchal system that existed
in most indigenous cultures, which eventually evolved in the post-independence
era into the African ‘big man’ archetype; the one man that kept fractious
tribal sentiments in check, even as he, perforce of his personal strength,
wisdom and political acumen kept these fledging states together. A critical
look at the very mixed legacies of the various African Big men since
independence suggests that they wound up doing more harm than good to their various
countries. Even so, in Nigeria today the ‘oga syndrome’ persists in spite of
all evidence to the contrary, he or she is typically an insecure but powerful
office holder or authority figure, lacking in humility and compassion, more
style than substance, and the benefactor of the grand patronage machine of the
state. The technical word for this client-patron relationship is ‘clientelism,’
and its popular manifestation is the asymmetric power arrangement between
‘political god-fathers’ who are patrons to clients, who can be political
aspirants, or simply down trodden
unemployed young Nigerians, desperately seeking
jobs, as was the case in the NSCDC fiasco. Since it can be safely argued
that most big men or ‘ogas’ got to where they are today, not on account of
merit, but by simply riding the
patronage machine to the very top of
their incompetence, the net negative result for us all is the triumph of mediocrity
over meritocracy. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #333333; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0cm; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; padding: 0cm;">Femke
van Zeijl, a very insightful Dutch writer living in Nigeria put it so bluntly
and so clearly when she wrote that; “</span><span style="color: #333333; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> Nigeria is
the opposite of a meritocracy: you do not earn by achieving. You get to be who
and where you are by knowing the right people. Whether you work in an office,
for an enterprise or an NGO, at a construction site or in government, your
abilities hardly ever are the reason you got there. Performing well, let alone
with excellence, is not a requirement, in fact, it is discouraged. It would be
too threatening: showing you’re more intelligent, capable or competent than the
‘oga at the top’ (who, as a rule, is not an overachiever either) is career
suicide.</span><span style="color: #464646; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span><span style="color: #333333; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">It is an attitude that
trickles down from the very top, its symptoms eventually showing up in all of
society, from bad governance to bad service to bad craftsmanship.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In trying to think of a way
out of this infinite regressive loop of mediocrity, while the logical place to
start should be the very top with our ‘uber-oga,’ our own ‘capo di tutti capi,’
or more colloquially, our ‘Oga pata-pata,’ Nigeria again defies conventional
logic. As it is, we can’t presently start from the very top to begin to change
things, because it seems that our ‘oga at the very top’ also reports to his own
‘ogas at the top.’ ‘Das all.’<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Comments can be sent to:
me.tlardner@gmail.com<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
Tunji Lardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16144485658283473381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7888068902781796703.post-12880618043547602222013-04-06T10:44:00.004-07:002013-04-06T15:25:27.092-07:00Why I write<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Why
I write</span></span></u></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><u><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></u></b>
<b><u><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></u></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Since I fired my warning shot across the bow
last week, announcing through this medium that I would resume this risky
business of writing a weekly column, I have been giving the whole idea a second
and even a third thought. You see this
for me is like déjà vu, all over again. I somehow feel compelled to offer a
tepid apology to all for firing that first shot; beating a hasty retreat into
the familiar confines of my vacuous mind, and then carrying on as if nothing
happened. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Having withdrawn from the Nigerian journalism
space over twenty-five years ago (most Nigerians weren’t born then), you can
empathize with me over this groggy sense of dread and trepidation that happens
when you are suddenly jolted awake in a strange place, and this is a strange
place. The only comfort so far has been the handful of congratulatory messages
from my old time friends and some new ones encouraging me to ‘keep the ink flowing.’ The responses have
been in the main good, save one from the ever cynical Sonala Olumhense, himself
a long in the tooth columnist for this paper.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“<span style="background: white; color: #222222;">Congrats.
Excellent start. The key will be whether or not you are willing to
dedicate time to think deeply before each one in the months and months ahead.
Then and only then will the quality be sustained and raised.</span><span style="color: #222222;"> <span style="background: white;">Happy you are doing this.
Well done” One of them sagely advised.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Another one
issued a shrill note of warning. </span><span lang="EN-US">“<span style="background: white; color: #222222;">Beware all ye men of fragile character for he shall jab you
here, gouge you there and excoriate you everywhere. He shall give no succor and
plead for none. Long may his ink flow.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US"> And
then my cynical friend intones “</span><span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Please join
me in congratulating Tunji for finally finding his pen. Some of
us have tried to help him, almost forever, in the search for it.</span> <span style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">But misery loves company, the self-same Tunji always
says, every other cognac sip. I welcome him to the land of
frustration. I hope he does not conveniently lose his pen again by
Easter.</span> <span style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Welcome,
son</span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; line-height: 115%;">. Yes, your past
awaits, the misery complicated by lost youth and ageless indigestion.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Buoyed by
these words of encouragement, I am now embolden to explain ‘why I write,’
instead of the lukewarm excuse previously offered. Even so, I am still somewhat
self conscious, at least in my mind about the inevitable comparisons between the
‘Tunji Lardner jnr ’of perhaps thirty years ago and the hoary, ornery, and
irascible geezer he has become.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Recently I was sifting through the
compilations of opinions and essays that I wrote three decades ago, and I was
startled by two things. The first shock was the realization that I could never
write like that again. I marvelled at the self assuredness of youth; the
pointed inquisitions of any and everybody, the lightening rapier thrusts at
goons in power, the monochromic clarity of my vision of the world, always laid
bare in stark black and white relief, the moral certitude of my positions all
driven by an unquenchable fire in the belly. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">These
days, the fire still occasionally rages in my rotund belly, but I have over the
years been able to pinpoint its source as any one of three things acting alone
or in concert; indigestion, constipation or flatulence. My rapier sharp thrusts have over the years
been blunted by the slow and steady abrasions of life’s experiences
sand-papering the serrated edges and
bevelling its point into a rounded burnished finish-still sharp, but not
pointed, better suited for slashing. The monochromic black and white contrasts
of moral issues that were so clear in my youth have alas ceded ground not to a
Technicolor view of the world, but the greyscales of relativism. I now see life
in way more than fifty shades of grey. I have come to humbly embrace the
uncertainties of wisdom, or perhaps the wisdom of uncertainties in fully
acknowledging that the more I know, the more I know that I do not know. Or as
Buddha puts it ‘true wisdom humbles.’ But even so, you can still expect to see
flashes of the old Tunji in the new. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yes, I
expect the usual complaints about not writing for the ‘common man’ or for
‘ordinary people,’ to which my response is that at this point of my life, I
prefer to deal with only uncommon and extra-ordinary people. There will be no
pandering to the least common denominator, because while my ‘fight’ as it were
is to prod the system into lifting from poverty the over 70% of Nigerians
living in near destitution, I hope to speak directly to the perhaps 20% of
literate Nigerians who can help make a difference.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> And yes, you might have to reach for a
dictionary now and again, so I suggest that you also take an aspirin tablet
whilst you are at it. Like the old Tunji, this new but old version will still
arrogate the universal poetic licence to write about anything from quantum
entanglement to local politics and everything in between hopefully for the
entertainment and edification of my readers... all twelve of you.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The second shocking and even more disturbing
fact is that Nigeria more or less has changed little in the intervening
decades. Indeed some of the people I was railing against as a young man are the
same people I see in still pulling the levers of state and dominating the
newspaper headlines today. It seems that in Nigeria, the more things change,
the more they remain the same.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This
leaves me with no options than to rail some more. However this time, I hope to
educate, guide, persuade and influence the cadences of our national dialogue,
especially among young people. I especially want to challenge the orthodoxy of
the prevailing narrative about Nigeria, prompt new debates, stimulate new thinking
that will hopefully galvanize positive action. Given our fractious nature and
the present fragility of this divided country, I am not sure I will succeed,
however it is my hope that by casting some empirical light on vexing national
issues, explaining them, and persuading the reader to come to a place of
enlightened self interest, we might be able to speak truth to power and make
rational and informed decisions about whom we choose to lead us going forward
and how we want our country to truly develop.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Why I
write? Well, the truth is that this is also for my own catharsis. With a
million ideas constantly ricocheting inside my capacious head (capacious
because it is mostly empty) I find that the act of concentrating my thoughts
and writing frequently about them helps to hold my brain in place so that when
I shake my head you don’t hear my brain rattle. This is why I write. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Tunji Lardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16144485658283473381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7888068902781796703.post-34730187806315394862013-04-06T10:40:00.003-07:002013-04-06T15:27:43.085-07:00I beg your pardon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I
beg your pardon<o:p></o:p></span></span></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By
Tunji Lardner<o:p></o:p></span></span></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">This time, not even the fig leaf of hiding
behind the National Council of State could morally justify and mollify public
opinion about the decision of President Goodluck Jonathan to especially pardon
his self described ‘boss and mentor’ the former governor of Bayelsa state </span><span lang="EN-US">Diepreye Alamieyeseigha. While embedding this egregious pardon in
the cynical calculus of Nigeria’s ethic representational politics; a spineless
ex-general here, a thieving bank manager there, one or two dead politicians
sprinkled in for good measure to tote up the numbers for the arithmetic of national
character, and as it turns out, even in this act of magnanimity he got his sums
wrong. Three of those pardoned had already been pardoned before by another head
of state. It is therefore crystal clear that the intentionality of President
Jonathan was to free and rehabilitate Alamieyeseigha; possibly in preparation
for his run in 2015. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is also clear that he was, as
is increasingly the case, playing to his South-South constituency gallery,
while willing to sacrifice the larger Nigerian sensibilities and concerns about
our international standing regarding the almost mythical fight against
corruption. No surprise here really, like most Nigerian politicians, his
parochial nativist instincts trumps National interests every time, and besides,
he after all has publicly told us that he does ‘not give a damn’ about what we
really think of him and his governance. So as his voluble and gratingly
meretricious spokesman Doyin Okupe said directly quoting the president ‘that
this is an action that has been taken by the National Council of States and I
have no apology for that.’ <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">But what is to be said about our
National Council of State, our own secular conclave of elders, the Nation’s
pre-eminent congregation of leaders comprising the President, the Vice
President, all former Presidents, all former Chief Justices of the Federation,
the leadership of the National Assembly and all state governors. Indeed our
national constitution stipulates that </span>the Council of State is
established under Section 153 of the Constitution. In the
Third Schedule, it is stated that: “The Council shall have power to (a) advice
the President in the exercise of his powers with respect to the – (ii)
prerogative of mercy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <span lang="EN-US">In
the best of times this august body represents the collective embodiment of our
values, ethics and morality as a nation-the gathering of the wisest men in all of
Nigeria- what advice did they give Mr. President on this issue? Granted that this enquiry is now moot and the
question rhetorical; it none the less raises some very vexing issues about the moral
bankruptcy of our present political elite. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In unanimously granting a
cross-dressing felon like Diepreye Alamieyeseigha a
presidential pardon, the council of state was taking care of one of their own,
in him they respectively recognized a fellow wayfarer on that tortuous road to
the destruction of Nigeria, and so their collective act of esprit d corps in
the warped logic of national politics to date is perfectly understandable.
