234 is more than a country code

On the evening of May 1, 2014,  I tried relentlessly to call my sister's phone lines as anguish encircled my throat

 Another bomb had gone off at the park in Nyanya, where she would  normally board a cab home. And board a cab she did, minutes before the bomb went off.

As the call finally connected and I listened to Sister Esther recount how the blast had sounded so loud, anguish squeezed out hot tears which slid down my cheeks to my nightie; tears of relief and frustration. For a contraption that used to be a country, I shed tears for her nonexistent government.

#BringBackOurGirls

My country has been at war for the last three years, but this is a much-denied fact. Our tears are dried out, cushioned as we are in the familiar numbness that has set in. If you live in the south, the general feeling is ‘it happened to them, not us’.

That narrative changed with the Chibok girls. Somehow,  234 was no longer just our country dial code; it had become the code of blood. 

This abduction would not be another sad news that would get swept under the carpet of denial and levity where all the other killings and abductions had gone.

We became street and cyber activists convinced that if we made enough noise about the missing girls, our government would stop pretending that over 200 vulnerable girls were not kidnapped by a heartless extremist group.

I joined the protests and chanted 'We want our girls! Bring back our girls! Abduction must stop! Bombings must stop!' I marched in the sun and rain so that the world would hear of this atrocity and come to our aid.

Our conviction worked. The ‘bring back our girls’ hash-tag caught on like an infectious disease.

Yet, that night as news of a second Nyanya bomb blast scrolled through my TV screen, it felt like that was our collective punishment for daring to carry out worker’s day protests across the nation. But we were not deterred; even as the death toll rose.

One month after the abduction, America sent troops to help our army find the girls and flush out the enemy.

Between videos of BH telling the world they were sanctioned to sell the girls, and another showing the girls as new converts to Islam, then news of mutiny within Nigeria’s soldiers, to more news of the girls being ill and in different camps, this ugly drama keeps unfolding, and we struggle to make sense of the many twists.

So far, it has been 53 days of not knowing what those unstable elements may have done, and are still doing to the girls. More than enough time to lose faith in your country, yourself and life in general. How many of them will return, whole in body and mind?

Indeed when this war ends, how many of us will be left whole in Nigeria? 

Toast to Maya

Reading about her passing on Thursday, May 29, 2014 was somewhat heavy for me.The news brought an unexpected pain.
 Somehow, I scouted the internet in search of news to the contrary. I failed.
I remembered the last tweet I read from her earlier in the week; 'Listen to yourself and in that quietude you might hear the voice of God'. I wondered; could she have sensed it then?

I recollected reading a Facebook update from her, an update where she informed us that she had missed a special event organised in her honour, based on her doctor's advice.

But after it all, I sent prayers for her swift passage to the next realm. And at Pentecost, what a time to pass!  
The next day I was able to write this small tribute to a woman I loved and admired. for her intelligence, her wit, her strength and her pride. Journey well Maya!

She knew Why the caged bird sings

She knew why the caged bird sings...
And in her words I found reason, rationale to be true to self and craft.

She wrote heartfelt poetry and told stories with a passion and honesty that shamed even the darkest of circumstances. 

She belonged nowhere and yet belonged everywhere.

Her writings illuminated the assertion that when a person shines, she gives glory to her Maker and inadvertently gives others the nudge and room to shine too.

Thank you Maya Angelou! 

Poet, storyteller, dancer, singer... Your words gave this bird wings to take flight. Your stories gave hope; they give hope still.

Sing on soul sister! 

Sing on in lighter realms. 
To joyful activity may you awaken, Amen!

Writing Process Blog Tour 2014

Many people have argued that the proliferation of social media sites has an undoubtedly negative influence on writing, in terms of industry and quality of writing. This may be true for some, but it is impossible to talk about the influence of the internet without speaking of how much it helps writers interact with one another and share ideas on a growing range of issues. How a writer decides to use this is solely that writer’s prerogative. The idea of a blog tour especially appealed to me because of its capacity to introduce me to new blogs (and writers), who are doing wonderfully creative work on their blogs. 

My dear Obinna Udenwe, whose work can be read here,  introduced me to the blog tour and has introduced me to writers such as Tricia Nicholson and Kwabena Agyare whose writings were unknown to me before now.

Then, there is the part where we each get to speak about our writing processes. I like the idea of reading about other writers’ writing lives, and discovering that I’m not so weird after all.

Here’s my writing process unveiled:

What am I working on?

I am currently working on a novel which is as yet untitled. It is a riveting story about a family’s travails in their search for a brother, after a boat trip goes awry. It explores how lives change and different truths emerge in the whirlwind of experience. The novel has a bit of a love story and some heart racing suspense.

