Once was a rich man
with a big spoiled family;
he lived an unhappy man.
He wrote his will
and he put in a pan,
stamped with his seal.
After he had died
his whole family met
to mourn and all cried.
His will unsealed
and then it’s torn up
as they merrily mealed.
World is the baggage that matter,
life is the manner we carry it on.
Time is the passage and ladder,
age is it’s numbered mile stone.
World is a mission we’re tasked.
Living is the tour we are allowed.
Time is our tenures unmasked.
Age likens a sentence awarded.
What’s man, what’s he about;
some mystery for figuring out,
or another thing that will rot?
Same man’s masterful reign,
growing in loudly seen fame,
repeatedly bursts in old pain.
At the end every single man
makes his wishes as he can,
not walk a fixed single plan.
Honking is mating season here,
drivers make frog song feel fair.
Hurried races on the sidewalks;
stampedes amidst its tall stalks.
World’s going in one big hurry;
perceptive and focus all blurry.
All life reduced to sprints daily,
as peopled streets are all crazy.
Inspired by @faucon315
Home is where I am;
it isn’t anywhere else.
Home says who I am
and my current place.
Home always has me;
all of me, as I present.
Home ever keeps me;
in all my most recent.
Home has become me,
and keeps mine safest.
My home’s here to see;
most real in its truest
We’re suffering and call it living;
right where we remain seething.
The reason we’re slowly dieing,
obviously is our own choosing.
This torture is of our own doing;
and this enslaves our reasoning.
Every day we fire up the boiling
and yet dish our all the blaming.
It’s common in law as said,
that ignorance is no excuse.
For lots, knowledge has paid;
for much more it will confuse.
For what we claim as ours
is not as we acknowledge.
As ignorance brings chaos;
surely as much knowledge.
Aren’t we all citizens of earth;
firstly simply humans beings?
Sure as we’re free in thought
we’ll love or hate some things.
We’re too different to be same,
too alike in ways that’re insane.
So the expression of our tastes,
merely make up our many faiths
Everything that has a beginning
most surely will have some end.
It is logical and simple thinking;
one with proven enduring trend.
The much that’s made and had
will at some point all be waste.
Timeless happiness will be sad
as every world ends in its haste.
Within and outside every being
is the good, the bad and the ugly.
It is true of every single entity;
be it inanimate or alive or dying.
Nothing more is fitting naturally.
Why you dey stone me with eye?
I dey chop my own, no put eye.
This our country na turn by turn;
you chop your own, na my turn.
I swear, if God dey vex true true,
this country for don talk true
Wetin we chop dey our teeth.
Las las, all of us join be thief.
When Hate resembles love, it doesn’t.
Especially if Terror claims to come in peace.
Is it possible, loving anything you mustn’t,
Abhorring the whole but not it’s piece?
Then that peace you want wouldn’t; Not ever be yours, even on short lease.
From whence were you birthed?
The very bowels of ships berthed.
And who had anchored your pains?
Same he that adorned me in chains.
Who housed and fed your pride?
Same he that took away my side.
Who sat you in hard carved wood?
This same master who eats my food.
What lessons were fed to you?
That’s written on my scars too.
What journey have you come from?
One that make up my physical form.
Were you aided and groomed?
Indeed, burdened and tooled.
Where you shaped to a good fit?
Truly, trained to be as yet unfit.
How were you held in place?
Planted, till I lost all my trace.
Surely you tried to branch out?
Rooted trees only get to sprout.
But you grew on and had aged?
Certainly, I’m still not as caged.
So break away and come home.
I’m home in the cage I’m borne.
But all your gains is not evident?
Yet I am surely and truly present.
But you are a readied crucifix?
Yet my time lost I did not miss.
Stand for something
Not be on a fence
In my defense
Have an opinion
Not give a care
When daily Life is Too Hot,
Who cares if home is a Pot?
We’re born to make Breath.
We are all groomed to Fight,
Schooled, cooked to Adapt
Nigeria is a pot of Rich Stew
Badly cooked by the rich Few.
If you refuse to leave,
Surely it will still cease.
Because the night is dark;
The sun ensures it is back.
In ka ki ka ji bari,
Lalle za ka ga bari.
Domin dare ne sakon;
Rana ne mai bakon.
It’s the most misused word
Which says it is quite right
When stakes are put on hold.
It gives up it’s life given right,
To demand, take and be bold.