There is after all honor amongst thieves, and in this instance, thieves of all
political stripes. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">However, what about the
rest of us? How does this explain the
sociology of our corruption and our own collective reluctance to
criminalize and punish corrupt practices
by establishing a rules based, legal, rational, fair and equitable justice
system that ensures that if your do the crime, you will do the time. What does
it say about great amoral wall we have collectively built (and maintained)
between our private ethics and our public morality? What does it say about our
willful ignorance and denial about tremendous opportunity cost of the grand
theft ($400billion by some estimates) by our leaders since 1960? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What does it say that
increasingly we are degenerating into a country where the usual societal disapprobation
of shame and or guilt can no longer modify behavior? What does it say about our
collective complicity in allowing this audacious act of state impunity to
happen, with absolutely no fear of retribution? Above all else, what does it
say that we as a nation have lost that collective sense of treason- treason for
the avoidance of doubt, defined as ‘a violation of allegiance to one’s state or
the betrayal of trust or confidence’ by engaging in acts injurious to the collective
well being of the state to which one bears allegiance. By this definition it
seems we are all guilty in varying degrees of co-creating this treacherous
state of affairs. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With all the organs of
state fully represented in executing this pardon, we can formally and without
equivocation state that Nigeria as a country represented by its
‘democratically’ elected leaders has lost its moral bearings and the ship of
state is unmoored and drifting in its own self created sea of anomie. We are
all in a leaking ship, in dire straits, piloted by a Captain lost in the fog of
his own confusion and heading for the rocks. Contrary to what the apologists
might say, it is not the hard technical numbers about GDP growth and other
economic indices that guarantee that nations thrive and continue to evolve; it
is their collective sense of identity as a nation, their binding set of values,
their body of laws and their collective moral codes and their clear consensus
about what is good and what is bad, and their collective will to insist that their
represented leaders always seek to do the public good, and punish them if they
do the bad. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Not so in this case, to
fully understand our relationship with our ruling elite, we sadly must again
turn to the president’s mouth piece and alter ego, Doyin Okupe, who
rationalized the issue thusly, “It is like a parent, it is not every decision a
parent takes that is palatable or acceptable to the children. But in due
course, we always find out the parents were right,” His condescending characterization
of Nigerians as children bound to obey the decision of their parent, in this
instance, Mr. President and the council, while galling, actually speaks to a
larger truth.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Nigerians over the last five decades and
especially since 1999 have allowed themselves to be infantilized by the
political elite. In truth, we all are members of a large fractious and
thoroughly dysfunctional family headed by immature, venal, abusive, violent,
and untrustworthy parents who prefer the ‘do as I say, and not as I do’ style
of parenting. A trait compounded by years of military misrule and our own lax
moral values. We can pardon our leaders and not seek to hold them accountable,
because we (the children) ourselves are always exonerating our respective bad
behavior and do not want to be held accountable for anything. In this Nigerian
family, any and everything goes, you are encouraged to behave badly, because
everyone is doing the same and can statistically be assured with getting away
with it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> In the same way it can be argued that a nation
gets the leaders it deserves, we can also make the case that the children of
this grotesque family definitely have the parents they deserve. Our parents are
right to expect that again in this instance, we will throw our typical juvenile
tantrums, cry out in disgust, stomp our feet in muted rage, even fling a few
toys, but in the end we will return to our humdrum sedated selves busying
ourselves with the ever grinding business of life in Nigeria. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But I do beg your pardon
sir… I find the decision unacceptable and unpalatable as well as wrong in its
entirety. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 6.7pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Comments can be sent to:
me.tlardner@gmail.com</span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Tunji Lardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16144485658283473381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7888068902781796703.post-61061302087007084242013-04-06T10:35:00.001-07:002013-04-06T15:26:46.230-07:00The Age of Consequence<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I think a short explanation is necessary here. Well... I have started a weekly Sunday column at the Guardian in Nigeria, and here are the articles written so far, starting with this one. There!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 6.7pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<b><u><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">THE AGE OF CONSEQUENCE<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 6.7pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 6.7pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<b><u><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By Tunji Lardner<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 6.7pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 6.7pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 6.7pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“They go on in strange
paradox, decided only to be undecided, resolved to be irresolute, adamant for
drift, solid for fluidity, all-powerful to be impotent.” Owing to past
neglect, in the face of the plainest warnings, we have entered upon a period of
danger. The era of procrastination, of half measures, of soothing and
baffling expedience of delays, is coming to its close. In its place we
are entering a period of consequences”. We cannot avoid this period, we
are in it now”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 6.7pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Winston Churchill,
November 12, 1936<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 6.7pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 6.7pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The inimitable Winston Churchill made these remarks when speaking
to journalists about the impending war in Europe. Against the ominous backdrop
of Hitler’s sabre rattling, he was issuing a dire warning about the
inevitability of the Second World War amidst the dithering, ill prepared,
fractious, frightened and collective impotence of what was to evolve to become
the Allied Forces in the European theatre. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 6.7pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">His powerful words, expressing the ‘strange paradox’ of a wilful
decision to be indecisive, irresolute, unmoored, liquefied and impotent; this might
very well describe the collective state of the Nigerian psyche today. Since last year’s fuel subsidy ‘wahala,’ there
is a growing consensus among the chattering class that Nigeria is a very
fragile state heading in absolutely the wrong direction. While the reasons
adduced for this dangerous trajectory are as varied and as vapid as the
respective commentator, it is clear that ‘something is rotten in the state of
Nigeria.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 6.7pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The prevailing zeitgeist is one of a limited national horizon as a
viable and stable political entity and a severely circumscribed future for the
tens of millions of young people under the age of thirty, by some estimates
perhaps 110 million out of a population now adjusted upwards to 170 million
frustrated citizens. Nigeria has run out of excuses for its failures, and ‘the
era of procrastination, of half measures, of soothing and baffling expedience
of delays’ is truly over we are fully in it, we are in the ruthless grip of
historical causalities, we are all, regardless of culpabilities in the age of
consequences.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 6.7pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If we consider the past as prologue-meaning that our history has
determined where we are today, we all must bear graduated responsibilities over
the last five decades for taking what was once a promising nation and turning
it into a failed state. While, I must concede that most of the damage to
Nigeria was wrought by the ‘Military-Political Complex,’ still well and alive
today, thank you very much, a substantial amount of blame must lie with
succeeding generations whose collective apathy and inertia, all but guarantees
that their future is permanently held hostage by the past. A past they can
reasonably argue, they had no hand in shaping. However, that’s exactly my
point, this IS the age of consequences, and our collective complaisance in
maintaining this present status quo means that we are all guilty as charged, in
varying degrees.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 6.7pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Presently in a wry and ironic twist of history, we are engulfed in
that strange paradox of cascading failures of the state, undermined by maximum
complexities and complications being confronted with a sorry counterpoint of
minimum competence in leadership and governance. At federal and state levels,
on the average, our political leaders are both incompetent as well as corrupt,
and yet our citizens still look to them for salvation. Nigeria’s problems have
outstripped the abilities and will of her leaders to solve them. Then again
there is the paradox of expecting salvation from the very class of people who
caused the problems in the first place, a clear case of doing the same things
over and over again and then expecting different results-this by the way is an
acceptable definition of madness. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 6.7pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is as if Nigerians have all collectively decided that they are
