Thoughts of the very oppressed nigerian. I hate this place. I always have. I’d do anything to avoid coming here... Most of you would too. After a guess or some flimsy consultation with an experienced sufferer, usually follows a walk or a drive down the street and your problem is solved- at least for some time. Even if it’s just for a while, we would prefer to buy some time before the next attack. Time...that deceptive resource that no one truly has enough of and only fools play with…can’t be stored or counted or reproduced, only measured at most. Every day needs to count when you live in a poverty stricken nation that is dressed in the finest robes of natural resources- Enviable robes- spun with the thickest threads of God’s own abundance that are fraying speedily in the hands of corrupt leaders, working at the looms of power, spinning beautiful futures for them and theirs at the cost of exposing the ugly dried up nakedness of our nation. Yes…we all hate coming here. This place that eats our ever- ticking- away time and our much-too-hard earned money. I have better things to do with my time than sit around here. I could visit a friend and catch up on what is currently bugging them, or get some rest which is a rare privilege for most ‘responsible’ Nigerians who are not in the upper class. I was born in a time when there was a middle class. Like the dinosaurs, the middle class is facing extinction. The middle class is disappearing, eaten away by the ever increasing gap between the upper and lower classes. So no! I don’t have the luxury of rest- there’s money to chase just so I can pay my bills for ‘goods’ and ‘services’. Yup, ‘goods and services’, that’s what we were taught to call them in elementary economics. I can see the ever smiling face of my Economics teacher now. He always smiled, but even more as he said those words. They seemed to be his favorite pair- ‘goods and services’. Economics was boring, very much so, for me at least and if he ever caught you sleeping, he would wrap on your desk with his great big hands and your eyes would shoot open with gratitude that it wasn’t your face he was hitting. He would lean over your desk and come so close to your face, he could almost kiss you and say again what the definition of goods and services was, according to one of the revered fathers of the discipline. Don’t ask me to quote, I might say something silly. It’s funny; I crammed some of those principles laced together with those words some years ago only to pass a test and get a grade…now I’ve forgotten the principles themselves, but I know how they work. I’ve forgotten the grades but I know what goods and services are- They will always be part of life. They are the basic reason we work and what we work for…they are the work we do. We study and train so that we can produce goods and offer services and get paid for it so we stay alive! Its simple isn’t it? It should be abi? These days what we buy in Nigeria aren’t very good (- pun perfectly intended) and usually, we get more of disservice-‘No be my papa business’. That has become more than a catch phrase on the average parched Nigerian tongue- it’s a mind set. A jailer…and not the kind Asa sang about…but then again, maybe. If I bump into her someday, I’ll ask her…after we take a picture together. Today I found myself in this place where no one likes to come. Even the people who work here have issues coming here on the daily I don’t think we need to ask them to be sure, it’s not rocket science. In other countries...I mean the ones that don’t exist in the crammed and cracked-and-still-cracking-held-together- picture frame of the 3rd world, the people that work here, do it for life- to protect it and preserve it. They take the oath; they believe it, live by and for it. They spend countless hours working to learn more so they can keep that oath and pass the knowledge on. The fact that they know that they need to learn so that they can pass on to a future generation says more than a lot. Let me put it this way: they know… they are sure that they have a future and are more than interested in protecting the interests of their unborn. It’s no wonder that they rule the world. ‘Beyonce says girls run the world. It’s a nice beat…yes, but surely, not the same girls that can be married off at the age of 10 right? And can be pregnant by the age of 12…and would never… My thought bubble of the foundations of world domination was pierced by a loud baby cry and I was drawn back into my present situation; sitting in this place that no one wanted to be at 9.00am. I could have been anywhere in Abuja right now at 9.00am, but I had to be here. In spite of how I was feeling, all I could do was wait. In my country, working in a place like this isn’t about life for most of them-it’s basically a matter of bread and butter. The logic is simple: Choosing to protect and preserve life in Nigeria would put yours at risk. Here, it’s not common sense to serve and protect life at the cost of your operation. I say again, that I hate coming to this place but the instrument of my hustle is in severe pain. Midday witnessed an explosion of needy people. The crowd was astonishing to say the least. People were just everywhere. Stepping on each other, pushing each other, shouting and shoving…attendants were tired and the mobile mass of brown in different shades was held back by an old granite slab. In the sticky heat, there was the overwhelming smell of antiseptic and nothing comprehensible to be heard amid murmurs, ringing intercoms, sneezing, different degrees of coughing and several papers of varied thicknesses, forcefully whipping the air to fight the heat. 12.00-1.00pm had extra heat coming with it. We were roasting, murmuring and hissing. The murmurs in themselves were each very low, but put all together, they formed a loud annoying hum- a force that couldn’t be ignored. I wish we understood the power of unity as a nation…we don’t…not yet and maybe not