Reload

SOYINKA EKPO ABIOLA ACHEBE
SARO-WIWA RIBADU
free on-line download
A brief muse on revolution + God is Allah + A chat with the Radio Amazon
+ Anything is Possible + Let the Truth be Told + Licensed to Survive
2

2
word-up’
Someone asked us recently if the Reload
is a magazine. No it’s not. It’s the
Reload, plain and simple.
Keeping true to our mission to cover
youth-related issues in as many places
in Naija as possible (yes people, Nigeria
is much more than Lagos, Abuja and
Port Harcourt), we have put together yet
another packed issue.
Contained within these pages is our first
(ever) investigative feature. It’s a thoughtprovoking
piece, and also an exciting
read.
We have our usual mix of unusual
interviews, lifestyle features, personal
essays, entertainment news, and loads
and loads of brilliant photography and
snazzy graphic art.
What’s identity to you? Is it about pride,
heritage, a sense of belonging, or just
wearing a “Naija” t-shirt? We asked
a selection of interesting citizens a few
questions on this subject, and we got some
really cool answers.
Is our generation all talk-talk and tweettweet,
or can we get off Facebook for a few
minutes and take concrete steps to hold our
government responsible for the change we
want? We need to do more and forget less.
The average Nigerian will rave and rant, but
just moments later will he/she will forget
what the noisemaking was all about. No
more, people! #Enoughisenough. There
are people in Jos who will live in fear and
pain for years to come, and as you will read
in our “Heal Jos” series of essays, we can
live together in this country, despite our
differences.
As the politicians gear up to start their
election campaigns, I hope we also gear up
to choose the right leaders. Our vote is one
way that we can stand up and make our
voices heard, and we should, we must, use
it. Come 2011, it’s Cool2Vote!
One final thing: does anyone know where
we can beg, buy or steal a pet octopus?
We hope you enjoy this bumper issue of
Reload, and don’t forget to surf by www.
switchedonnaija.com to view other readers’
comments on all the pieces published in this
maga . . . erm . . . Reload.
Sola Kuti
www.switchedonnaija.com - re’load
engineroom@switchedonnaija.com
Get FREE downloads of our publications
from www.switchedonnaija.com
Getty Images

Contents EDITOR: AI Barrett
CREATIVE DIRECTOR: Sola Kuti
PRODUCTION: Collins Ogundele
ENGINEROOM: Ama Lydia Yankson
DESIGN & LAYOUT: Naija Talk Limited
LOGISTICS: Damilola Ogundele
5 8 Things women should know about men.
6 Who is Maye Hunta?
8 The Best friend.
9 A brief muse on revolution.
10 God is Allah.
18 A chat with the Radio Amazon.
20 Anything is Possible.
21 Let the Truth be Told.
22 My representation of Heaven.
24 The case of the two police officers detained
indefinitely on charges of rape.
26 Catching up with Tosyn Bucknor.
27 Licensed to Survive.
PG.19
A hard-copy of the RELOAD will be needed for verification :)
PG.12
PG.16
PG.22
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engineroom@switchedonnaija.com
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This magazine contains information received from a variety
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and may not necessarily reflect the view of the Company.
The information may also contain personal opinions and
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The views or opinions expressed in this publication or
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re’load - www.switchedonnaija.com
3

4
worth da hype
shoot ‘em down
Wande Coal > For winning 5 awards at the
Hiphop World Awards 2010.
#EnoughisEnough > For taking the message
from the internet onto the streets.
Nuhu Ribadu > For his reinstatement as
AIG of the Nigeria Police.
Wande Coal’s “Water to Wine” music video.
Ruggedman’s phone call recording stunt with
9ice.
Untalented artists using Dagrin’s death to
launch themselves into the limelight with
tribute songs.
The recent and unresolved Jos crisis.
We have “Pizzard”
It came from a friend of a friend who got it from a friend somewhere in
Nigeria. Though we traced the source of this menu, we chose to let them be.
Here’s our latest WTF picture! Read the list of mouth-watering dishes.
www.switchedonnaija.com - re’load
2face Idibia > For his hot new album,
Unstoppable.
Jesse Jagz > For his track ‘Intoxicated’,
featuring Soul E and Wizkid.
HHWA 2010 > For the inclusion of a
tribute to the late rapper, Dagrin.
Those who believed Nigeria would stand a
chance of winning the 2010 FIFA World
Cup on the strength of prayers rather than
preparation.
The Super Eagles for “falling our hand”.
Mo’Cheddah drops her new hit single titled “Ko
Maa Roll”, off her soon-to-be-released debut album
The Franchise Celebrity. The song comes as a sequel
to her recent hit debut ‘If You Want Me’, which is
already enjoying heavy rotation on radio stations
across the nation.
Download the free wallpapers:
http://www.switchedonnaija.com/index.
php?option=com_joomgallery&func=viewcategory
&catid=18&Itemid=579
“Haleeeoou” (it’s the royal wave from the Don
of Mo’Hits). Ehn . . . but the wave shocked even
our camera guy. He’s so LOL the pose made us
go OMG. Not forgetting Oga Kwame in white.
Hello Boss! Send us a caption for this pic guys! Email:
captions@switchedonnaija.com
Skales, whose real name is Raoul John Njeng-Njeng,
is an 18-year-old rapper, song writer and performer.
This emerging talent has wowed audiences around
Nigeria with his unique rap style and his charm on
stage, from the Zain Tru Search talent competition in
2008 to the Soundcity Blast concert in 2009, where
he astonished the crowd with a rap a cappella.
His first single, “Must Shine”, enjoyed good airplay
in early 2009 and made it into the Rhythm FM “Top
7 Jamz at 7” in Lagos. It was also the ‘Hit Song of
the Week’ on Rhythm FM in Jos and Abuja. Skales
has gone on to record and write well over 20 songs
and has collaborated with some of the finest music
acts in Nigeria, such as Eldee Tha Don, Jeremiah
Gyang, Banky W and Knighthouse.