not subject to the laws of physics, and that the laws of causality do not apply
and that we are not bound to the simple logical equation of A+B=C; in a word,
cause and effect cease to apply in the Nigerian dimension of reality. However, the
‘reality’ of reality is that while the time and historical distance of a causal
factor might have happened a long time ago, and not within the immediate
purview of the observer, the effects will still happen, and continue to happen
until its trajectory is changed. This is what young Nigerians have to fully
understand; the fact that you did not ‘cause’ the problem does not mean that
you will not suffer its consequences.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 6.7pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We are presently confronted by many existential threats, not only
to Nigeria as a country but also to Nigerians as people. Up North, we have a
raging civil and widening war, underscored by wide spread destitution and
deftly disguised as a religious conflict, and deep down south, we are held
hostage by war lords periodically threatening to destroy Nigeria’s oily life
blood. Caught in between these violent pincers, the looting of the commonwealth
goes on abated and unchallenged, our health and wellness indicators keep us
abysmally in the lowest global ranking, our educational systems has virtually
collapsed, we live literally in the dark ages and nearly 70% of our citizens
are poor, creating again that strange paradox of a rich country full of poor
people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 6.7pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As often times as I scratch my head in bemusement and wonder aloud
about if at all it is possible to right and repair this country, if at all this
Nigerian experiment is in fact doomed, I am always amazed at the astonishing
ignorance and incuriosity of Nigerians about the true state of Nigeria, and
even more so, the breath taking arrogance and impunity of the people who rule
them. In Nigeria, about 2% of the population have access to and control 80% of
its resources. The ruling elite have demonstrated over the last fifty years or
so, that they really do not care about the welfare of Nigerians, and even when
they do, their egos, arrogance and incompetence prevents them from creating a
fully realized and sustainable process of lifting their compatriots out of
poverty.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So the question, is the past as prologue, are we doomed? The
answer is yes if we continue to encourage and maintain the bad habits of the
past, and no, if we decide to change the present trajectory and chart a new
course. On a positive note, remember that the Allied Forces did eventually win
the Second World War, but not without considerable ‘blood, toil, tears and
sweat.’ Are up to the task?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Comments can be sent to me.tlardner@gmail.com<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Tunji Lardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16144485658283473381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7888068902781796703.post-2414295642760686602010-02-22T10:03:00.000-08:002010-02-22T10:05:09.498-08:00Two walks of LifeEarly this morning I went for a walk-doctor’s orders. Over the years, I had gradually and irrevocably succumbed to the wear and tear of the aging process, subject to and relentlessly humbled by the law of impermanence. Everything changes. Nothing remains the same. This morning’s walk, the second in as many weeks, was sort of special. I donned on my khaki shorts, a tee-shirt, and plugged in my Ipod, listening to a podcast that dealt with the twin and related subjects of “mindfulness and awareness.”<br />And so, I set off into the frazzled Lagos dawn, gingerly picking my way through the deserted side street in the half-light, determined to walk the entire one-hour duration of the podcast. Ah… the bracing early morning smell of diesel fumes belching from dozens of generators, intermingled with the occasional piquancy of overflowing rubbish from stuffed bins, and the universal smell from the sewers interlacing and stitching the entire experience into a smell that is, well, Lagos. It seemed as if the once spirited attempt at cleaning up the city might have slacked off a bit. However, with approximately 10,000 tons of rubbish generated each day, quite a bit gets left behind. I quickly made it into the main street, Awolowo rd, a major road into Ikoyi and Victoria Island (for those who know, the “tony” side of town); with the intent of doing a longish loop that would bring me home in about an hour. As I walked with sharp and nimble strides quickly passing the early morning crowds trudging drearily to work, I was simultaneously taking in sporadic details of my environment, even as I listened mindfully to an interesting discourse on mindfulness and awareness by an MIT professor who started his meditative practice in 1966. Being familiar myself with some aspects of meditation, I could relate to the cannons of what I was hearing and strangely enough relating it to my environment. Two things particularly stood out this morning one was just how much more texture and color was buried in the dusty thickets of detritus that seem to lace both sides of the streets. Driving past in the cocooned comfort of a car, you really do not get to experience the sights, sounds and ah yes, smells of Lagos. The other was the pace of a young water vendor pushing his two-wheeled cart, purposefully designed to carry 12 50-liter plastic jerry cans of water. As he effortlessly whizzed past me, adroitly pushing his cart, I thought almost audible to myself, that the cans must be empty. It had to be. However in my presumptive Zen state of awareness and mindfulness, I knew that it did not matter or rather it should not matter. Full or empty, there was no way I could keep pace with this young man marching forth forcefully trying to eke out a living in this unyielding city. I was walking because my doctor suggested that it would do my health some good. He was “working-walking” as if his life depended on it. Two walks from two different works of life. As I watched him stride off into the brightening dawn into a new day full of possibilities, I ruefully remembered the athleticism of my youth, even as I exhaled in gratitude for the privilege of experiencing yet another dawn. Even so, my creaky knees with every grateful step reminded me of the law of impermanence.Tunji Lardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16144485658283473381noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7888068902781796703.post-38129931626417098492010-01-01T13:10:00.000-08:002010-01-01T13:11:59.912-08:00Happy Now YearToday is the first day of the beginning of the second decade of this century. 2010. Last night’s revelry and celebrations marked yet another opportunity to ponder the future, even as we contemplated the past. Sandwiched in between both temporal poles is of course the present. Now. As I grow older facing anew the existential questions of my mortality, realizing that short of living past a century, most of my life, mathematically speaking is behind me in the past, with the shortening future still fresh and full of possibilities, but none the less abbreviated; I now fully realize that all I have is now. Thusly, as is the traditional, if was to make a resolution, it would not be the usual aspirational tripe-“I want to loose weight and find true love (which would be nice)”- it would be instead, a commitment to live life mindfully, mercifully, lovingly, compassionately and in the NOW.<br />Join me.Tunji Lardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16144485658283473381noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7888068902781796703.post-11169800006796025822009-12-26T19:05:00.000-08:002009-12-26T19:07:22.812-08:00White snow, Blue CollarI am back in the chilly climes of the United States still in the frosty embrace of last week’s winter storm that blitzed through the North Eastern corridor dropping more than a foot of snow in South Orange, New Jersey where I reside. However, it turns out that we did not get the brunt of this “Northeasterner.” <br />As I write this, comfortably draped across a soft yielding sofa in Virginia, I look out of the window and see the still substantial remains of close to two feet of snow that came down in the Washington DC area. I am at Chris,’ my dear friend and in-law doing that ritualistic Christmas family reunion thing; year-by-year, it is either your house or my house. <br />This year it is at “your house,” so here we are with a full complement of folks including my niece, visiting from Nigeria, as well as the three “mouseketeers,” Chris’ brace and my own dear daughter completing the two girls, one boy trio as well as mummies in tow. However, I digress, this is not supposed to be about yuletide family reunions, it is strangely enough about the dignity of labor. Let me explain.<br />Last week in the aftermath of the snowstorm, I learnt a very useful lesson about the nature of work. I woke up to see the world around me transformed into a white snowy dreamscape. With everything outside covered in this enchanted white drapery of snow, the world looked positively different; clean, pristine, and full of un-trodden possibilities. <br />Gazing through my window at this winter wonder-landscape, I could better appreciate why Inuits and Eskimos reputedly have hundreds of names to describe their white snowy habitats. For me that white blanket mercifully covered a multitude of sins, for a moment, I preferred to enjoy the untainted vista before me instead of reflexively trying to unearth what lies beneath. <br />However, at some point, I knew I had to lift selective edges of this frosty carpet to etch pathways out of our snowed in encampment. In these parts and at this time of the year, shoveling snow is a quotidian routine necessitated by the practical challenge of moving around as well as strict local ordinances that compel you to clear the pedestrian pathway that outlines the front of your property. <br />When done cooperatively with each household taking responsibility for clearing their frontage, the result is remarkably efficient; typically, an uneven path hacked through the snowy thickets running parallel to the main street, providing the brave pedestrian safe passage through the treacherous and slippery snow drifts. <br />Of course, there are patches along the trail where, negligent households have not bothered to provide this public service and the result is this jarring obstacle of mounted snow hindering the trek. I must confess that in the past, I was one of those