As we moan in our far watch;
Nagging our peopled conscience,
We miss out entirely that the catch
Is made up of all our overt nonsense.
A large rich island just drags on,
Not for the size it must always hug.
The bulk of it lost the very reason
Why rich minds will make it a slug.
Story behind the picture here;
I know it all, at least most of it.
Whole of it is all written there,
It was not told to me, I saw it.
It’s actually too glaring to miss
Happened right before my eyes
Where fell my toad holder piece
A truck ran over toad and keys.
Why does time keep ticking,
never waiting or ever stopping?
Why does the air fill our lungs,
and we live, where we belong?
Why does mother work still,
while she looks like we all feel?
Why does she walk the street,
daily giving humility a new feet?
Where a man goes
So points his toes.
And what he knows;
Not all what he does,
Would lessen his woes.
All around are foes,
with yet another ruse.
Up any tree he throws;
With a beat to choose,
Could be his mangoes.
My time is solely mine, mine alone
I walk it and work life on my own
My life is not mine; it, I just have
Long as I prowl safely and behave
I am not mad, just insanely crazed
Like all the many about, just dazed
I live somehow, alive like it matter
I’m only here, ignored like dirty water
I try wetin I fit
With all dem gist.
I join, cook, wait!
Water yet, no meat.
Darkness feels quite empty
with nothing to see through.
These lives about so mighty
would empty and darken too.
Up on the plateau they reigned,
Their own old clans so formed.
Hidden on the heights plain,
Living in plentys much rain.
They welcome guests well,
As prosperous strangers tell.
Soon dominance is so evident
And for the sold they want rent.
Wherever time is so kept,
Such a place has it since left.
Two is never again one unless
One is expunged and no less.
Identity established so firm,
Fights a war not for their farm.
Bullying their co-farmers yield
With poised spears and a shield.
It was always dark in all it lack;
All living again, though to us all,
Today it still lingers far off back
In that long night we still do fall.
These cultures that speak the person
Say an Abiku again is everyone of us.
For common reason proves a season,
That only event ended and started us.
When the cries over sharia had settled,
We ran and scattered the towns streets.
Homeless, dead and alive all kettled;
Schemed and steamed out of fair streets.
After all, a rope always starts and ends,
Then it is just after all rope in between.
All of man is birth and the dead ends,
In between is life; man is in between.
After dusk, all return to their own home.
The swines streets of our homes will then
Not be as good again to even just roam,
For the transit pen is now a lions den.
In dedication to the old residents of Rigasa, in Agabi LGA of Kaduna, who were forcibly displaced of the Sharia Riots of Kaduna; February 20th, 2000
Her entire short life is dirge like,
In her daily rounds so silly alike.
Abnormally brained, genes made;
persistent dirty joke, harmless made.
Asaba is the neighbourhood fool,
Nurturing moods into a little fool.
The gloom that is her poor mind
Caresses our passions, so we mind.
In a puddle she plays herself by.
Scaring kids as she staggers by.
Gracious mums use this apt fear.
Life cannot be all good and fair.
Darkest people ever found,
A huge pistol points wrong.
If here man got his sound;
Earth, Africa is your song.
AND WHAT A POOR SONG IT HAS THUS BEEN
Skies are drumming,
The body joins in too.
Clouds are partying,
Invited winds are too.
The body is hurrying,
All corpses are met.
Real hot or chilling,
Salty must be wet.
Sama na kidi,
Jiki ya dauka.
Hadari na biki,
Ya gaiyache iska.
Jiki na sauri,
Kowa na mushe.
Ko zafi, ko dari,
Gishiri sai ya jike.
Found out amidst the threshing stones,
sort out of the cupboard of bones.
Where the situation was doctored
fell out that one not to be mastered.
Revenge consumes like any fire
and depends on sentimental air.
An action sought to set any aside
is vengeful if reason and sense coincide.
When anybody is singled out
the stone-casters dance about,
exposing ignorance and malice;
ironically with the drummers piece.
Earth has been all angry again,
Man did upset hers again;
Like he does again and again.
His efforts in controlling has been
Fixed as to betray his weakness seen;
She’s polite, not rash as harsh in between.
But you wonder how long for,
This sea-saw ride will further go?
Calmly, then hard ends a crescendo.
First time I got those three words,
it was a parent checking on me.
Then it was a sibling’s own words,
demanding my attention and me.
Next on the train came a friend,
likewise demanding attention.
And this goes on without end,
because I’m in for an education.