His new singles ‘Heading for A Grammy’ and ‘Be
Mine’ will hit the airwaves in 2010.
Ayodeji Ibrahim Balogun aka Wizkid is a talented singer, songwriter and
performer. He kicked off his singing career at the age of 11 when he recorded
his first song with one of Nigeria’s most celebrated music icons, OJB Jezreel.
2009 would prove to be Wizkid’s break-out year, as his collaboration with MI on
“Fast Money, Fast Cars” on the multi-award-winning Talk About It album drew
major attention to his distinct voice, singing style and songwriting skills.
Wizkid is hard at work on his debut album, which will be released by EME
Records, and he has released his first two singles titled “Holla at your Boy” and
“Gidi Girl”.
+ mo’cheddah wallpapers
+ ese peters
Ese Peters is a Nigerian singer,
songwriter and guitarist. His music has
been described as soft rock, pop and folk.
Ese learned to play the guitar by himself
when he was 12 and wrote his first string
of songs when he was 16.
Check out: http://www.
reverbnation.com/artist/song_
details/2967541#/esepeters

9 “WORST”
WAYS TO
BREAK UP
WITH A GIRL
By @gigachic
Is there really a good way to end a
relationship? The likely answer is HELL
NO! But there are some ways to send a
lover packing that are more horrible than
others and I’ll be sharing with you those
I feel are the absolute worst . . .
1. Status updates: changing your Facebook status from
“in a relationship” to “single” in the hope that she’ll
take the hint. This is a funny but very wicked way to
end a relationship . . . and it’s quite silly also because
you now leave room for the “offended” party to post all
sorts of retorts/insults or teary love songs on your wall .
. . this is so not cool!
2. SMS, email: this is a cowardly way to end a
relationship. If you ever cared for that person you
should find the courage to tell them to their face . . . no
matter how uncomfortable it is.
3. Call a friend: you are too chicken to tell her yourself
so you get a friend to tell her . . . it even sounds wrong!
Wow, it sucks to be you . . . plus, your friend may even
get slapped for his effort at straightening your love-life.
4. Rumours: you tell everyone it’s over, everyone
but her . . . and then she gets to hear the news from
someone else. Don’t underestimate the power of a
woman scorned! Especially if her favourite song is “I
burst the windows out your car . . .”
5. In public: you are at a party when all of a sudden you
can’t take it anymore and need to tell her it’s over . . .
bad idea . . . you should be prepared for a scene. She
could get all weepy and beg or she could hurl insults at
you that would most likely consist of the inadequate
size of your you-know-what and how much you suck in
bed . . .
6. Turn the tables: you start behaving badly . . .
missing dates, etcetera, and all of a sudden you’re
always too busy. You’re on your worst behaviour to
frustrate her into breaking up with you . . . mind games
aren’t cute!
7. Disappearing act: you stop calling, stop visiting
and in some extreme cases, change your number and
move out of your apartment . . . this leaves your partner
wondering if you have been kidnapped or worse still,
you are dead. Isn’t it easier to just say it’s over?
8. I love you and all but I’ve found someone
else: this is guaranteed to get your tyres slashed. End
one relationship before you start another . . . you don’t
want to be remembered as the asshole that cheated on
her . . .
9. It’s not you, it’s me: please, whatever you do, never
use this line—it’s just plain stupid! She knows it’s her,
it’s all about her . . . just state your reasons for the breakup
and leave, quickly!
So I saw @gigachic’s article and
decided to do one for the guys. It
would seem an honourable gesture
considering the fact that she did
school us about the other half. Well
ladies, I saw your comments too . . .
maybe this will help cool you chics
off a bit (sorry I just thought about
wet t-shirt contests!)
1. We get “turned on” easily.
So the occasional hug or knee rub means nothing to you,
but did you notice he’s still sitting down? Most guys have
perfected the art of “de-boning” (my phrase). However if
you also catch him walking sideways with his back towards
you . . . don’t be alarmed, just understand!
2. We calculate when you’re not looking.
So we take you out for dinner and look through the menu
and ask what you would like to have. Don’t be fooled,
we’ve already done the calculation. At times you might also
notice that our hands have been in our pockets for a while
. . . beneath the cloth, our fingers are moving like money
counters, calculating how much we have. Now you know
why some guys put different denominations in separate
pockets!
3. We love to feel the ‘boys’, ‘mini mes’,
‘weapons of destruction’.
Women have for long felt that men scratch or fiddle way
too much down there. Wrong! We are checking to see that
the ‘family’ is still there . . . or don’t you remember there
was a time you could easily lose your ‘precious’ while
walking on Naija streets? Also, some of us have been so
blessed that we have no problem counting in inches, and so
once in a while we have to position things in comfortable
places.
attention to detail
By Unoma Giese
The ripple of muscle
The sheen of dark black skin
The rough of stubble
On square strong chin
The power of your 6foot6
The presence of your aura
The plenty in your bag of tricks
The last gift of Pandora
The fervour of a kiss
Senses blaze aflame
A zoning-in on bliss
A breathless call of name
The clinging to your torso
The sounds of flesh on flesh
Makes every caress moreso
A net to us enmesh
The arch of my back
The tingling scented lubes
A thrust and a smack
The trimmed curly pubes
Nipples and tongues
Fingers exploring
Moans like songs
Entangled limbs adoring
8 things
women should
know about
guys!
By (One Broken Rose) OBR
4. We hate old school nightgowns!
Who wants to come home to a woman covered from neck
to ankle with lace trimmings and little blue and pink roses
scattered like a bad curse over the material. Your man might
not say it, but he knows a sexy nightgown when he sees it. Be
careful if he never complains . . . there could be a Victoria’s
Secret somewhere!