negligent homeowners, refusing to go out and shovel snow, preferring to either pay those shovel toting, roving band of brothers, as in “brotha,” that magically appear after every snow storm, or wait patiently for the big thaw that happens after every ice age to take its course. <br />In truth, I was not always this recalcitrant, but I remember trying to shovel snow for the first time six years ago and nearly having a heart attack, or so goes the urban myth. Then I was left thoroughly breathless and aching all over, the result of a sedentary lifestyle sitting in front of a computer working or beached on the couch watching television and plenty of heavy meals in between, and now… <br />Well, glad to say I am in a much better physical shape. With this assurance, I woke up to a hearty breakfast; you need the energy you know, and a determination to dig my household out of the snow. It helped that my daughter offered to lend a hand. I was pleasantly surprised considering that last year I had to pay her for the same service offering. <br />This time she volunteered to help “daddy out,” and so at approximately 11 am, we both set out, shovels at the ready into the lush, fluffy, milky froth that was a foot of snow covering the entire yard and beyond. First, we had to shovel a path through the backyard to parking space where the family minivan was usually parked. <br />This time it was not in place because my wife had bravely driven it out through the snow on short errand, but had been forced to leave it marooned at the end of our longish drive way. My daughter’s offer to help was short lived, because a family friend soon pulled up on the main road in an SUV packed with kids with an offer to my daughter that was simply too good to refuse. “Help daddy out” in back breaking work, shoveling snow, or go tobogganing at the park with your friends. Well… what do you think? <br />Now left to my own devices, armed with two shovels, and totally immersed in the pulsating Afro jazz rhythms of the seminal Afro-Cuban super band Irakere thumping from my iPod, I set to work. At a later point, I had to move Irakere over and let Jimi take over… Jimi Hendricks that is.<br />I systematically began to shovel strategic tracks all around the yard, first clearing the walkway leading to the front door, next the full length of the public walkway across the frontage, and then the parking space before tackling the full length of the driveway to rescue the marooned minivan. <br />In all about three and a half hours of work, real work. As I proudly stood looking at and savoring the fruits of my labor, so to speak, I realized that I had actually gotten more done in those hours than I had done in a long time. I could see that with every deft heft of the snow-laden shovel, I was slowly but surely clawing a clearly discernable path to a clear objective. <br />None of that vague, open ended, subjective gobbledygook that often passes for white-collar intellectual output. This was real, tactile, tangible, quantifiable blue-collar work. You could see that in some places, where there was snow three hours before, now there was none, and you could see that it had been shoveled aside, revealing what lay beneath. <br />This was not some pointless flight of fancy or intellectual expose on what lay beneath the snow, in the deliberately exposed parts, you could actually see it and touch it if you wanted and not ponder what it was or wasn’t. <br />Put another way, this was the conversion of bio energy into the physical displacement of weighted loads that just happen to be snow. I have come away with renewed understanding and appreciation of physical labor and the dignity that lies therein. I know that to get things moving, there is a need for the cerebral exertions that I am more familiar with, but it should not be done at the expense of the its more earthy physical alter ego.<br />PS. Happy New Year to you. May this New Year bring you in wise measure all that you need and some of what you want.Tunji Lardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16144485658283473381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7888068902781796703.post-90263927914719035502009-12-08T08:29:00.000-08:002009-12-08T08:30:31.871-08:00Back again sort off..Eh..hem.. I’m back sort of. I will spare myself the apologetic platitudes and you dear reader the irritation of another “apology” for not keeping this blog alive by frequent contributions. I think it is because I suffer a peculiar slothfulness when it comes to writing anything creative these days. However, for my own sanity, I think I must give vent to those incessant voices that I hear in my head. These days, I think more, say less, and even “lesser” write less. It will have to change. This is the first step.<br />In the past six months or so, lots of things have happened, far too many to even begin to unbundle at this point, but in the incoming days and weeks as I find my breath and pace, I will make an effort to share some of those voices. I am especially looking forward to the new year, with its unwritten promise. Watch this space.Tunji Lardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16144485658283473381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7888068902781796703.post-24090387255601007382009-05-30T05:03:00.000-07:002009-05-30T06:05:09.853-07:00A Blog AbandonedI feel like a negligent parent, even worse, a bad parent. Honest, I really do. I have abandoned this Blog for many months now, not unlike a parent more or less abandoning a child in the hands of a long-suffering relative, with the insincere promise to “be back soon.” Now that I am back, hardly soon, but back nonetheless, like the prodigal son; I must throw myself at the mercy of a blog abandoned to the cobwebs of the worldwide web. It would be presumptuous of me to imagine that I was missed in any measure by my blog and the legions of its phantom readers, but regardless, that feeling of willful abandonment and the need for some restitution persists. But how do you pacify a justifiably angry Blog seething with self-righteous resentment as well as an undermining neediness, grasping for restorative embrace and the promise that will be well from now on. I suspect that I must at least explain where I have been over the last couple of months, and spin a fabulist tale of danger filled adventures in far, far lands and then my triumphant return home, bearing gifts. Forgiveness, restitution, restoration, all is forgiven. But not so fast buddy! The tales, where are the tales?<br />Well, the tales will have to initially come from my fractured and abbreviated recollections of happenings over the last three months or so pitifully melded into a contemporary narrative. The truth is that I have spent more time on that voyeuristic panopticon called "Fishbowl" sorry "Fishbook," I beg your pardon, Facebook. As expected, I have reconnected with long lost friends; friends that I would rather they remained lost, but they found me! Written on walls "mene mene tekel upharsin" (check out your Old Testament Biblical references Daniel 5:25 I think, and more, appropriate for these times), have people poke me and write on my own wall. In addition there has been the little witticisms of the art of the short form commentary, writing just enough to sound witty and knowledgable, but artfully covering a mountain of ignorance about the pending subject matter. I kind of like that. Indeed, I have built a whole persona on that; the sage old sliverback chomping ruefully on a thick clump of vegetation viewing the world askance and trying to so say much with little, and periodically nodding at the appropriate points of inflection. But alas, that cover is blown. I now have to feed this hungry blog. This I promise to do, as best as I can.Tunji Lardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16144485658283473381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7888068902781796703.post-31605168139867130822009-03-23T09:18:00.000-07:002009-03-23T09:57:52.209-07:00Heading homeI really have to get used to the drip, drip exposition of life as a blogger. In the good old days, the discipline and schedule of a weekly deadline as a newspaper columnist meant that I had to concentrate my thoughts to write on schedule. Now I oftentimes plain forget that like a chia pet, I have to feed and water my blog. Anyhow, where was I? Ah yes, my last blog was about re-entering the reality distortion field that is Lagos and by extension Nigeria. Right now, I am preparing to head back to the US, in its own way also a reality distortion field. My time spent here in Lagos has had its moments. One highlight was the visit of my intrepid friend Tom Lansner who came for a quick visit at the end of February and into very early March. After years of mutually threatening to pull off the trip, Tom finally made it to Lagos from Amsterdam. Now Tom is an old "Africa hand" as we say in the business, having been a war correspondent in the eighties, traversing and reporting on some of the most misbegotten episodes in Africa's recent history, and recently was in Nigeria to monitor our last elections in 2007. So, it was nice to see him very shortly after his plane touched down, outside the airport terminal, dressed in a light khaki pants, a summer jacket and a fedora arched jauntily on his head looking like the intrepid traveller that he was. Surprisingly and in my own experience, he was out of the airport, perhaps 15 min after the plane landed. I also arrived "just in time" like needed automotive part in a high efficiency Japanese car factory. It was all pretty amazing that things could co so smoothly in Lagos, well, perhaps not so, if you consider the drama I encountered on the way to the airport. At one of the many congested junctions on the way to the airport, I was "arrested" for running a red light. Never mind that I did not actually run the light, because I stopped immediately the oddly placed lights changed. I managed to argue my way out of a possible trip to the "station" by forcefully arguing that I did not in fact run the light! Anyhow, the point to this anecdote is that we must hold faith that things in will ultimately work out; Tom arrived and I was there to pick him up. Needless to say, we had a blast as two old friends would. It was a daily schedule of visits to friends and my family, meetings with interesting people at Bogobiri his hotel and artsy chick watering hole. It was during his visit and through his eyes that I saw what actually made Lagos, "Lagos" for me. Certainly not the beauty of the city, but the energy and complex beauty of the people. By his own admission, he met more interesting people during his short visit than he had met in the couple of years he had spent so far in Amsterdam. After he left, I fell back into the usual grind of problem solving and a series of enervating business trips to Abuja. I think right about now, I am ready to come up for air.Tunji Lardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16144485658283473381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7888068902781796703.post-33590735802827992212009-02-13T05:49:00.000-08:002009-02-13T06:54:29.807-08:00Lagos Jam!Lagos Jam is the refrain of a song by the reggae group THIRD WORLD, and it is an apt, if not sly description of Lagos. In pidgin English, the verb "to jam someone" is to have a collision with that person, often violently, as in a car accident. But "to jam" in musical terms can also mean to have a free-wheeling but intricately complex and beguiling collision of musical notes, as one would have in an extended improvisational jazz piece. And of course there is the that delicious fruity confection that goes, oh so well with toast or a muffin or bagel. Well, I think Lagos is all of those; infinitely adapting and dancing to the musical complexity and rhythms of its own making, sweet and yet tart, with the inevitability of someone or something jamming you when you least expect it.