ever. I wished for a few minutes that the rest of the brown mobile mass would understand …not hear, UNDERSTAND the significance what we were all hearing- If we would all ‘hum’, or ever ‘hummed’ in the first place or would leave selfish gain in the pursuit of the greater good and ‘hum’, this place wouldn’t be like this. On the other hand, who could truly blame the ‘selfish’ Nigerian, when the people who take positions have orphaned and abandoned us all, twisting our already badly caricatured version of the law. If we could all work together as a people, no one would be able to sit in the seat of power that we gave them, for them to turn us into their slaves, while they sit cross legged and pot bellied, fondling and milking the breasts of our ignorance. Our divides is their most useful tool and they are secretly responsible…working hard to fuel it, while the rest of us just keep trying to get by. I was annoyed at the simple concept of the humming principle. That’s what I decided to call it in my head- ‘the humming principle’. Should I now regret that I am educated enough to understand this painful fact? If I were ignorant too, wouldn’t I have that bliss that they say ignorance births? The hum filled my ears, just as much as I tried to ignore it. I got tired of the humming principle running around in my head and tried hard to tune out from it. I succeeded. I entertained myself with the individual murmurs, tuning into the high and low, impatient, tired or quiet tones, along with variations… no not variations- derivation of English. They had to be derivation, they couldn’t be anything else. I chuckled a bit. It was better than being upset. Babies cried and mothers tried to keep their children quiet. Some hopped and jumped, singing those songs that black women made up on the spot and would never remember after that. Those songs just have a way of coming to African mothers. They write their own lullabies…Rock a bye baby is not very popular here. Some mothers pointed at other people telling the wailing child ‘see! See!’ like the child had never seen before that time. Some bribed the babies with their breasts. An attempt to suckle a child, was supposed to be the sure fire way to achieve quietness. Some people were on the phone, telling their woes; others stared at the cracked TV screen that hung in the reception. That familiar wind-pipe music that cannot be anything but Igbo blared through the speakers accompanied by static…a lot of static. The TV was old and Africa Magic was on. I hate Nollywood… No offense to the Nollywood faithfuls, but for me, it’s simple, unintelligent and predictable television. Even the so-called award winning ground breakers can only compete favorably with the lesser privileged in its immediate surroundings. Ok…perhaps that was a bit harsh. Forgive my lack of enthusiasm for the industry, I am entitled to my feelings: it’s just that I hate the fact that we think that it is good for us and we are proud of it. Sitting here in this place that we all hate, I stared at the TV amazed that people are actually entertained by this stuff. What choice did they have, most of them looked like they had been here before the sun woke and would wait till the sun slept. There was probably no power where most of them came from, so this was like being at Silver Bird. What right did I have to judge them? In the already chocked and noisy background, there was a loud drilling sound to be heard. Blue uniformed men dragged cables and ladders around. Renovation-Maintenance is rare in Nigeria. It’s not just part of our culture. A thing had to get really bad or terribly embarrassing before it was attended to. Yes o! This is the land of eyesores. I wondered how bad the section they were working on had got; what kind of an eyesore it had become before they called the men in blue. As I wondered at that fact, a squeaking wheel chair was rolled by and a wide-eyed, open mouthed, gaunt child sat in it. Her swollen tummy wasn’t big enough to hide how thin the rest of her was. Her very obvious ribs seemed to have lost their hold on the situation swelling beneath them. The pungent smell of many days of urine on her unwashed sun dress escorted her closely. Her eyes seemed to bulge and sink at the same time; the rest of her, frozen in the lap of distress. The only sign that she was alive was the heavy heaving and the labored contraction of her sides. Looking at her, breathing was hard for me momentarily. She looked like Nigeria to me…or what is left of it. Watching a losing battle for life in motion before me broke my heart. I knew she was losing…it was easy to tell. I could almost say that the enlarged shadow cast on the ground as the wheel chair moved was the smile of death. I shuddered at the thought and tried to take my mind off it. Coming to most hospitals in Nigeria was more than often like this. Taking my eye off the child I was sure would soon become a blessed memory, I glanced at my watch. It was well past 3:00 pm. I came in at 9.00am. 6 hours…wait. Hearing a pair of high heels hurry past, I looked up. That’s what high heels do, they command attention. I spied a doctor walking or rather half running by. She looked like a doctor. The small earrings, the stereotype thickly framed glasses and the even more stereotype stethoscope (Nollywood’s only prop for a doctor) hanging from her neck, bouncing on her full chest and the confidence on her frowning face was an easy give away. She wore the kind of frown that comes with being tired to a certain level. The kind where you can’t really entertain anything more than sleep! I could identify with it. She had her white coat with huge pockets on and her hand bag on her left arm. As she moved, she pulled off her name tag and slipped it carefully into one of the huge pockets. Stopped for a few seconds to take the coat off, roll it up and stuff it in her other wise flat looking but large hand bag. Yes…she was leaving- done for the day. I felt sorry for