5. If and when we do propose…
Don’t laugh or wait too long before you answer! It’s already
a daunting task to decide to throw away our “little black
books” and grow old with you. A swift (hopefully positive)
response will be appreciated. However, we wouldn’t mind a
tear or two . . . what the hell . . . cry all you want. It would
make the proposal feel all the more effective.
6. We have egos (that sometime need massaging)
I know most women don’t get the “daddy’s cup”, “daddy’s
chair” or “daddy’s meat” thing. But most guys need to
feel like the men of the house. However, some of us have
experienced the revelation that the woman is the stronger sex,
but once in a while we try to exert supreme prowess . . . even
if we will beg you later.
7. We are curious beings!
No explanation needed. I’ll end with a story. I once saw a
little kid hold up a magazine that had a picture of a model
with a miniskirt. He tried without luck to look through the
paper. He then placed his head sideways on the magazine . .
. right on the models legs, pressing his head so his eyes could
touch the paper. It only hit me later . . . the little brat was
trying to look up her skirt!
8. We send signals to the competition
Did he just help you fix your hair, straighten your collar or
hold your waist? Most times women see this as a show of
affection. Wrong! He’s signalling the competition to KEEP
OFF. Yes, somewhere in the crowd, another guy is looking
at you and he has just made the guy know he is the King of
your castle. But there’s another side to this behaviour: if he’s
not doing it, it could be because he wants the females out
there to think he is available.
Sweat in skin’s creases
The sheer funk of pleasure
The gasp of releases
Abandon beyond measure
The manliness of the man
Your rhythm, your breath
The canliness of oh yes you can
Inertia in the aftermath.
re’load - www.switchedonnaija.com
5

6
who is
maye
hunta?
By Damola “Wild eye” Ogundele
I had been tracking Maye Hunta for
some weeks, until he finally gave up
running and invited me over to his
house for the interview. On arriving
at his place, I found, as I had
expected, this good-looking, well-built
dude—very much the image of the
music star—but his warm, cool and
calm attitude was a real surprise. I
enjoyed talking with him, and I hope
you enjoy the interview too.
www.switchedonnaija.com - re’load
Damola: Who is Maye Hunta?
Maye: Maye Hunta is a Nigerian singer, songwriter, actor—
in short, I am an entertainer. My real name is Olumayowa
Adekunle Odejimi and I’m from Ogun State. I represent the
rock city, Abeokuta. Egba for sure!
Damola: You just classified yourself as an actor. Any major
movie?
Maye: My first professional acting experience was on
“Jacob’s Cross”. It’s a series that shows on MNET. I acted in
it as a bodyguard.
Damola: You have the looks . . .
Maye: Yeah, I know what you mean . . . [He flexes his
muscles].
Damola: I remember one of your early videos. You wore
baggy jeans shorts and a yellow basketball jersey in it . . .
From then till now, how would you rate your penetration of
the Nigerian music scene?
Maye: Well . . . I must give all the kudos to God first of all
and obviously to “Ekaette”—that song has been good to
me. I have been doing music for a while now. I left Nigeria
in 2002 for South Africa to study and also purse my music
career, and that video you were talking about was the first
single off my first album, which was called “Introduction”.
That song was called “Gbedu”, featuring DJ Waxxy.
From that album I released 3 major singles, shot 3 videos.
There was “Gbedu IV” featuring Buffalo Solider, and also
[another single titled] “Igho”. Then there was the video of
the song that was nominated for the Channel O Awards in
2007, in 3 categories, which were the Best Reggae Dancehall
category, Best African video category and the Video of the
Year category . . . We didn’t win, but that was a good start
for us. So I have been doing music for a while now. I started
writing songs in 1998, left Nigeria for South Africa in 2002,
and dropped my first album in 2005. The album was not
released in Nigeria ‘cos I had issues . . .
Damola: What issues?
Maye: I had issues with my partners. There were also some
unforeseen circumstances—I was basically trying to come
back to Nigeria and then . . . I just saw what everybody was
doing and I decided to put my old album aside and work on
a new one.
Damola: Was that what inspired you to launch yourself on
a controversial note?
Maye: Well . . . not necessarily. The thing was, like I said,
we had the album ready, I came back home, had issues
with my partners, I tried to work it out but results were not
forthcoming, so I decided to “rebrand” basically, you know,
changed my looks and all that. I wasn’t such in a hurry to
come out—for me it was about coming out with my own
style. So I decided to go back to the drawing board and
see how I could do something different and unique. Now,
“Ekaette”, the way it came about, I think was somehow
spiritual . . .
Damola: First of all, who is Ekaette?
Maye: Ekaette na fine babe mehn! It’s a character in a song,
you know what I mean, just in case you want to ask me of
whether it’s a true story or not . . .
Damola: So, how is Ekaette doing?
Maye: Ekaette dey alright mehn! She dey house. Madam no
gree make she dey commot anyhow these days . . . So yeah,
she’s a character in a song—a fictitious character that I
came up with. But at the same time, it’s a true story, because
it’s a story that happens in our society a lot. And I just
figured that, why can’t we tell a story of things that people
can relate to? And at the same time, pass out a message.
Now, the reason why we had the whole “Ekaette” thing
going was not to say that it’s okay to sleep with your house
help—it’s a wakeup call in a society where most couples
are always busy. There’s the hardworking, career-driven
wife and the busy husband, and in the process of chasing a
career, she leaves her home and allows a third party inside
the home, and there the problem starts. So basically, there’s
a moral in the story.
Damola: Do you have a house girl?
Maye: Ah ah now—everybody got a house girl!
Damola: I don’t mean everybody. I mean you.
Maye: No, I don’t have a house girl—I have a house boy . . .
Damola: How successfully have you managed the Ekaette
issues around you?