<br />It is into this controlled chaos that I returned last week. Each time I re-enter the Nigerian orbit, I am immediately sucked in by its gravitational pull through its own unique reality distortion field. You disembark from the plane and what you see, is well, what you see. I have learnt to peer through the glass darkly at the always fascinating theatrical production that seems staged just for your benefit. From the unruliness at the baggage collection point, through the ornery customs check and out into the bubbling sea of people, all ostensibly there for a reason, Lagos welcomes you with into its hot, humid and frenzied embrace.<br />The drive from the airport is always predictably fraught with the periodic traffic bottle necks and just a whiff of impending danger. Lagos is a city where anything can happen, and usually does. <br />But this time the city seemed a little different. There was a sense of it becoming cleaner and just a tad more orderly. There are clear signs that the Lagos State government is clawing back control of the public spaces; Lagos is becoming greener, cleaner and "leaner?" Nah... way too many people for that. I have heard estimates of Lagos fluctuate between 14 million people on a good day, and 25 million on a really bad day. It is truly a mega city in heft, if not amenities.<br />In subsequent days, my daily runs through the city revealed that Lagos is really changing for the better. The traffic is predicable slow at certain periods, but the uniformed army of Lagos State's auxiliary forces ensues that traffic is kept flowing, there is tepid enforcement on the ban on street trading, and wonders of wonders, all the one million plus Okadas and their hardy passengers are all wearing motorcycle helmets. OK, I use the term "helmets" loosely, much in the same way the helmets are jauntily perched on the heads of both riders and passengers, with the securing straps flapping loosely in the wind. <br />In taking a closer look at the quality of the helmets, I surmise that they in the main, are mostly cheap plastic bowls with straps attached, and offer no real head protection to the wearer if the Okada should "jam" someone or something. But hey, the larger point here, is that contrary to popular perceptions, Lagosians are law abiding and can be compelled to obey the law, with certain slight adjustments. The other thing that crossed my mind would fall under the law of unintended consequences. Head lice and other health related concerns. I wonder if there will be a spike in the number of cases of skin diseases as a consequence of sharing your headwear with so many other people. But trust Lagosians, I have already seen several types of what might be described as "head condoms" being used to prevent such intimacies. I suppose it gives a new twist to the expression "ride safely."Tunji Lardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16144485658283473381noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7888068902781796703.post-90715637205429124652009-01-18T19:37:00.000-08:002009-01-18T19:39:35.226-08:00Prelude to HistoryPrelude to History<br /><br /><br />Two conversations today helped me frame my thoughts about the historic inauguration Tuesday of Barack Obama as the 44th President of America. Prior to these conversations, I was probing and searching for a common denominator that would intimately connect me with the pomp, pageantry and purpose of this truly historic moment. What else can be said about this moment, about this improbable avatar that promises so much hope in these difficult and uncertain times? More precisely what else could I say beyond my own exposition Barack Obama: Black Man’s Dilemma, written many months ago, and reprinted below for the record. Not much I thought, until I had the conversations.<br /><br />The one was with a senior member of the Nigerian cabinet, whose personal and professional experience in my books makes him one of the few people that I have encountered lately in government that “gets it.” The call, made on my dime was supposed to be a follow up call on some other matter, but we easily segued into the Obama phenomena and what it means for all of us. <br /><br />I provided my own take of the heighten state of warmth, hope and even euphoria that has engulfed the US, contrasting the warm feeling of possibility with the arctic temperatures outside my doorsteps. His insightful comment was to point out that there seemed to be a fatal disconnect between our joyous (Nigerian) embrace of the iconic Obama, a black man as the President of the United States, and our sense that it is possible for us to aspire, work and achieve the kind of monumental change that Obama represents. <br /><br />And in a remarkable act of candor and openness, referencing his own present existential angst added that perhaps our challenge as Nigerians is more of a personal one; personal in our respective inability to resolve our internal contradictions, fight our demons and fully embrace the possibility of greatness, as individuals working toward a great nation. In short perpetual doubts of whether “Yes we can” or as I prefer to phrase it “Yes we fit?” <br />Our conversation drifted into his ongoing experience of working in the public sector, and I raised the issue of the tyranny of civil servants, perhaps the most corrupt cadre of the Nigerian elite, and he surprisingly rose to their defense in measured and reasoned tones, explaining that in fact, not all of them as bad as is generally believed. In his experience, there were some competent and dedicated officers embedded in the grime and sordidness of the service, toiling away to hold up the ramparts against the rapacious hoards of politicians and other rent seekers.<br /><br /> So in a sense, his position was that all was not lost and there were increasingly small victories that were adding up potentially to a tipping point. I expressed my perennial concern about Nigeria collapsing under the weight of its own graft and incompetence long before some of the salvage work is done, but he expressed a guarded optimism that all was not lost. I half believed him. <br /><br />The other conversation was a brief but pithy exchange with my dear friend Chukwudum Ikeazor who called me quite unexpectedly from Atlanta. “Tunji my brother” he said almost breathlessly, “guess where I am calling you from.” I knew he was in Atlanta, but before I could reply, “I am at the Martin Luther King memorial, we’ve just finished the church service and I am standing at his memorial about to sign the guest book.” “Tunji, we must learn to cherish our history” he said as his voice trailed off, “I’ll call you later.”<br /><br />Anyone who knows Chukwudum would understand the history he spoke about. Not for him this narrow definition of who we are, and against the backdrop of Obama’s inauguration, I knew he would be in the US to partake in some way in this auspicious celebration of the “Rebirth of a Nation,” D.W Griffith be dammed! <br /> <br />So sandwiched between the historical bookends of Martin Luther King and Barack Obama, I can understand why this moment is so important for all of us, and even more so for black people all over the world. As for our laggardly compatriots in Nigeria they better wake up and smell the Obama.<br /><br />BARACK OBAMA: Black man’s dilemma.<br />Tunji Lardner<br /><br />As a black man, more precisely as an African born black man, I am a bit conflicted about the exquisitely improbable presidential run of Senator Barack Obama. My ambivalence has it roots in a previous run for president by another charismatic black politician, the Reverend Jesse Jackson.<br /><br />I remember how the news of Jesse running for the presidency of the US in 1984 impacted on our global political consciousness in Nigeria, literally a generation ago. As a young idealistic journalist working for a fledgling weekly magazine, and like the rest of my equally young and idealistic colleagues, the very idea of a black man as the president of the United States was a notion we readily accepted as a possibility After all this was “the United States” —with its self evident truths about the equality of man: the democratic ideal that we all so dearly wished for Nigeria, which was then in the grip of yet another predatory and distinctively vicious military dictator by name Ibrahim Babangida. <br /><br />Looking back, I marvel at our naiveté and sense of moral certitude about the world ultimately being a good and just place. I suppose we were subconsciously projecting our hope and sense of justice and optimism on that great whiteboard called America. To look too closely at our selves, our country, indeed our continent would have been too painful and depressing. So we cast our eyes far, far over the rainbow to that mythical place where someone like us was running to be the leader of the most powerful nation in the world. <br />Even so, a little voice now and then whispered in our ears, the cold calculating facts of American electoral politics, there was no way any Jesse was going to beat the “Gipper,” an extremely popular incumbent Ronald Reagan. Nonetheless we persisted in our little game of self-deception, knowing fully well that given the tortured history of race in America, it was highly unlikely that a Blackman, indeed any black man would ever make to Pennsylvania Avenue in the foreseeable future.<br /><br />“From the outhouse to the White House.” That prospect was heady and intoxicating for all of us. At a deep personal level we understood the semiotics of having a black man in the White House—no matter how naïve or improbable it seemed. We came back to earth soon enough as Jesse’s theatrical run for president turned out to be, well, the audacity of hype.