As a stallion, my girl owned me,
every minute her calls are as true.
Mother didn’t as much call me.
Now my pet name is WHERE ARE YOU?
Time is a precious commodity,
one we cannot create but waste.
How we use every opportunity,
determines our enduring taste.
The fabric of every community,
makes up it’s content and state.
When a people lose their sanity,
old men rule like boys in haste.
Boys’ll ever be boys!
Even if they’re older,
they like same toys;
only just get bolder!
Men get a lot older,
playing more bolder.
Craving similar toys,
make men still boys.
By Ahmed Yahaya Joe
All roads might lead to Rome but all dogs are heading for Katsina as the State Government is to expend N300 million on them to secure schools. Who is supplying the dogs? Certainly none of Ejike Mbaka’s “three contractors” nor Eedris Abdulkarim via Festus Keyamo! Anyway, this laudable proposal might however start off dog rustling because some Nigerians particularly from …, ……., ….. and …… would have already started calculating the cumulative length of “Telephone wire” that would be roasted, fried or pepper souped. If you decode the 3, 7, 5 and 6 dots na you sabi! Now that negotiating with bandits has obviously failed are dogs the best way forward?
While canines are wonderful as temporary early warning mechanism they cannot be a permanent preventive measure. Dogs are not bullet proof. Katsina people should rather implore their kinsman in Abuja to wake up on the job to identify and root out the immediate and remote causes of abductions – nationwide.
After all that is what he was voted into office to do! By the way who will feed and maintain N300 million worth of dogs? I ask because in Katsina “members” are said to be mainly concentrated at the Mammy Market of you know where. Chances are that each time there is salary delay or month far a government owned Bingo or two might end up there! If so it will be just a question of time before man’s best friend starts turning out to be other men’s 404!
By Ahmed Yahaya Joe
The last official public function of Nigeria’s first and only elected Prime Minister, Sir Abubakar Tafawa Balewa was the commissioning of the River Niger Bridge linking Asaba with Onitsha. After which;
“On December 19, 1965 he (Balewa) went to the small village of Arondizuogu in Orlu for the commissioning of Dr. Ozumba Mbadiwe’s “Palace of the People” Built by Italian contractors, it was a three-storey affair resplendent with blue terrazzo walls, swimming pool and a fountain, grand conference halls and event rooms, red carpet and gilt chairs. All these in a village where most houses were still born of mud and thatched roofs. Since the first tarred roads were constructed in 1890s in Lagos, and the first dual carriage way in Nigeria – Queen Elizabeth Road – appeared in 1956 in Ibadan, no road in Arondizuogu or in Orlu had ever been graced with bitumen before.
Yet Mbadiwe situated the grand palace there as a source of pride for his people. At the commissioning ceremony, the Eastern Premier, Dr Okpara never saw the project as a white elephant planted by megalomania and watered by corruption, rather he hailed the project as “a great achievement for pragmatic African socialism.” The press placed the value of the house at least half a million pounds. Mbadiwe said it was “at most £40,000.” After the commissioning, Abubakar then proceeded to his farm in Bauchi for his annual leave.”
The Prime Minister was briefly in Kaduna on Tuesday, January 4, 1966 before returning to Lagos.Despite the fact that Sir Balewa was a Knight Commander of the Order of the British Empire and member of the Privy Council of the United Kingdom, he was a modest person who had throughout his life led a Spartan and ascetic lifestyle. He owned only 2 private residences in Bauchi and Kaduna and a 50 acre farm near his hometown of Tafawa Balewa.
His personal integrity was unassailable, yet in Lagos as Prime Minister he headed a government that glossed over the proven corrupt practices of its apparatchiks for the sake of political expediency;
“The NCNC parliamentary leader and Minister of Trade, Dr. Ozumba Mbadiwe was caught using his office to divert a government land at Ijora Causeway to his private company Afro Properties and Investment Company since 1961. He then assigned the land lease to Nigerpool in return for a hefty annual profit. The discovery generated another media-exposed corruption scandal.
The Prime Minister met privately with Babatunde Jose, the editor of the powerful Daily Times spearheading the intense campaign to remove the corruption extremist if he declined to resign. Mbadiwe never bothered. Sir Balewa told the editor: “You want me to remove this man? What he did fell below what is proper. Under British standards, he would go, but the NCNC who put him in my original coalition are solidly for him. Its central working committee had just passed a unanimous vote of confidence in him. If they withdraw, since Awolowo can’t join, the [coalition] government will collapse.’”No doubt during the First Republic there were numerous signs and symptoms of rapid democratic decay against the background of massive political corruption.