Maye: Somehow, it’s a very controversial topic—for starters
with the video and everything. I think it’s been successful,
‘cos it’s given me the kind of break into the Nigerian market
that I’ve never had before. So yeah, it’s successful. I thank
God and my fans . . .
Damola: And it’s a reflection of a true story, isn’t it?
Maye: Yeah, it’s a reflection of a true story, so a lot of
people can identify with the whole story . . .
Damola: Nothing personal?

Maye: No, nothing personal at all . . .
Damola: Someone around you?
Maye: Yeah, I mean, you could say that, you know.
Firsthand information . . . shit happens, you know . . .
Damola: So—is Ekaette really that fine?
Maye: Mehn . . . Ekaette fine o! She sexy—from what I even
hear . . . I hear say “Ekaette” don turn slang for street. So
there is the madam of the house and the Ekaette too. It’s
like having a serious relationship and having something on
the side too. But at the same time, I would like to use this
medium to say that the choice of the name “Ekaette” is not
meant to be derogatory in any way, ‘cos there’s this issue of
people saying its stereotypical, saying that the house girl is
Ekaette. Yeah, we’ve had some criticism on that issue. But
like I keep saying to everybody, it could have been “Risikat”
or “Amina”. It’s just that Ekaette was a good cook in the
story, that’s why the madam brought her to the house,
because she did not have the time to cook for her husband .
. .
Damola: And she cooks well, abi?
Maye: Mehn! The edikainkan is bad ehn—if you taste it, you
won’t want to leave the house o!
Damola: What’s the relationship between madam and
Ekaette after the whole “belle” issue?
Maye: No be small thing o. Well, “Ekaette” has a sequel—it
says “to be continued” in the video.
Damola: So is Ekaette bringing her younger sister from the
village—or she opts for an abortion or what?
Maye: Haba bros, calm down now . . . you no want make
I hammer ni? You just have to wait—there is a Part 2 and
possibly Part 3.
Damola: Now, there is the audio and video restriction on the
song by the NBC’s censors’ board. How are you coping with
the ban?
Maye: You know, it’s just unfortunate, the whole NBC
issue has kind of slowed down its airplay in Nigeria, as they
basically banned both the video and audio, so the song is no
longer on TV and radio, but it does not mean it’s not playing
on cable. So yeah, we have tried to look into the issue, I
have been to the NBC office to see what can be done about
the whole issue, because what they said they want was the
radio edit of the song. Now, if you listen closely to the song,
there are no swear words, so I don’t understand what they
want us to do. But my management went back and said, you
know what, let’s take it a step further, so we went and did a
broadcast version of it and still they won’t allow it to go on
air.
Damola: Despite the ban, do you think that you’ve made
your breakthrough as an artiste?
Maye: Well . . . I’m not halfway to where I want to be. You
are never there, ‘cos if you think you are then you obviously
you won’t grow. But I think it’s a good start—I have been
able to get my style of music and my face into the homes of
people and now I have more fans in Nigeria than I have ever
had before, and it helps me build some anticipation around
the album. “Mayefestation”, that’s the name of the album.
The album drops in a short while, and there’s excitement in
the air and even though “Ekaette” is not playing, people are
still craving for it. So as an artiste, that’s what you want—but
there’s still more goodies to come.
Damola: What’s your relationship with other artistes?
Maye: We are cool, ‘cos I have been around for some time
now—I’ve been able to develop a relationship with many of
them. They would come to South Africa and I would come
home—and we interact well. Forgetting the kind of music
you do, it’s all about the creativity . . .
Damola: Anything to say about the forthcoming album?
Maye: The album is called “Mayefestation”. The title means
the manifestation of Maye—I don show. It’s a 14-track
album. The first single off the album is titled “Ekaette”, and
we have other songs like “Street University” featuring Sound
Sultan, “Owo Faaji”, and “Paparaazi” featuring Vector.
So Ekaeatte will not be the only the successful song on the
album. For the critics out there, grab yourself a copy of the
album and then decide . . .
Damola: On your first album you were known as Maye, but
now you are Maye Hunta. What’s with the change of name?
Maye: Maye is just a nickname coined out of Mayowa—I
got the name when I was in the university, that’s Ogun State
University—I be OSU boy. My friends used to call me Maye
and so I stuck with that. But as time went by, I rebranded
and felt a need to have a stage surname. My surname is
Odejimi, which means the crowned hunter. So that’s where
the Hunta comes from.
Damola: We can say your music career is taking off. Are
there any other plans the fans should know of?
Maye: Like I said before, Maye is not only about music—
I’m a whole entertainment brand. But you know you need
a platform for starting—I’m also interested in the business
side of music—I’m a business man and also a hustler. So I
will get into other things, but I’m not going to have so many
things on my table, such that I won’t be able to concentrate.
I just want to break in and so far, so good. I represent my
own label called Made Entertainment and I’m the first
artiste on my label—na me sign myself!
re’load - www.switchedonnaija.com
7

8
THE BEST FRIEND By Chris Ugo-Jones
The two women embraced with the joy of
a friendship regained.
One was clothed in an ankara blouse and
skirt. At the age of thirty-one, her face was
beginning to show signs of age, brought
about by pockets of fat, which hinted at
a decline in her sense of style. A head
tie and a wedding ring completed her
dressing and announced her as a married
woman.
The second woman wore a purple
trouser suit and black high-heel shoes.
The makeup on her face attempted to
reduce her age by a significant number
of years—it succeeded. Her weave-on
was so expertly done that it was difficult
even for other ladies to discern if it was
her real hair or not. Her age of thirty-two
was contained in a slim frame of five feet
and six inches, which was just right for a
Nigerian woman.
I watched the two hug and jump and
scream all at once and I smiled. Lara
and I were on an errand for the Head of
Operations to buy packs of food from the
nearest eatery. We had just turned onto
Lalubu Road, when she shouted at the
driver:
“Stop, stop, stop!”