<br /><br />But today it is different. A remarkable black American with the improbable name of Barack Obama is running for the office of the President of the United States, and that little voice is telling me that he stands a very good chance of becoming America’s next president. A black man who in his own words boldly declares “I am the son of a black man from Kenya and a white woman from Kansas… I have brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, uncles and cousins, of every race and every hue, scattered across three continents.”<br /><br />And I—even without the colorful heritage of miscegenation and the searing intellect, the laser focused drive, the bold self-assuredness, the charismatic personality, the moral courage, the balance, the poise, the words, or the audacious hope—totally identify with the brother; more or less. <br /><br />I hesitate to fully identify with Barack Obama because I am still negotiating my way through the dark labyrinths of my own fears and self-doubt—the scars that I, along with, doubtless, millions of other Neo-Diasporan Africans, bear from the painful experience of unfulfilled ambitions at home in Africa, as well as in America. In the dark, arms outstretched I am tentatively feeling my way out by hand, even as I attempt to scrape away one sordid layer at a time, the baked accretion of the fears, uncertainties and doubts of being a black man in this world. With one hand, fingers splayed, I scratch at the indeterminate distrust that others project upon and that periodically shrouds me; with the other hand, claws drawn, I grate at the tectonic uncertainties that seem designed to keep me perpetually off balance; and with both hands, I rip away at the past setbacks that shadow me whenever I reach out to succeed. <br /><br />Somewhat like Barack Obama, but quite literally, I inhabit multiple worlds as I commute between the US and Africa, and have to constantly weigh and balance my engagement in both. But unlike Obama, who clearly has found his way out of that maze, unified his universe, taken a firm hold on the three fates, woven his own design on the tapestry of his life, and lately stunned the world with the audaciousness of his hope; the worlds I inhabit, inhibit my aspirations in many ways. Or do they?<br /><br />As I look back at my own continent’s fitful struggle for development and real independence I also wonder about my own culpability in my country and continent’s plight. No, this is not a quixotic desire to want to be like Obama. This cannot be, for after him, the fates broke the mold. Instead, this is a simple and all too human moment of reflective doubt, again, about my place in the world as a black man. <br /><br />In urging Americans in his seminal speech on race in America, Obama states inter alia that “for the African-American community that path means embracing the burdens of our past without becoming victims of our past... And it means taking full responsibility for our own lives…” He might as well have been speaking directly to us in Africa. He certainly resonated deeply with me. <br /><br />That we have at this point in time another avatar rising from our collective blackness is quite profound. Obama is much more than the poster child that some in the mainstream US media so blithely describes, he has become the whiteboard or is it blackboard upon which the grand narrative of the black man is being written, and will continue to be so until another comes our way. <br /><br />Nelson Mandela once remarked about how African men (and by extension Black men) are tentative about fully embracing their potential greatness, but not this brother.<br />As I marvel at the sheer chutzpa of the man, trying hard not to “hate the player, but to hate the game”—almost like loving the sinner and hating the sin—that niggling little voice is back, again. It is saying, and I render this with my tongue firmly planted in my cheek, and bearing in mind the properly contextualized, albeit widely misunderstood rhetoric of Reverend Wright, “Damn you Obama… Damn you! Damn you for blowing our collective alibis as black men… Damn you for kicking away our pathetic crutches, now we must stand tall, with no excuses, and grab and shape the destinies of our people!”<br />This time I am responding to the imperative rather than the fearfulness beneath the surface of this dubious little voice. It is a new day. And there is work to be done.Tunji Lardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16144485658283473381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7888068902781796703.post-75186772930390575382009-01-09T09:07:00.000-08:002009-01-09T09:11:36.157-08:00Happy New...YeahHAPPY NEW…YEAH …RIGHT!<br /><br /><br />Well for whatever it’s worth… A Happy New Year to you and yours. <br />I know it is a tad late, considering that we are already some ways into 2009, but better late than never. <br />Over the years, I have often wondered about the perennial fuss we all make of the incoming year. Typically there is a sense of expectancy about the coming of the New Year with the consensus being our collective expectation that the New Year will be better for us than the preceding one. <br />As I grow older and perhaps more cynical, I have given more thought to this hypothesis and now have new dimensions to ponder. Considering the fact that truth to tell, there are many cultural variations of the timing and significance of a “New Year.” Chronologically speaking we are caught in the warp of the Georgian calendar, really nothing more that an arbitrary milestone in the space-time continuum: http://<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gregorian_calendar">en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gregorian_calendar</a><br />Even so, I suspect we all need a psychological or even psychic cut-off point that signifies the end of an older order and the beginning of a new, something like the life-death-life cycle of the proverbial Phoenix. And so, I also have to ponder the meaning and importance of the New Year, especially “this” New Year. For me and my ever wandering mind, always flittering from one seemingly disconnected node to another, always seeing and seeking patterns, always connecting the dots, the transitive significance of 2008-2009 is of global proportions and more. The easier proposition to ponder is of course the global economic down turn, the climate crises, wars, poverty, disease all framed within the prospects of hope and change embodied by America’s (World’s) President-in-waiting, Barack Obama. <br />In this respect, I fear the new year will me much like the old, an admixture of crisis and hope, hope and despair, the usual Ying and Yang of our lives.<br />But consider these other scenarios totally out of the radar of sensible, balanced, grounded and reasonable folks, unlike myself. Many years ago, I visited Tikal, one of the remarkable archeological remnants of pre-Columbian Maya culture and civilization and was introduced to the Mayan Calendar: http://<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tikal">en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tikal</a><br />Not to want to bore with my understanding of this intriguing chronology, I was fascinated by one aspect of their cosmic time keeping, the year 2012: http://<a href="http://www.usatoday.com/tech/science/2007-03-27-maya-2012_n.htm">www.usatoday.com/tech/science/2007-03-27-maya-2012_n.htm</a><br />In a nutshell, according to the Mayans, the World as we know it is scheduled to end just before Christmas 2012, which leave just two years for you all to bequeath your worldly possession to me. You wouldn’t need them after 2012 after all.<br />The other apocalyptic thing I stumbled upon is the story of the discovery of a huge black hole four million times the diameter of our Sun, near the center of our galaxy, just 27,000 light years away… wow… too close for comfort… way too close. http://<a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/science/nature/7774287.stm">news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/science/nature/7774287.stm</a><br />I shared this factoid with my life long buddy, my brother Chris Coker and we both gave that knowing look of “Great…just another thing to worry about this new year”<br />So as you contemplate this New Year, spare a thought for these other important bits of information you might have missed out. Just add them to your worry list this year.<br />And oh…yeah, Happy New Year!Tunji Lardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16144485658283473381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7888068902781796703.post-78804148259558463902008-12-08T11:51:00.000-08:002008-12-08T11:54:41.391-08:00Ocean of Wisdom“Ocean of Wisdom”<br />The Dalai Lama comes to town<br /><br /><br />I have always looked forward to Thanksgiving. It is a holiday of great significance to Americans in part because it re-enacts and symbolizes the storied history of the early pilgrims and their soon to be vanquished hosts, the Native Americans. I always enjoyed the lavish spread the warmth of family and friends and the pervasive feeling of loving-kindness and compassion displayed to all except of course the thanksgiving turkey. In a perverted sort of way, I confess to especially enjoying the tryptophan induced stupor of eating too much turkey and drinking too much Port. <br />But this time, I missed this year’s celebration for good reasons. First of all I was in Lagos a place where truly religious ceremonies like Sallah for the Moslems and Christmas for the Christians hold sway, none of this secular religious stuff, and even more important, I was for several hours awash in the “Ocean of Wisdom.” <br />For many hours beginning at noon, we were all cramped into a crowded hall to listen to His Holiness, The Dalai Lama, speak at the occasion of the tenth anniversary of the eponymous Emanuel Anyiam-Osigwe Anyiam Foundation. The man in question is now being rightly recognized as an important philosopher-sage and as the mission statement of the foundation established in his name states: “While on this plane Chief Anyiam-Osigwe adopted and propagated an approach to existence which is premised on the universality of Truth, and emphasized the harmony that exists in the teachings of such great masters as Christ, Mohammed, Buddha, Confucius. His practical application of these universal teachings and principles convey an insight into the feasibility of their application in the context of everyday life towards an improvement of the composite welfare of the individual.” ( http://www.anyiam osigwe.org/foundation%20philosophy.html )<br />Having been fortunate to have known him, “Papa” as we all fondly called him must have been pleased to have a fellow sage acknowledge and validate his deeply profound teaching, now being published for posterity by the Philosophy department of the University of Ibadan. For a man who could effortless weigh in on “The Cosmic mind, divine Intelligence reveals itself to its chosen individuals of different races and peoples, at different times and at different places, adapting the enlightenment experience to the relevant spiritual, socio-political and economic milieu,” the Dalai Lama was the perfect speaker for the event.