The bloody events of January 15, 1966 did not just happen in some vacuum. By January 15, 1966 our nation was a disaster waiting to happen as there was a noticeable buildup towards chaos as noted by declassified US diplomatic cables which clearly stated how our nation had got to a level of; “Very complicated African politics, in which tribes, religions and economics all play a part, are involved in the situation. The Northern Premier is at odds with the Eastern Premier in whose region large oil deposits have been discovered. In the heat of the election campaign, there have been threats of secession by the East; threats of violence that would make Congo look like child’s play.”The American cables were about the intense political rivalry at the highest echelons of government;
“Following the controversial Federal Election of December 1964, ceremonial President Azikiwe of the NCNC, refused to invite Prime Minister Balewa of the NPC to form a government and issued orders mobilizing the Army to enforce his authority to suspend the government, annul the elections and appoint a temporary interim administrator to conduct elections.
However, the oath of allegiance of the officer corps was not only to the Commander in Chief but also to the government of Nigeria. The Army Act (#26 of 1960) and the Navy Act (#9 of 1960) were also clear on lines of authority and control.While the Army and Navy were “under the general authority” of the Defence Minister in matters of “command, discipline and administration”, the authority for operational use and control was vested in the Council of Ministers and the Prime Minister. President Azikiwe and the service chiefs were so advised by the Chief Justice and Attorney General of the Federation.
Thus the Navy Commander, Commodore Wey politely told the President that the Navy (under him), the Army (under Major General Welby-Everard) and the Police (under Louis Edet) had decided to refuse his orders. After a week of cliff hanging tension, in which the military stood aside, a political compromise was eventually reached and a government of “national unity” formed under Prime Minister Balewa.” Was Dr. Azikiwe privy to the January 15, 1966 coup?There was also the political collateral damage of;
“Operation Banker’, a joint Army-Police operation in the Western region, led by then CO, 4th battalion, Lt. Col. Maimalari, allegedly at the behest of the pro-NPC regional Premier (Akintola) culminating in the declaration of a state of emergency in May 1962 after a fracas in the House of Assembly and the appointment of an administrator.
Interestingly, the General Staff Officer at the Army HQ in charge of Intelligence was none other than Captain Patrick Chukwuma Nzeogwu who, as a Major, was later to play a key role in the coup of January 1966 in which Maimalari lost his life.”This politicization of the military led to; “The arrest on September 22, 1962 and subsequent imprisonment of the opposition leader, Chief Awolowo, on suspicion of planning a civilian overthrow of the government. It was alleged that 300 volunteers were sent to Ghana for 3 weeks militia training.”
Interestingly; “The last interview granted to the magazine ‘West Africa’, by the late Prime Minister Balewa on January 14, a few hours to his death, went like this:
Question: Do you see the solution as taking the form of a coalition government in the West?
Balewa: Yes, it would have to be that …The Action Group has accepted my mediation, but the NNDP has asked for more time. If I use real force in the West – and make no mistake about it, I haven’t yet – then I could bring the people to their knees. But I don’t want to use force like that. Force can’ t bring peace to people’s hearts.
Question: Would you consider the release of Chief Awolowo as part of a political solution of the West’s troubles?
Balewa: I think that might be part of it; yes, obviously we would have to see.
This interview was not published until January 29, 1966.”
Little did Sir Balewa know that the political end game of the January 15, 1966 mutineers was to release then opposition leader, Chief Awolowo from Calabar prison and install him as head of a national unity government. Chief Awolowo has never confessed to being privy of the coup attempt though the official documents containing the details of what actually happened and how 54 years ago are still classified.May the souls of Sir Balewa and that of all those that lost their lives on January 15, 1966 continue to rest in peace.
Life is a marathon, not a sprint,
one excelled with dedicate grit.
Commenced without good hint
of who can stand through or sit.
Hell will burn in a loving heart;
Abyss will once camp in there.
In pained loss looms one fact,
Life is war we will all lose here.
Picture from @Poem_Rumour
Skeletons still in the cupboard,
are still new, across the board.
Just a step into the near past,
reveals old habits always last.
Tombstones mark old cruelties;
hidden, mean, untold mysteries.
Looks are most deceptive tools, lying to the most gullible fools.