“What is it?” I said, alarmed.
“See, oh my God. See, stop, don’t pass!
Please, oh my God, stop!”
The urgency in her voice caused the driver
to turn sharply to the right. As he did so,
a horn blared loudly behind us. I looked
back and I saw an eighteen-wheeler truck
hurtling towards our car. Our driver
looked in his side mirror and realized his
mistake on time. As he swerved to avoid
a crash, the truck missed us by inches and
clipped off the side mirror. Lara and I
screamed in terror and hugged ourselves
without thinking while the driver struggled
to control the car, steering it this way and
that before finally bringing it to rest by the
side of the road.
Both of us were still screaming sixty
seconds after the car had stopped. Lara
stopped screaming first—the driver had
to slap me hard for me to regain control.
Tears ran down my eyes and mucus down
my nose in the aftermath of the distressing
incident. Lara had to cradle me in her
arms before I calmed down; and I was not
ashamed.
But before I had time to fully appreciate
this embrace, Lara flung open the car door
and ran out, shouting a name. A woman
turned, with a questioning look, looked
a little harder, opened her eyes wide and
screamed: “Lara!”
“Oyin!” Lara screamed back.
And they both jumped into each other’s
arms . . . which is where this story began.
They talked for twenty minutes straight
and finally exchanged phone numbers.
Then Lara came back into the car,
beaming.
“That was my best friend in secondary
school. Oh my God.”
“Aw, that’s nice. You guys lost touch?” I
asked.
“Yes. And we were so tight. We did
everything together.”
Girls. They like doing everything together
with their best friends. And when they
marry, they expect to do everything with
their husbands which, most of the time,
never works.
We bought the food and headed back to
the office. Two minutes out, Lara’s phone
chirped to the music of P-Square’s ‘No
One Like You’. She answered it.
“Hi dear . . . I’m good. You? Ah-ah, you
are too sweet sometimes . . . tonight? Most
definitely darling . . . I’m on my way to
the office and I’ll see you . . . Bye.” She
blew a kiss into the mouthpiece and cut
the connection.
As a confirmed amebo, curiosity was
eating me up inside and I wanted—no,
needed—to know who called.
“So,” I said, not able to contain my
curiosity any longer, “Who’s the guy?”
“Which guy?” She couldn’t hold her smile
in.
“The guy you were talking with on the
phone. Lara, you may not know this, but
I’m actually as intelligent as I look.”
“I agree, given that you look like a
monkey.” I was about to take offence at
her statement when she added with a
laugh, “Just joking. You are a fine boy.”
Phew. That was close. Heads would
have rolled if she hadn’t retracted the
statement. And yes, I’m pretty vain. Pun
intended.
“Promise me you won’t tell anybody,” she
said as she gazed into my eyes.
“I promise,” I said, not wanting to but
having no other choice.
“CJ, make sure you don’t tell or else, I’ll
be very cross with you. I know you like
gist.”
“I won’t breathe a word.”
“Okay. You know the new guy in
Corporate Banking that was just
transferred from the Head Office?”
“Yeah. Hamza Bukar. That fine guy. Wait
. . . you’re going out with him?”
“Um, yes.”
“Hm. Fast babe. But isn’t he married?”
“No.”
www.switchedonnaija.com - re’load
“He looks married.”
“Really. How do married men look?”
“I don’t know. More mature I guess.”
“He told me he isn’t and that’s good
enough for me.”
“Okay. Just be careful,” I said with a
niggling feeling I could not shake off. I
could sense trouble was coming but I did
not know in what way it would appear.
Back at the office, I decided to watch out
for confirmation of the office romance.
And it did not take long in coming.
Lara was a customer service officer
and, later that day, as she attended to a
customer Hamza strolled to her seat. She
did not see him until he put his hand on
her back, pretending to ask a question.
I tapped Dare, who was beside me, and
pointed as Hamza gently caressed her
back. The gesture seemed innocuous
to the uninformed but then, I was not
uninformed; neither was I a slacker.
“Why are you pointing at Lara?” Dare
asked.
“Nothing,” I replied.
He kept looking at me to understand what
was happening. But I had promised to
say nothing and if he could not decode
the situation, then my lips were sealed.
He gave up trying to understand and
continued what he was doing.
Two days later, Oyin, Lara’s friend,
walked into the bank. After the initial
hugs and greetings, she sat down and they
entered into a conversation. I knew this
was something I needed to hear to feed
the vast chasm of curiosity that ailed me. I
walked casually to her desk and pretended
to fill a cup with water from the dispenser.
The conversation, though in hushed tones,
was loud enough for me to eavesdrop on.
“…have a boyfriend now,” Lara said.
“Hm. That’s cool. What’s his name?”
Oyin asked.
“I won’t tell you just yet. It’s better I show
you. Before you leave, I’ll take you to see
him.”
“Please tell me his name, now.”
“Wait small ah. We’ll go there soon. Let
me finish up what I’m doing here.”
“Hope he’s a fine guy oh. Anyhow, I trust
you. You never went out with rubbish
guys.”
“Abi. But I was so picky that till now, I
am not married. I hope this guy is the one.
And to answer your question, turn around
and see for yourself.”
Good timing. The water had just filled
the cup when Hamza came to see Lara
for one of their intimate moments. As he
walked towards the customer service desk,
he stopped and the smile on his face froze.
I wondered what was happening and I
turned to see Oyin staring open-mouthed
at Hamza. Lara, oblivious to the tension
in the room, ran and hugged him.
Uh oh. So this was the trouble I felt
coming.
It took a while for Lara to realize
something was wrong. Hamza stood rigid
on the spot and all the customers stared.
“Hamza, what is wrong?” she asked. Then
she turned to Oyin, whose face had the
ferocity of a wounded lion.
“Do . . . do you know him?” she asked
Oyin.