<br />Not surprisingly, the theme of the lecture was “The Unity of The Absolute, the Oneness of All Religions: Value Guided Conduct as a Universal Tenet and Propriety as a Way of Life for Mankind” and his Holiness’ keynote address was on the topic “The Universality of the God Principle, the Sense of Unity in the Teachings of the Great Masters.” Both pretty heavy going for an audience used to more down to earth castigations of bad African leadership that previous speakers in different ways have alluded to.<br />Seating in that crowed auditorium, the pageantry of contrasts was plain to see. The stiff-limbed pomp and circumstance of the Nigerian elite, channeled through the haughty Nigerian introductions of “My Lords spiritual and temporal…” and the always favorite “all protocol observed.” The latter an abbreviated salutation designed to assuage the fragile egos of Nigerian dignitaries who expect to be “formally mentioned” in every event. Now contrast all that with the Dalai Lama. A small man swaddled in saffron robes, wearing flip-flops, with bright eyes piercing through large owlish glasses. His presence was everything that his Nigerian audience was not.<br />And instead of a cosmic revelation about, perhaps, Nirvana, His holiness chose to talk about something he has observed in Nigeria, something earthy, something we are all familiar with, poverty in the midst of plenty. His lucid and down to earth exposition on caring, compassion, loving-kindness and our collective responsibility to each other, spoken in his “bad English,” as he put it, went down well with the audience, as did his sly humor and sweeping anecdotes of his life’s journey through many place meeting with many people. It was a truly enlightening encounter.<br />In the various formal responses by other speakers, the innocent mutilation of his name was in a sense, good comic relief. My favorite was the gentleman who kept referring to “his Holiness the dilemma” as in “I would like to thank the dilemma for making this auspicious trip to Nigeria…” “It is important that the dilemma…”<br />The significance of this trip to Nigeria will remain subject to debate, but for me it was one more paddle stroke toward “enlightenment.” Me, paddling furiously in my leaky life raft in the sea of Samsara, heading out into the ocean of wisdom.Tunji Lardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16144485658283473381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7888068902781796703.post-74246199493540298362008-11-09T09:57:00.000-08:002008-11-09T09:59:06.585-08:00Any day now...Any day now…<br /><br />If you are like me, still trying to process the meaning of Barack Obama as POTUS (President of the United States), then you surely must have been struck by the startling theater of President-elect Barack Obama’s first post election press conference as it unfolded on Television all around the world. At the time initially scheduled for the briefing, my phone rang, and on the line was the raspy baritone of my friend Wale Ajadi calling from Lagos. “Has the briefing started he asked” “Briefing” I asked somewhat quizzically, then I realized that indeed, regardless of space or time, New Jersey or Lagos, the World was waiting to hear again from Obama.<br /> As is typical of Wale, always irreverent and disruptive, he tossed a line about Obama already operation on CPT (figure that out for yourself). To which I sallied forth in defense of Obama, chewing Wale out on the phone, even as he feigned ignorance about the needling aptness of his comment, all the while chuckling and pleading his mock innocence. That was a typical Wale encounter, a ruthless truthfulness that can either be funny or painfully funny. Mercifully, the announcement came that the President-elect was about to make his speech, and thus I was spared more of Wale’s wryness, until the next time.<br />On the TV a novel sight was unfolding, first was the phalanx of mostly white men and some “minorities,” dutifully lining up behind the lectern, a short pause, the Vice-President elect, and then striding purposefully toward center stage was the President-elect Barack Obama. I had to do a double take, heart was “a dancing” with joy, but my mind for a split second convinced me that it was one of those movies with “a black president” and at any moment, the heroic white male protagonist would leap on stage, shoot a couple of the bad guys, defuse the bomb, save the president and of course get the girl. But not this time, this was no theatre this was real. And now I have to deal with this new reality and process it whichever way I can.<br />One outlandish but really poignant thought was prompted by a short email from my friend Sonata Olumhense titled “Any day now.” Boy did that take me back. Well here is the story. True fiction.<br />Many years ago, perhaps a quarter of a century ago, I was sitting in a Barbershop in Brixton, London waiting for my friend Winston to have his hair cut. This was a couple of years after the first Brixton riots of April 1981 and as such it was the unspoken backdrop to the many conversations going on. We all know the archetype of the black barbershop, lots of people, most of them not actual patrons, but neighborhood folks chillin’ and catching up with the latest local gossip, as well weighing in on the global state of affairs, especially as it affected black people. I sat there like a faux social anthropologists catching the various threads of flittering conversations, and trying to subconsciously weave them into a mental parchment for later review. I strained my ears to understand the lyrical lilting singsong cadences of the many West Indian voices that I was soaking up. But one suddenly struck me, as much by the gravelly and authoritative baritone as the quiet and measured authority with which he spoke and other listened. He was one of the barbers; an older West Indian man, dark with a craggy handsome weather beaten face, his moustache undulating gracefully as he dispensed wit and wisdom. “I tell you man… tings are changing, tings will change” he said, snip, snip as he tenderly and unhurriedly cut the hair of another older black gentleman, wielding the scissors with practiced grace. As I discovered, there was also in this barbershop the call and response dynamic that is present in most African oral traditions, and to this Pollyannish view of the black world was a rolling wave of howls from the Cassandras, “no way mon… black people are doomed…” said one disembodied voice. The barber persisted, snip, snip, “black man are take over you know…” a pause, “any day now.” To which the response was a thunderous eruption of howls, thigh slapping disagreements, eyes rolling in disbelief and various expletives in patois, too deep for my untrained ears to fully grasp. In a nutshell, there was widespread disagreement. <br />For decades after, I carried this doubt in my psyche, and even as the tale became one my more famous stories, with each unvarnished retelling as the call, the response from my listeners was usually a nervous and painful laughter about the underlying truth of our pessimism. “Black man taking over?” Don’t make me laugh.<br />Now, I am not one ordinarily inclined to believe in latter day prophets, especially of the barbershop variety. But watching that press conference… well.Tunji Lardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16144485658283473381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7888068902781796703.post-27341896552624638352008-11-05T11:53:00.000-08:002008-11-05T12:21:43.992-08:00The Day AfterAs we all walk in a post election daze, not all for the same reasons, I can only attempt a feeble response to this global phenomena. Brack Obama winning the U.S. election and in one fell swoop, redefining race relations in the US by wiping out the nation's original sin, and presenting the world a new vision of humanity...bla bla bla. No trust me, this is not a cynical retort, it is the result of sleep deprivation and the ineffable joy in my heart that I know I share with billions round the world. But I am nonetheless obliged to say something. Hmmmm.. well "Ex America semper aliquid novi" a quote by that famous philosopher "Tunji the Junior." America always brings us something new!<br />Now wait a minute buster... that's no original quote! Sorry. the real quote of course is Ex Africa semper alquid novi attributed to Pliny the Elder and it means more or less that Africa always brings us something new! Well this certainly is new, but is it relevant? Hey Brack's father is from Kenya right? Well... Africa, no better still, Africa and America always brings us something new!Tunji Lardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16144485658283473381noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7888068902781796703.post-46349648300911089372008-11-03T05:57:00.000-08:002008-11-03T06:05:08.570-08:00Barack Obama: Whiteman's dilemmaHi, Caught in the grip of election fever, this is my catharsis. The future in black and white.<br /><br /><br />Barack Obama. “That one” as Senator John McCain so infamously described Barack Obama in their third televised presidential debate to the glee and horror of millions of US viewers was yet another poignant punctuation mark in the racial dialogue of the ever evolving grand American narrative. But I missed it. As a non-native viewer, my initial response was to chalk up the remark to McCain being “McCain,” a crusty old curmudgeon given by turns to periodic outbursts and a mischievous disarming charm.<br /><br />It was in the inevitable post debate deconstruction by TV pundits that the covet allusions were exposed, “that one” was variously interpreted to be everything from a common “Irish” expression to a subtle, condescending racist slur that most Americans, especially African-Americans would understand. Like most things, the truth must surely lie somewhere in between, and it a measure of just how ubiquitous and invidious the issue of race is in America-and even more so in this extraordinary elections-that in every word might lie a spring loaded racist pun.