How the times have changed
and their days have managed
to turn our thrones into pulpits
our peaceful abodes into pits.
Mere words now make violence;
sacred scripture praise offence.
Social media taints knowledge,
as our youth mirror our tutelage.
We walk in steps, fits and starts,
Come and go like beatin’ hearts,
Pacing back, forth, yet onwards;
Winning battles, losing all wars.
Life drills all as an erring soldier,
Demands as needs never older,
For the future soldiers on bolder.
Trust is an egg, floating in the air,
Happy in delightful honest fair.
Safest feeling is only in the hand,
When it’s down to earth and land.
Picture from @MrsZanga
Waiting patiently for the nights
when we sit, raise our glasses,
toast trigger fingers’ heights,
gun powder and saves asses;
over our chilled whiskey shots,
brag about our notable shots.
We won’t lock horns with evil;
for not forever reigns the devil.
We might clatter like pawns
across their Chess boards,
as their domination quests runs.
But at some point it surely burns
and we won’t fall or die off.
For angels far away from here,
wait to shine feathers enough,
to spread wings with all of us;
Once this is over for ours & us.
Picture from @hify_2
Can’t wait to be felt and noticed. Can’t wait to be seen and heard;
To be right here acknowledged.
When not if, a certain constant,
As I stand out in this moment.
For what is now is my current.
Picture from @oj_deji
Happy Mothers’ Day, mothers
Mother comes along life’s miles,
Bringing time’s baggages along.
All her scars earn proud smiles,
As her priorities pile and age on
In days old and long gone by,
A young Goat, still with speech,
Asked humans as he went by
Their old time wasting pitch.
“Have you seen my wives go by?”
“Wives?” They jeer and returned.
Enquires to, the grown kid comply.
“Wives,” he so proudly confirmed.
“No laddie,” their answer did fly.
“We only saw your full mothers
And your many sisters walk by.”
“But they’re my wives, my brothers.”
By Ahmed Yahaya Joe
These are Wagyu cattle from which the most expensive beef in world comes from in Japan.
They are arguably the most pampered of domesticated animals, because their daily routine consists of regular massages, beer drinking, baths and listening to relaxing music.
It is believed by herdsmen over there, such delicate care helps to keep the highly priced beef known as “Kobe” so tender.
Meanwhile, other cattle, in you know where, are raised against the backdrop of Rat-ta-ta music of AK 47 gunfire.
With more civilized herdsmen, Denmark is not left out as
a group of students of the Scandinavian School of Cello dropped by to perform Tchaikovsky’s “Pezzo Capriccioso” to the delight of a herd of classical music loving cows.
Do not ask me if the following day milk production reached all time high. It did!
Meanwhile, over here the Rat-ta-ta…..Kwantinues.
Simply put –
Garbage in, Garbage out!
40 ʏᴇᴀʀs ᴀɢᴏ
ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ. ᴛᴏᴅᴀʏ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀғʀᴀɪᴅ ᴏғ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ.
40 ʏᴇᴀʀs ᴀɢᴏ
ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ ʀᴇsᴘᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛs. ɴᴏᴡ ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛs ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇsᴘᴇᴄᴛ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ.
40 ʏᴇᴀʀs ᴀɢᴏ
ᴍᴀʀʀɪᴀɢᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴇᴀsʏ ʙᴜᴛ ᴅɪᴠᴏʀᴄᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴅɪғғɪᴄᴜʟᴛ. ɴᴏᴡᴀᴅᴀʏs ɪᴛ ɪs ᴅɪғғɪᴄᴜʟᴛ ᴛᴏ ɢᴇᴛ ᴍᴀʀʀɪᴇᴅ ʙᴜᴛ ᴅɪᴠᴏʀᴄᴇ ɪs sᴏ ᴇᴀsʏ.
40 ʏᴇᴀʀs ᴀɢᴏ
ᴡᴇ ɢᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇɪɢʜʙᴏʀs. ɴᴏᴡ ᴡᴇ ᴀʀᴇ sᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀs ᴛᴏ ᴏᴜʀ ɴᴇɪɢʜʙᴏʀs.
40 ʏᴇᴀʀs ᴀɢᴏ
ᴠɪʟʟᴀɢᴇʀs ᴡᴇʀᴇ ғʟᴏᴄᴋɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄɪᴛʏ ᴛᴏ ғɪɴᴅ ᴊᴏʙs. ɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴏᴡɴ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ғʟᴇᴇɪɴɢ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ CITY ᴛᴏ ғɪɴᴅ ᴘᴇᴀᴄᴇ.