“He is my husband,” her newly regained
friend replied in a flat tone.
Someone whistled. I think it was me but
I did not have the time ponder on this.
There was too much drama in the room.
Lara turned to Hamza. “Is . . . this . .
. true? Hamza, is this true?” She was
crying. “Say it isn’t so. Please tell me Oyin
is lying. Oh God.” And she fainted.
There was commotion in the hall as
people rushed over to revive her. When
she finally came to, she saw Oyin and
Hamza standing over her, concern etched
on their faces.
“Oyin, why are you crying? You should be
angry with me,” Lara whispered, sitting
up.
Oyin wiped her face. “Lara, there is
something Hamza and I have to tell you.”
Huh? The drama was not over?
“Hamza and I are not married,” Oyin
said.
What? There was nothing else that
she could say that would be any more
“Lara stopped
screaming first—the
driver had to slap
me hard for me
to regain control.
Tears ran down
my eyes and mucus
down my nose in
the aftermath of the
distressing incident.
Lara had to cradle
me in her arms
before I calmed
down; and I was not
ashamed.”
confusing. What was happening? I was
itching to hear the end of this mystery.
“Hamza and I are old friends. He came to
my house when I moved to Abeokuta and
told me he was going out with you. We
decided to be naughty and pull your legs
a bit to make you loosen up about your
relationship. Unfortunately, it went worse
than we expected. I’m sorry.”
“Baby,” Hamza begged as he knelt,
“please forgive us.”
Lara was in shock for a while before she
could speak. When she finally did, she
said with great effort:
“Hamza, you embarrassed me in front of
staff and customers. You made me think I
had made myself a whore . . .”
“Baby I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I love
you,” he pleaded.
“. . . You connived with my best friend
to ruin my reputation. That, as far as I’m
concerned, is cheating.”
“My darling, please don’t talk like this. It
was only a joke.”
“A very expensive one. Hamza, this is the
end. Me and you are through.”
Hamza looked like he wanted to burst into
tears. Oyin rested her chin on her chest
and shook her head. Even with my love
for office drama, this was a bit too much
for me. A tear ran down my cheek. But
Lara was not finished.
“Me and you are through,” she repeated—
“through with all the secrecy!” And
she began to laugh. Everyone burst into
laughter as the prankster got a dose of his
own medicine. “I love you, Hamza.”
“I love you too, Lara.” They hugged
tightly. This is not an American movie so,
no kisses here. Only hugs.
It was a happy ending to what seemed like
a Mexican soap opera—full of romance,
beautiful people and intrigue. I love happy
endings.
And all’s well that ends well.
Rock on!
Chris Ugo-Jones is the pseudonym of a banker who is also,
in his spare time, a writer with a flair for the comic.

A BRIEF MUSE ON
REVOLUTION:
ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!
By Q’dance
These days I have learnt to keep my mouth
shut and ignore comments about the state
of the Nigerian polity. I think we talk too
much of our desired world—and too much
talk hinders the possibility of action. When
we scream “Enough is Enough!” and rush
to update our Facebook and Twitter status,
what do we hope to achieve? I’m no man
of experience in all these, but I am aware
of a certain kind of disposition that comes
with these virtual beer-parlour chatters.
The human and social sciences have
accustomed us to see the figure of
man behind every social event, just as
Christianity taught us to see the eye of the
Lord looking down upon us. Such forms of
knowledge project an image of reality, at
the expense of reality itself.
In Nigeria, we are so bound by talking
that the reality of power overwhelms us,
turning us into docile and obedient citizens.
When we settle for the politics of desire,
which drives our wishes and actions into a
revolution (the kind that is directed against
all that is egoistic—and heroic—in man),
we are prompted by an instinct of selfaffirmation
and self-preservation that cares
little about affirming or preserving a real
cause.
In brief, see how culture works.
There is something we call Official
Culture—that of religion, academia and
the state—which provide definitions
of patriotism, loyalty, belonging and
boundaries. It speaks in the name of the
whole, in opposition to that, we have the
counter-culture, that of the unorthodox,
heterodox and other alternative strengths
that contains many anti-authoritarian
themes that are in competition with the
official culture. This “counter-culture”
is in essence an ensemble of practices
associated with various kinds of outsiders:
the poor, the immigrants, the activists, the
workers, the rebels and the artists (as a rule
it excludes celebrities—at least the attitude
they represent).
Vocal Slender
The first episode uncovers life in the Olusosun
rubbish dump. The film follows the daily lives
of two men who have become skilled at turning
rubbish into gold. Eric, aka Vocal Slender, is a
musician, and every piece of scrap material he
finds brings him one step closer to his dream of
launching his music career. But a serious fight
nearly ruins his chances . . .
http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00s3bmx
Let the real artistes please stand up.
Real artistes are those whose minds are
like every other mind, who have one head
and two feet and so are not superhuman.
The major difference is that they possess
a superlative mental power of sensation,
perception, memory and imagination,
which makes them seem more susceptible
to the world that surrounds them and makes
them deal less in artificial aesthetic values.
They are like visionaries that lead the way to
the unknown; they are not manipulators of
the present, doing all they can to stop time,
either for enjoyment of power, fame and
self-aggrandisement.
This is why pop culture cannot lead
anywhere in nation building; it can do no
more than come and go like the arrogance
of a single stick of cigarette. Thus, I find
it rather disturbing how we christen every
riffraff as an artiste these days—you can’t
just buy or lobby for that title.
One thing I realise as a basic contrast
between dictatorship and democracy?
Dictatorship = SHUT YOUR MOUTH
(that’s why opposition is stronger during a
dictatorship).
Democracy = JUST KEEP TALKING
(that’s all the opposition’s got).
At the end of the day it’s all same and alike,
especially with pop culture, capitalism and
globalisation working side by side with
democracy. We shall talk, sing and rally
for a very long time, and some shall acquire
more fame in the process. At some radical
moments, I am tempted to believe that our
problem is democracy.