I am also writing short fiction when that particular muse seizes me. Here I tell stories of the joys, pain, romance and realities of the everyday Nigerian. My poetry muse is a faithful lover in all this; giving me space to explore fiction, yet whispering sublime verses to me every now and again. This is the burden of first loves, I guess.

How does my work differ from others in its genre?

My writing tends to be very particular about human reactions. I like to explore the ripple effects that a single action (or inaction) can have on the lives of people. How people discover true self in their struggle with latent traits or weaknesses, triggered by one incident. I try to see my characters as complete representations of your guy next door, or your aunty or old friend. In drawing a reader onto their lives and minds and fears, my writing tends to get emotive.

I have also been accused of being very graphic and detailed in my writing; this must also be a unique feature in my work.

Why do I write what I write?

Human nature fascinates me. The human mind is such a an endlessly intriguing tool to work on, and with. There are a plethora of possible outcomes in any given situation when a human being is involved. This realization is what moves my writing. Coupled with the fact that each undertaking is an opportunity to question and understand human nature some more.

I write what I write in order to discover what drives people in different conditions. There are stories that need to be told and those of us with the gift of words have the added responsibility to be as honest as possible to the craft.

How does my writing process work?

Due to the fact that I may not always have the luxury of time, I try to discipline myself to put down my thoughts in anyway possible, for future referencing. This could be scribbled short/long hand on a jotter, notebook or piece of paper. It could be an idea typed on a smart device, or a thought voice-recorded on a smart phone. My most productive writing period is in the wee hours of the morning when the only sounds are the tick of my clock, or the distant hum of the early train.

I find myself constantly editing as I write. I am told that it slows down the writing process, but this is the way I write, and I am mostly unable to move the story along if I am uncomfortable with the last part. Thankfully I don’t aim for overkill at first draft.

The first draft of my novel was completed in one month, while at a residency. I may spend another year on further research to make the story as plausible as possible, then do some more editing.

For short fiction, I put the idea down once it strikes me, then after writing the main story; I leave it to simmer for a while before I decide on a suitable ending.

Pre-plotting does not always work for me, but I try to mark out a decent plot perimeter beyond which I will not dance. Then I trust my muse and let the story tell itself.

Now to pass the baton…

The three favourite writers that I will hand over to are:

Dami Ajayi:

Dami Ajayi is a medical doctor, poet, short story writer, occasional essayist and book reviewer. He co-publishes Saraba and edits Fiction for the quarterly magazine. 
Dami writes a fun blog, with suprisingly profound insights, where he talks about a wide range of things that tickle his fancy.

pick his brains at  www.mrajayi.wordpress.com



Iquo B. Essien:

Iquo is a Nigerian-American writer, director and photographer. Her short film, Aissa's Story, was a regional semifinalist in the 2013 Student Academy Awards. She is currently writing a memoir, Elizabeth’s Daughter, about losing her mother to cancer and finding herself through writing.

Her debut (draft) novel, Alligator Legs, earned her a Hedgebrook Writers' Residency in 2009. Her publishing credits include the Dreams at Dawn anthology, as well as online and print magazines NigeriansTalk, The African Magazine, PopMatters, and the Stanford Black Arts Quarterly.

Iquo divides her time between Brooklyn and Lagos, and writes about art and life on a popular blog www.alligatorlegs.blogspot. 

 
Terh Agbedeh:

Terh is a journalist and writer, who dabbles in photography. His background includes over 10 years in the print media in Nigeria and is presently assistant editor for The Niche newspaper, based in Lagos. 
He blogs at terhagbedeh.blogspot.com about life, particularly as it relates to literature.

He is working on a book and lives in Lagos with his wife and daughter.

Receiving the baton

I’m it!

Yes, I’m it. I’m in. I’m in for it!

Nothing sinister; just a very novel idea (for me at least), to participate in the writing process blog tour.

My dear friend Obinna Udenwe has handed the baton to me this week, after he took over from Trisha Nicholson.

I am part excited, part nervous about this. But I'll survive.

The most interesting parts for me are the indecision as to which three writers to hand over to next Monday, and the questions about my writing process, which I have to answer.

My responses will be live here next Monday.

As a relay goes, I also get to handover to three bloggers. Watch this space to know just who and whom I hand over to.

Meanwhile; read what makes Obinna’s writing process unique on his blog; HERE. 

Photo credits: simondenman.com

The Lagos theatre festival

The second Lagos theatre festival promised part theatre, part real life and part journey through the city of Lagos; it delivered on all fronts. The festival, aptly themed ‘A city that never sleeps, is full of stories that never end’, was a three day event with four plays in multiple shows. I saw the Sunday servings and wow! Was I thrilled!