40 ʏᴇᴀʀs ᴀɢᴏ
ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ғᴀᴛ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ. ɴᴏᴡᴀᴅᴀʏs ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ᴅɪᴇᴛs ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜʏ.
40 ʏᴇᴀʀs ᴀɢᴏ
ʀɪᴄʜ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴘᴏᴏʀ. ɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏᴏʀ ᴀʀᴇ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʀɪᴄʜ.
40 ʏᴇᴀʀs ᴀɢᴏ
ᴏɴʟʏ ᴏɴᴇ ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴ ᴡᴏʀᴋᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ sᴜᴘᴘᴏʀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʜᴏʟᴇ ғᴀᴍɪʟʏ. ɴᴏᴡ ᴀʟʟ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴛᴏ sᴜᴘᴘᴏʀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ.
40 ʏᴇᴀʀs ᴀɢᴏ
ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ sᴛᴜᴅʏ & ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʙᴏᴏᴋs. ɴᴏᴡ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ғᴀᴄᴇʙᴏᴏᴋ & ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴡʜᴀᴛsᴀᴘᴘ ᴍᴇssᴀɢᴇs.
40 YEARS AGO WAS 1980,
WHICH SEEMS LIKE YESTERDAY!
Hard ғᴀᴄᴛs of ᴛᴏᴅᴀʏ’s ʟɪғᴇ.
By Ahmed Yahaya Joe
Don’t hate, observe and understudy instead
Devoid of sentiments, without sanctimonious grandstanding and negative profiling apart, tell me how the Indomie generation of Thank you Daddy can withstand this kid in future?
If truth be told, any kid that can command this kind of thunderous herd is way ahead in strategic thinking and tactical response of his peers. Shoes? He doesn’t need any. His stick is his keyboard and mouse for now.
Let us face it, dominating any environment is a mindset that must be cultivated early. This kid is not chauffeured to school. He is not on Social Media neither does he flip through DSTV channels. By the time he goes to school he doesn’t have to drop his CV anywhere.
Many Nigerians have so much modernized that we have abandoned the ethnic rites of passage for our young. The Fulani naturalis have not. They don’t abandon culture.
This kid doesn’t speak English but can effectively communicate with his herd. He can read their mind and decode their mood. He is already taking charge. His mates are still crying Mummy.
This kid might not be able to read and write but he is a natural GPS that can navigate without map reading. He can sniff rain days ahead and sense danger miles away. He doesn’t have to Google pasture. He is an ecological encyclopedia.
This kid’s swagger is earned.
Insult, deride and abuse his older ones. But you can never deny the potential, natural aptitude and work in progress in this kid.
How many conventional schools can package the unfinished greatness that is already apparent in him?
The Fulani. The Shuwa of the Lake Chad region. The Dinka of Sudan. The Masai of Kenya and Tanzania. The Tutsis of Rwanda and Burundi. Even the Bedouins of the Arab world and Cowboys of America. Including the Hebrews of old. Keenly observe and carefully understudy them. They have always dominated their environment because of their understanding of the umbilical link between animal husbandry and human psychology – He who knows you most masters you more – by any means necessary.
“Hate is the reaction that we feel towards something that is threatening us. Fear is what happens when we can’t do anything about it.”
Life is historically a game of chess. We are mere players and the environment is our ultimate chessboard; “where a man must have a temper of iron”
It is either you stay ahead of the game or keep on complaining.
By Dan Hicks 18th February was the 124-year anniversary of the sacking of Benin City by a British naval force.Walk into any European museum today and you will see the curated spoils of Empire.They sit behind plate glass: dignified, tastefully lit. Accompanying pieces of card offer a name, date and place of origin.They do not mention that the objects are all stolen.Few artefacts embody this history of rapacious and extractive colonialism better than the Benin Bronzes – a collection of thousands of brass plaques and carved ivory tusks depicting the history of the Royal Court of the Obas of Benin City, Nigeria.Pillaged during a British naval attack in 1897, the loot was passed on to Queen Victoria, the British Museum and countless private collections.The story of the Benin Bronzes sits at the heart of a heated debate about cultural restitution, repatriation and the decolonisation of museums.In The Brutish Museums, Dan Hicks makes a powerful case for the urgent return of such objects, as part of a wider project of addressing the outstanding debt of colonialism.