So:
• Let’s endeavour free political action from
all unitary and totalitarian paranoia and
take a journey through loss of ego;
• Develop action, thought and desire by
proliferation, juxtaposition, and disjunction,
and not by subdivision and pyramidal
“hierarchization” (for example, I need no
Audu’s picture to see how important a cause
is);
• Do not think one has to be miserable or
2face Idibia
Nigeria is a blessed country, truly we are. We are
bestowed with resources that make us the envy of
many. There’s crude oil in the creeks, gold in Oyo,
tin in Jos, coal in Enugu, and then to crown it all,
there’s Innocent Idibia in Benue.
http://www.thenetng.com/2010/06/01/exporting-
2face-idibia/
has to be known in order to be militant,
even though the thing one is fighting is
abominable. It is the connection of desire
to reality—and not its retreat into the
forms of representation—that possesses
revolutionary force. So, let’s ask ourselves:
does the general psyche call for a real
life revolution, away from Twitter and
Facebook and Sahara Reporters?
• Do not use thought to ground a political
practice; nor political action to discredit—
as mere speculation—a line of thought.
Use political practice as an intensifier of
thought, and analysis as a multiplier of the
forms and domains for the intervention of
political actions.
And let me say this:
When we approach the task of nationbuilding
through logos and slogans, it
makes absolutely no sense—don’t get me
wrong, we can tear ourselves apart, or
reunite with a slogan: “Ghana must go”,
“make Nigeria one”, “come with us or go
to hell”, “Boko haram”, etc. This has little
or nothing to do with nation-building.
The cultural and other values which we
live by are the values that led us “here”
in the first place—these distorting mists
of national (youth) euphoria and moral
negligence and ideological barrenness
which led us to this point are still seen as
continuing in the identity of the nation.
Since that identity has not changed, has
undergone no revolutionary purge either in
its guts or at the head—this revolution has
no date and no place in time and space—
the real revolution must therefore be made
of fragments, and not as a whole body (of
TV peoples). It must shatter the foundations
of thoughts and attitudes, and recreate. Our
collective break/down must result to our
collective break/through.
Only in this way does every individual
share in the holy mess and understand the
real purpose of the sacrifice.
And then we can all scream “Enough is
Enough!”
But how soon will this be?
I wish us all the best.
Nollywood’s Finest
A contemporary, Nigerian take on the classic story
of Cinderella, an ordinary girl who rises to win
the heart of—and also marry—the Prince through
the intervention of a Fairy Godmother despite
the obstacles life throws her way in the shape of
a hostile Stepmother, envious Half-Sisters and a
family rocking from financial vulnerability.
http://www.nollywoodsfinest.com/info.html
CONTD. PG12
Who are you?
Michaela Moye.
What do you do?
I’m a writer. I studied law at University of
Abuja but I have worked as a journalist
since 2005 and I also write short stories (as
yet unpublished). I recently began working
in PR after setting up Moye Media. I make
and sell jewelry under my business name,
IYANNU.
How would you define identity?
I believe that identity is not so much a
destination, as the journey to discovering
who we are. Identity is not solely about
who we are and where we are from; the
discovery process is just as important
because that identity changes every day.
Today, I might be a writer from Nigeria.
Tomorrow, I might embrace all my other
roots—the different cultures, religions and
tribes. We are. I am. That is identity.
What is the first question, in your
opinion, a foreigner would ask about
Nigeria?
Can we drink the water? (My answer would
be “Yes!”)
Are you comfortable writing about non-
Nigerian characters?
Yes.
How many states in Nigeria have you
visited?
18.
If you were President of Nigeria for a
day, what would you do?
Sort out the electricity. Power runs industry.
Name 3 Nigerians that inspire you?
Jesse Jagz, Audu Maikori and Wole
Soyinka.
9
“Shame” 2 Nigerians that make you want
to migrate?
I don’t think I could ever be so ashamed of
being Nigerian that I would have to migrate.
Describe, in one word, how Nigeria will
be in the year 2060?
United.
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10
God Is
Allah
By Gimba Kakanda
Childhood revolves around innocence and a strange
perception of the essence of existence. Childhood
could also be a period of guilt, especially if the morality
conveyed by religion isn’t inculcated.
I grew up with the peaceful constitution of Islam, which to
this day remains the cardinals of my existence. I lived Islam,
spoke Islam, slept Islam, and woke Islam. All around me—
in the northern city of Minna with its sizable population of
Christians—was Islam.
Islam teaches the submission to the commands of the
Supreme Being—Allah—carried in the Koran and Hadith.
My parents broke my childish resistance to the acceptance
of moral virtues, to the attendance of Koranic schools, to
deference of my elders, to the perpetuation of good deeds—
all so I would have a shade in paradise when I depart this
world. And the thought of purgatory alone, preached
by our mullahs, turned us, the children, into passionate
adherents of godly acts.
In that time of childhood, we saw the followers of other
faiths as infidels or unwise believers in God; a look that
they, too, cast on us. As a child, I would flaunt my religion
with a saint’s innate pride, narrating the exemplary life
of Prophet Muhammad to my Christian friends. In such
moments we debated the supremacy of our Prophets,
estimating their influences on humanity with childish
vehemence, often exaggerating our respective stories to gain
the upper hand.
Our fervent adherence to religion waned as we grew older,
perhaps diluted by the secularism of the modern world.
Many of my friends—Muslims and Christians—who had
lost the “fright of hereafter” or had loosened the strings
of parental supervision, grew weak in the practise of
their religion. A number of them stepped into the fort of
agnosticism, many driven to this by the charlatan displays
of some of those on the frontlines of our religions.