<br /><br />It is almost clichéd to talk about race and racism in America. This artificial social construct is so embedded in the collective psyche and spirit of America, that is difficult not to preface every conversation about equality in America without the periodic listening in of the ambient humming of race, whispering its discordant tune. For non-white immigrants whose ears have not been trained to hear those racialist notes, it takes quite a while to be able to actually “hear” that ambient anthem of racism. But over time, one hears, one sees and one actually begins to understand the covert drivers that define the issue of race in America. One such moment of clarity for me came when I watched the September Republican Convention a week after the Democrats held theirs in late August. The experience for me was like night and day, black and white, if you will. The grand theatre of a Barack Obama addressing a rainbow nation of Americans promising hope and change was a startling sight, because the implicit sense of possibility was that this man, okay, “this black man” could one day be the President of the United States of America ( POTUS). The very idea of “a black man” as arguably the most powerful human on the planet requires a cosmic recalibration and attitudinal adjustment that might be beyond the capacity of many Americans, black and white.<br /><br />During the television broadcast of the aforementioned Republican Convention I sat with the rapt attention of a political neophyte new to the ways of American electoral politics. I watched the TV screen intently, trying to decipher why this other party seemed so distant from the values espoused just some days before. As speaker after speaker extolled the war time heroics of John McCain, while simultaneously deriding and mocking the perceived histrionics of Barack Obama, to the rapturous applause of an agitated sea of blanched faces, save the odd speckling of black, it suddenly hit me. In the waves and waves of party faithful, the so-called rock solid republican base, “the true face(s) of America,” the “Joe the plumber” and his archetypes, I saw something that I instantly recognized. It was something that periodically confronts and confounds us, something unsettling, deeply unsettling and troubling, something called fear. In the faces of this group of white men, and in heeding my own caveat I hasten to add “not all white men,” I saw and fully recognized that primal surge of uncertainty about tomorrow. A feeling that I have grown familiar with for all together different reasons, but a feeling nonetheless about a novel tomorrow, with the possibility of a black man as POTUS.<br /><br />Even as each one swaddled in the familiar comfort of the red white and blue, must respectively confront the fear and loathing of the inevitability of change, the more concrete reality of a busted economy signaling hard times ahead, two enervating wars, the decline of American global status, begs a response. But what, how do you respond to the unprecedented ascendancy of a very gifted American politician who clearly represents a different and new way forward, but who just happens to be black?<br /><br />Barack Obama’s unbearable blackness of being is at once the denouement of the grand American narrative; the plodding but inevitable fulfillment of these opening words penned with remarkable prescience on July 4, 1776 by group of very wise white men, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”<br /><br />In rising to collectively fulfill the sacrament of it independence, America through the election of Barack Obama as President has once again displayed its “exceptionalism” and advanced the cause of humankind by providing the world with a transcendent and transformational figure that immediately challenges all the negative and divisive “isms” of our times. A Barack Obama as POTUS has an aspirational doppelganger almost literally as leader of the world in this new century. Tough assignment to be sure, but anyone who has over the last two years of his campaign discerned his preternatural self possession, calmness, and steely determination to change the world for the better can make a safe bet that at the very least he would be a much better improvement on George Bush.<br /><br />But what about those hold outs, those mostly white men and some women who can’t possibly conceive of an America in which to put it bluntly, the President is a black man?<br /><br />To them I paraphrase French romanticist Victor Hugo when he said, “ No army can stop an idea whose time has come.” Today as I write this a couple of days before the historic elections on Tuesday November 4th 2008, win or lose a “Barack Obama” is an idea whose time has come, America can and will never be the same again. Americans, all Americans can now legitimately challenge that pharaonic sense of implicit entitlement and accomplishment that some white men have about their place in the America, the world and indeed the universe. The huddled undifferentiated masses of “minorities and women,” can now begin to emerge from the shadows to challenge and hold America to the word of the founding fathers’ self evident truths. In 1831 when another French man, Alexis de Tocqueville writing about democracy in America, made the case for America’s exceptionalism. It was by one interpretation to underscore the difference and put some distance between the evolving American New World ideals and the staid European Old World views it had left behind. In other interpretations and especially when conflated with the concept of a “manifest destiny,” even as it connotes the contentious acquisition of vast tracts land across the North American continent, it provided a unique sense of superiority and dominion over and above all others. From the right to own slaves to key elements of the Bush doctrine-the right to globally spread democratic values, as well as to preemptively strike at America’s perceived enemies, with the unilateral swagger that has mired America in Iraq, all these elements brewing in a four hundred year old melting pot have come to head with this election. The American story is about to be re-written and the new chapters will be a more inclusive narrative that does not portray the white man as the protagonist that dominates every story line, even when not there. E PLURIBUS UNUM; out of the many shall indeed come one, one American grand narrative. In coming full circle to one, “that one” or “the one,” or “this one” or “the other” the collective reality of today is that we all live in an increasingly interdependent and delicately balanced world, in which there really is no “other.”<br /><br />The White man’s dilemma is that on the day after Tuesday, in gazing at the mirror he will either see his true reflection as being wholly part of “us” or choose to believe the refraction of his distorted identity as being separate and different from the rest of America. Whichever way, America will march toward hope and change; with the righteous wind behind her the laggards will have to catch up, hopefully soon.Tunji Lardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16144485658283473381noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7888068902781796703.post-65588282362653031272008-10-25T11:57:00.000-07:002008-10-25T12:07:30.466-07:00Fifty sense...no really!Hello again,<div>The only real important thing to report is that I turned 50 about three weeks ago. After building up an existential froth about my impending half century, the day more or less came and went. I spent it quietly with my spouse, daughter and my kid sister visiting from Nigeria. We went to dinner and saw the Lion King on Broadway. OK, truthfully, turning fifty has made me more in tune with my mortality, I have silently congratulated myself for surviving this first fifty and I am looking forward to the next as it were. I am sure that as more fully embrace this new, no, this renewed sense of being, I will have more to say. But one thing that has become clearer to me is the fact that, that all things considered... this first fifty has been a fair shot at life. And for this I am profoundly grateful.</div>Tunji Lardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16144485658283473381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7888068902781796703.post-22410785994143178372008-08-30T15:15:00.000-07:002008-08-30T16:42:32.672-07:00ObamaramaLast week, I suppose that like many millions (38 million to be exact) in the US, we spent our eyes glued to the incredible spectacle of the Democratic Convention in Denver unfolding in HDTV. It was especially poignant for me because I watched this historic event in the company of Atinuke my politically conscious 8 year old and her Mum, a self-described Obama-mama. The only fly in the ointment came afterwards with the announcement of McCain's running mate, a choice so cynical that it spurred Atinuke to herself toss her hat in the ring. She was not going to stand for this faux Hillary impersonator, so she has decided to run herself. The details are here:<div><a href="http://www.inews3.com/play.php?first=Atinuke&last=Lardner">http://www.inews3.com/play.php?first=Atinuke&last=Lardner</a><br /></div><div>But seriously, listening to the "sisters" Michelle and Hillary make their respective speeches, just underscored what I have always maintained; the world is not going to get far without the active involvement and participation of women in all spheres and at all levels. But I must issue a caveat here, by women, I don't mean all women. For example, what is to be made of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 15px; ">Ndi Okereke-Onyiuke? As media would say, "In another related story, the chairperson of the Nigerian Stock Exchange... in a nutshell this really unsavory woman conducted a 419 fund raiser for Obama drawing the righteous ire of right thinking Nigerians. I mention this as a sharp counterpoint to the type of women that we all need right now in positions of leadership. See the link below</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 13px; ">http://odili.net/news/source/2008/aug/18/407.html</span><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></div><div>As the Obama phalanx marches on post the incredible convention and hopefully straight on to the White House, I am grateful that I could see in Michelle and Hillary that potent distaff promise that the world is yet to fully redeem. Perhaps in Atinuke's time. As for the brothers and Obama here is what I think:<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 13px; ">http://okebadan.blogspot.com/2008/05/new-obama.html</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; ">Peace</span><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></div>Tunji Lardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16144485658283473381noreply@blogger.com0