The festival play ‘Make we waka’, was quite the captivating audio tour. It was not uncommon to see a passerby or two get caught up with an actor as they guided participating audience members in the ‘waka’. Make we waka  gave us an interesting and somewhat new angle to drama. It was innovative; it thrilled, but as the evening wore on, it became obvious to me that it had some serious competition. 

In Waiting for a Lottery, the audience participation was at once comical and exciting. The play opened with a faux audition scene for a purported Nollywood blockbuster.  The play mirrors the typical Lagos hustle; a jungle where only the strong and ruthless survive. Anxious actors await the audition that would propel them to stardom. This is the supposed lottery that will change their lives; make dreams come true. The play also had some comical references to the Nigerian situation that gave it extra depth. As would be expected, hostilities soared when the hoax is uncovered, and this climaxes in a slight twist to the tale. A slave driver scenario is introduced to the play and the response from slaves sounds too close to Nigeria’s reality. 

This reviewer believes that though this part of the play was significant in painting the symbolism of defiance and the resilience of Nigerians in the face of persistent corruption, oppression, and tyranny, this is one part of the play which could have been shortened for better effect. Nonetheless, the play had some very true-to-life characters, and the actors did not disappoint at all. Suffice to say, Zara Udofia Ejoh’s Oxygen Koncepts interpreted this play very nicely. Even Lekan Balogun, the scriptwriter affirmed this.

Diagnosis is a Theatre lover’s delight; anytime. It is the unexpected 419 tale where the usual Maga does not pay afterall.

Shortly before Nigeria’s same sex marriage legislation, Johnny and Danny successfully convince a Canadian mugu to fund their NGO- ‘Rescue Project for the Gay Dwarf Community’. A cheque of one million dollars gets into Johnny’s hands, and this sets a series of complications, beginning with a bout of temporary amnesia.

In the ensuing panic, more people are let into the big ‘maga’ deal and we see how greed can eat into the very core of human relationships. Every one wants a cut, including an extremely comic pastor who speaks such tongues as Rabbosh, AK47, Skelewu, Devil-Pullover, and Spartacus!

Filled with so many well thought-out twists, and a tactical handling of deep issues, it is difficult not to fall in love with this play. In the end, the schemers get schemed by their supposed ‘maga’, in spite of their exertions.

Ifeoma Fafunwa’s ‘Imagine Nigeria productions,’ gave an undoubtedly beautiful performance of the story which screenplay was done by Jude Idada. 

The open theater experience was a beautiful one for me, and this reviewer hopes that it will continue. “Double tuwaile” to the British Council, and all its partners for facilitating this awesome platform.

I hope that plays at the next festival will be accessible to larger audiences at a time (At possibly lower prices).

The trials of being a good Nigerian

 In the twelve years since I started driving, I have had at least four driver’s licenses, all of them processed in Lagos.

By the way, when I say processed, I mean that very common ‘parole’ where someone who ‘does’ licenses gives you a form of some sort and you write your name, signature, date of birth, Blood type and other info on, then you submit with two passport photos, and within days you get a new license; Gbam!

About four years ago, it occurred to me that this process was wrong. The license came out looking funny and it had a northern state written on it, plus it did not have the correct first issue date on it, and many other things were just not right. (yeah sue me, I’m a bloody Nigerian).

The license became some sort of embarrassment over the years, so I decided to do right by my country. That is what got me into this unending dance with the Federal road safety corps.

Last year I went to the road safety/Vehicle Inspection Unit in Lagos; as a repentant good Nigerian. 

Day 1, I spent close to three hours between the bank and the Road safety offices, in a riotous round of applying, signing and online submissions.

It took great grace to ignore the tout who walked up to me and offered to help me get the license sharp-sharp.

The mention of the internet raised my hopes of progress in this sweet country of mine. Surely with computerized steps, the whole Driver’s license process would be as easy and fast as flash Thompson(even if he were on a pounded yam and egusi soup diet). I spoke too soon.

At the end of that day, they asked me to produce a certificate from an accredited driving school, that was the only way they would ascertain that I could drive.

‘But I have been driving for over ten years, see my expired license!’ I said, unbelief nearly choking my voice

But the license was not recognized on their system, so I may as well be a fresh applicant. This was the response from the officers, each of who had nasty smirks on their faces

You can’t understand my frustration at that point. Me, Iquo DianaAbasi, aka Diana Bond? aka ‘ika obirin lori steering? Me, Fresh applicant? Driving school? Chei, I haf suffer!

At that point I almost hated their new internet-driven system.