whoever was waiting to see her. She looked like she was walking in such a hurry that no one would be able to stop her; like she was running away or sneaking off or something. Invading my mental analysis and questioning an already over-questioned bad situation of things was the sound of my name. It was finally my turn! I would be getting attention soon, well if not soon, at least before the sun went down. I approached the counter to collect my hospital card and file. I was given a bored ‘auto pilot’ delivery of directions from the distracted, tired attendant as to how to find the doctor I needed to see. I tried to ask the attendant to be a little clearer, but the scowl on his face as he wiped sweat off his brow was a fair enough warning not to bother him any further. I stood staring at him, waiting for him to repeat himself, I insisted quietly. Next thing I heard he shouted out loud ‘Tunde Matthews’. Point taken-He had done his bit, he had called my name. I had ‘access’, my brown file, hospital card and problems were in my hands now and I was on my own from that point. As I wondered around the noise drowned out behind me. There was no one to ask along the way so I kept walking and looking out for the signs. The hospital was big, pretty big. Government hospitals were much like the Nigerian government- big for nothing. I kept walking through the winding halls, reading the signs, painted in the national colors. That was one thing this hospital had a lot of- signs!!! Thank God! I thoughtlessly read out each one and took many- a- turn. I remembered the attendant said something about a couple of lefts and a right. I kept going and the lingering antiseptic smell disappeared. Relief…I could breathe a little easier. I kept reading out the signs. ‘Nurse station 1’ ‘Dispensary’… ‘Laboratory’… ‘X-rays’… ‘VIP lounge’…I heard myself say those words and they echoed in my mind ‘VIP lounge???’. I passed the open door from which the cool that can only come from air-conditioning hit me. I couldn’t help my feet. They just stopped walking forward. They dragged me backward and my eyes locked onto the door over which the sign hung. Looking into the door, I saw a hall- A long hall. I read out the sign again, I was begging realization to stay away, but there was no helping it. VIP lounge??? Ha! Down the long hall, there were well dressed nurses, carrying trays and files about. There was soft classical music playing at a low volume, so it just found a way to sneak into your consciousness. All the rest was quiet, with intermittent interruption from ringing intercoms. The air smelled flowery…the air was fresh- Ambi pur, I guess. The people that sat in the halls didn’t look like they were there all day or would be later on. There was a man in a suit, near the door, on the phone saying that he stopped by the hospital to get test results before he would proceed to the air port. ‘Stopped by’???? While other people ‘out there’ waited for hours on end…camped in some cases, with wrappers and mats spread out on the floor. Tired, over worked doctors sneaked out the back door, leaving them sitting there because they have families too and this man could ‘stop by’!?! The doctors were walking through the hall and were visible! They didn’t look like the doctors that were seeing 500 people a day…hardly believing it was an understatement. As I stood marveling at the angry comparisons swimming in my mind, a loud clear voice, in a clean accent unaffected by any language said ‘this is a restricted area’ shot at me. ‘Of course it is’ I thought. At least that presented someone to ask directions from. Directions were received and none of them led me down the well painted hopeful-looking hall way. Apparently, I had missed my way. I took the wrong right turn. I was pointed down a u-shaped hall. I thanked the woman, it was only polite and I walked on. The overwhelming, biting smell of antiseptic stole into my nostrils again after walking a few minutes, I was going back the way that I came. I finally found the doctors office. File and card in hand, I knocked- Once, twice and a third. The sound of bubble gum being cracked was close, but I chose to ignore it. I knocked a fourth time before the source of the cracking bubble gum sound spoke to me. A nurse…or some lady in some uniform asked me who I was looking for between her open-mouthed ghetto style chewing. Of course, I didn’t know, but I thought it best to show her my card and file. I expected a new set of directions but what came out from between her very thick lips was ‘come back tomorrow’. More annoying chewing followed. The ‘ehn?’ that fell out from me was unbecoming, but I couldn’t help it. ‘Tomorrow?’ it was more like a plea than a question. ‘ehn na! Doctor don close since 3. Na till tomorrow by 11 if you wan see her’. There was nothing else to do but go back down the u- shaped hall. I walked back, angry that my day had gone to waist and I was still in as much pain as I was. In fact it may have become worse with the weight of disappointment. As I walked back, my feet seemed to have the weight of logs. I had come to the point in the hall where I could have gone down the turn that would lead me back to the refugee camp in the reception, but I chose differently and went the other way. I had to see that VIP thing again. I got to the door and stood there transfixed literally, looking up at the sign in the national colors. Standing there, it hit me hard, in practical terms, that in Nigeria today, it really is a case of US and THEM. I hissed out loud as I thought to myself again, the very same thought that most of us have- ‘I hate this place’. The only difference now was the new battle that had hatched. I struggled with it, making the patriotic attempt to not think it, but I struggled hard with wondering. I wondered which the hate was directed at- where I was standing, or my country?
Posted on: Sat, 03 Aug 2013 13:46:05 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015