"... the people... Are they aware that they are suffering?"
This article was originally published on my Medium blog in 2020 - https://medium.com/@uchechiede
It’s no secret. When the rains fall in Nigeria, some certain events follow — a child knows it; the government knows it; we all know it. It is like a stack of dominoes; one piece triggers the other. It is unspoken law.
“Nigerians now enjoy 18 to 24 hours of electricity daily”, the Minister of Power says.
But my family and friends only see 0-6. Are we in a different Nigeria?
Now, it isn’t like these events are unavoidable; on the contrary, they are completely preventable. But Nigeria has become that sadness that washes over you after a breakup, and you feel like you need a drink so you can feel better. First a glass, then two, and then some more. 60 years later, you’re lying on a park bench — drunk, hungry, raped and willing to sell your shoes to Mr. Wu for just one quick shot of liquor.
7.15 a.m. I lie on my bed watching a few tutorials on content marketing — a routine activity I have developed since the pandemic. I have been upskilling while I job-hunt as Covid had affected my previous employment status. My windows are shut and the curtains pulled down, but I can still hear the wind go whoosh beyond the thin barricade. “That is some strong wind”, I think to myself. Recently it has been a little rainy, but no storm.
If you are Nigerian, you already know that when it rains, PHCN responds. PHCN (or NEPA, as it was called before — honestly it’s just like Kanye saying his name is Ye now. Same person. I even hear they have changed to a third name these days) take back their power or in Nigerian terms, “take back their light”. The Nigerian power consumer never really has the light. PHCN usually just “lends” us power, takes it back at will and slams us with ridiculous bills at the end of the month.
There goes the light; I’m in darkness. The wind goes whoosh again. I get up to open the window and it swings its arms to embrace the winds. The Redeemed church next door is quiet; it has been for about 2 months now. Covid is a powerful husher, I have come to discover.
You see, I love the rains. There is no truer evidence of my sentiments than the rains. When we were young and free, my siblings and I would run out into the rain with our unabashed naked bodies. Oh, freedom. We would laugh and throw dirt at one another. My parents had only girls at the time. The 3 of us would laugh in mischief, our laughter sounding like a pool of tiny shrill voices saying, “hihihi hihihi hihihi.” The sound usually annoyed my dad very much. You would be annoyed too.
Our parents would not be home when we were in the rain, otherwise we would be in trouble. I imagined my mother running outside glaring and yelling at the top of her lungs, “What are you kids doing in the rain! Are you animals?” And then there was the fever and shivers I got after each dance in the rain, but the thrill was far greater than the repercussion.
I love the rains because it reminds me of the little happy moments I have had like that in the past. And so, when it rains, I like to look out the window and watch it fall in all its glory. Tiny beads of transparent liquid, approaching in full force. It hits the ground with such confidence and upright command, your ears pay attention. It’s freeing; there’s something so pure about it. And soon, the sounds form a rhythm that soothes the soul. This is what I love.
I lay back on the bed. The downpour seems to be a long one; perhaps 3 hours or more. I imagine the streets are already flooded — Lagos island has very poor drainage as most of it was sand-filled and no properly designed water outlet provided. Poor urban design makes up a facet of our everyday lives. It has unwillingly become the norm that when presented with proper standards, we exalt it like utopia. My mother once said to me in an unrelated event, I paraphrase:
“The problem with the idea of saving a people is so complex because first, do the people know that they need saving? Are they aware that they are suffering?”
My first job interview in Lagos was in early 2014, on Adeola Odeku Street in Victoria Island. This was also my first time in Lagos — I had gotten acquainted with the CEO of a large award-winning real estate development firm at an exhibition and he had offered me an opportunity to work with his firm. I was very excited; this was an opportunity like I had never had. I recall this was in the early rainy season, it had rained the previous night and I was wearing my nicest corporate outfit complete with new office shoes. As I turned the corner from Idejo to enter Adeola Odeku street, I stood still. The entire street was flooded to a few inches below the knee level. This was extremely bizarre to me as I had grown up in a state where street flooding was rare — not because of proper urban planning, might I mention; the terrain was different. I was so confused; I stood there for about 30 minutes until I was almost late for my interview. People were waddling in the floodwater. Luckily, a nice stranger offered to drop me off at the office address.
Video credit: Plus TV Africa @ youtube.com
In the coming weeks, after I had begun working with the firm, I did have to find a way to rough it out until the dry season; some days being less 'floody' than others. Although as you might have guessed, waddling in floodwater isn’t a particularly happy memory of mine.
These are some of the unacceptable occurrences happening in Lagos every day, but of which we have somehow grown accustomed to, pretended it’s not there and failed to unite to demand for our rights. Many things are happening that abuse these rights.
If I were to point out all the daily inadequacies we experience, but which we have somewhat become oblivious to, this would be a paper instead of an article.
Nigeria is a failed state. But like every other failure, the first step to recovery is admitting there is a problem in the first place.
There is a problem with the exertion of our rights as a country.
There is a problem with the exertion of our individual rights.
There is a problem everywhere you look; there is a problem.
Even in my despair, I am a living victim of this dysfunctionality. Uwa, Tina and Jennifer weren’t so lucky as they lie raped and/or murdered — victims to a much higher degree.
I think the problems with Nigeria have ultimately gone beyond what we may continue to sweep under the carpet, ignoring the mountain of dust that has collected in the room. Until we as a people speak up against injustice and demand accountability from both ourselves and the government, Nigeria will remain that hungry and angry homeless drunk lying on the park bench, gradually selling out his outfit to the Chinese buyer for liquor until he is completely naked and exposed to the elements. Then, there will be nothing left to save him.
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