Okay, on to Day 2.

I agreed to return another day to the driving school they pointed out to me. At this place, the old way still worked. They simply asked for money and handed me a certificate in minutes. By the time I returned to FRSC, they put me in a room with several other people and scheduled us for a written test. Finally! Something I could handle. With a 90% score I hoped again that merit would quicken the process… but once again I was hasty.

Then came the driving test. How can you even wonder how it went? My name is Bond. Diana Bond.

Next I was sent to another room, where I finally got a date for physical capture, three months from that day!

So, I missed my capture date and returned to FRSC for a rescheduling. Another crowd took possession of the capture waiting area. Many got rescheduled dates too. Some men kept grumbling about having to carry the sheaf of papers about for the three years that a proper license would last before expiration. Another said this was his fourth time of being rescheduled; they just kept stamping and re-stamping his forms for the past year and three months.

That is when I realized that I have really entered one chance. Could this be what Fela meant when he sang O-D-O-O (Overtake don overtake overtake)?

It is five months now, and I am yet to get a physical capture. I’m beginning to wonder if this capture is done by quantum physics, or if FRSC just has serious ‘village-whinch’ issues.

If I decide to go back to my old ways, shebi they will say I am unpatriotic.

Issokay. 

A bit of Uyo

As a child, leaving Uyo for Lagos was always painful; Always.

The tears would start a day or two before I left and on the dawn of my departure, the pain in my heart would be akin to how a friend described having a tooth pulled without anaesthesia.

Each visit brought squeals of joy, but at the end there was always the re-realization that I was leaving a part of me behind in the town of my birth.

Well, one is not a child anymore, and as the decades passed, I have come to accept the leaving as a given; one which will spark feelings- fires to be put aside and ignited upon our next re-union. This time around I left with the knowledge that work awaited in Lagos, the city of mad hustles, and I sorely needed to get ready for the new work-year.

There is no power when I alight from the taxi and thank the driver who has helped me carry my suitcase and the sack bag containing food stuff to my doorstep. Not one to trifle over PHCN’s operations, I set to switching on a rechargeable lamp and cross the threshold with my four pieces of luggage, two at a time.   

When the taps greet me with a squeak and a few miserly drops of water, I trudge on and move to unpack the foodstuff which mum struggled to put together for me in the last few days; some of which will be distributed the next day. It is 10.45pm when I decide to shower with water from my reserve.

When I fish out my nightshirt from my yet-to-be unpacked suitcase, I realize with a pang of nostalgia that I have brought a bit of Uyo back with me.

There is nothing romantic about firewood smoke; I know. But like a distant yet familiar lover, my mother’s kitchen has left its smell on the sleeveless nightshirt. The smoke seems to have permeated the very strands and patterns on the fabric, so that as I make to slide it over my head, the smell is as strong as a heady kiss or the animal scent of a frenzied lover in the throes of passion.

My nightshirt hanged to dry in the vicinity of the kitchen, and I can very well imagine how smoke billowed in different directions as Flora cooked Editan Soup while I went sightseeing on my last day in the town.

A similar scent embraced my nostrils when I hugged mum upon my arrival on Christmas Eve. This smell is one that I hate to miss because it will remind me of Edidiong who loved to touch my cheeks on any given occasion and say, ‘Sister Diana, What is your name?’ My mother’s last child, she was a delicious, wicked blend of childlike innocence and Aged wisdom. She is prototypical of the proverbial child of an old woman whom my people say is wont to speak in parables.

When I announced my departure to her the night before I left, Edidiong looked me in the eye and pleaded softly; ‘Please don’t go. Stay and bathe me tomorrow’

The supplication was so innocent and genuine, I wanted to cry. Inspired by this smoke scent, all I can do now is pray that she will remain sweet and also remember those memories we made in the last 9days. But then, she is just three and memory can be a bitch.

I remember the banter we had near the fireplace- my other siblings and I. occasionally mum would join in the conversation and laughter. It gladdened her to no end to have all her five children around at the same time.

In the haze of the smoky aroma, I recall some arguments we had, the occasional scolding I gave to Flora and Aniefon; my undergrad siblings, a sulk here and there, Flora’s witty remarks, the very sweet treats I got from Aniefon, the heart-to-hearts with Kufre, but most of all, I remember the shared meals with each of them.

I should be eager to get to bed; it’s been a long trip and I hope to be fresh enough to go for worship in the morning, but sleep eludes me. Even though there are no tears now- it’s still lodged somewhere in my throat, there is certainly a near sense of loss; I have again left a part of me behind.

This love doesn’t get any easier with time; I shall bear this burden stoically.
Happy New Year Folks!