In truth, the reasons to question the faith of our childhood
were many: our rising awareness of the history of the
Negro race, with its trials and tribulations; the discovery
that our religions were forced on our forebears by “white”
colonialists; the realisation that there were doses of white
supremacy fallacies in the construction of these religions,
and so on. A number of my friends, in recognition of their
raped heritage, opened their arms and hearts to traditional
African religion.
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But my years of whingeing over the rape of black Africa
by the non-African preachers of God, Allah, Jesus,
Muhammad, etc., had failed to throw me into the lake of
atheism. My dread: if I rebelled against my faith, what
then would guide my life? I am human, fragile—without
the shield of my submission to the will of Allah, I could
be easily tempted into immoralities. I am human, and
could be thrown onto a path of spiritual destruction if I
chose to be the “god” of my life. The thought of Allah, I
realised, tethered me to morality.
It is true that international politics has interfered with the
purity of religion. The shameful hues of tyranny, rivalry,
racism, nationalism, and even egotism have turned the
universality of religion into an expired pill—this divine
pill that ought to cure the lunacy that despoils the happy
constitution of the world. Politics has blinded us, has
caused us to repel the Koran as an Arabic doctrine,
the Bible because it was authored by many, the Torah
as an outdated text of the Jews, the Bahgavad Ghita
as inconsequential scribbling. Political, cultural and
racial mischief asked us to see Islam as lore of the
Arabs, Christianity as the stolen tradition of the Jews, or
Hinduism as a practice of primitive Indians—and so also
the rain of repulsion demolishes other faiths across the
world.
Now, as an adult, I’ve long broken that deceit that paints
other religions as inauthentic lore, or promotes Islam in
superlatives charged by the politics of racial or provincial
superiority. But many out there—brainwashed and misled,
uneducated and poor—have embraced fanaticism in
the name of religion. Islam could be a religion of war.
Christianity, too, could be a religion of war. This we know
all too well in Nigeria. These religions could be martial
when marshalled by fanatics that know no colour of
fundamentalism. The best path to co-existence is never to
‘beckon’ the war in peace.
Maturity awakened me to the knowledge that I am a
Muslim because of my parents, and that my friend Joe is
a Christian because of his parents. I accept that my friend
and I could have been born into different faiths. This
‘blasphemous’ realisation has prodded me to search for
a connecting strand between our humanities. It has led
me, ultimately, to define our many religions as ‘tributaries
of oneness”. Oneness, yes; because the God of the Ibo
is the same as the Allah of the Fulani. In spite of all our
differences, God is Allah.
Journey to
believing
by lulu oyigah
was born and raised a Roman Catholic. I wouldn’t
I use the word ‘staunch’ or even ‘devout’ to describe my
family or my Roman Catholic experience, but my parents,
especially my mother, would instil The Fear of God in
you with a whip if need be. My earliest memories of
church were sitting next to my father in the pews of Saint
Dominic’s Catholic Church, Yaba as the congregation
sang the Build for the Lord song (a song which I can still sing
perfectly today), and after church was over, waiting for him
to buy us banana-flavoured Walls Ice Cream on a wooden
stick. Some weekdays after school, we went straight to
church—our nanny, my elder brother and I—so my brother
could attend his First Holy Communion Catechism classes.
As we waited for my brother, my fondest memories were
of wandering through the ancient architecture of the quiet
church compound, talking to the statues of dead Saints,
chasing after lizards and pigeons. I remember sitting on
the moss-laden concrete blocks, creating fantasy words and
worlds. With the sand as a board and a twig as my chalk
I taught an imaginary class lessons on Vocabulary and
Addition and Subtraction.
My early years were more an experience of the church
than they were of God, of the church as a building than
as a people. It was not absolute but it was enough. During
those formative years the church was a symbol of peace
and goodness, Sunday was a quiet, holy day (even when
we didn’t go to church), and God was Our Father up there
who watched over us, who we were not to offend by doing
anything bad. Bad Things were things like lying, stealing,
fighting at school, and being disobedient.
By the time I got to secondary school you were either
Roman Catholic or Anglican. If you were Other, you
belonged to the Anglicans. I was neither Anglican nor
Roman Catholic enough. I didn’t fit in anywhere and it
hurt at first. I cried once in my JSS 1 during an October
Devotion, as the voices of the students rose in call and
response and I could only contribute a few words to the
resounding chorus. Never having recited the Rosary
and the Litanies much as a child, I found them initially
interesting but later mechanical and impassive. There had
to be something more to being a Christian than this bipolar
denominational take. I saw more of what I wanted in the

Anglicans (and Others), so at the end of my secondary
school years I attended a Youth Camp with them. After
the camp it was just the right thing to do: I became ‘Born
Again’.
It was then I felt, okay, right now I really belong to God’s
family. But it was far from perfect. The greatest challenge
of Christianity is its diversity in doctrine, scriptural
interpretation and teaching. But the Word of God remains
the one thing that binds us all together, forever. I wasn’t
Roman Catholic anymore, neither was I Anglican, I
admired Pentecostalism, I attended Deeper Life and
Redeemed Christian Church for two semesters each
and Christ Embassy for one semester while I was in the
university, I’d been to a Jehovah’s Witness conference for
two days, I’d been fascinated by the Rosicrucians and the
Mormons (who have church premises so neat you could eat
off their grounds). Religion-wise, I have been there, done
that.
My journey was not that of a confused soul, it was one
of a seeking heart. Everything I have experienced, every
spiritual journey I have made, has helped to further cement
my belief in the God I call my own and in the standards
He has called me to live by and uphold. My heart was wide
open because I wanted Christianity to mean much more
to me than the ritual of church attendance and fellowship;
I wanted to really know God. I’m alarmed at this new
theory of Christianity not being a religion but a way of life.
Christianity is a religion and a way of life. It is a religion
because we believe in it; it is a way of life because we live it.
Everything in life points to the existence of a Higher Power,
an Intelligent Creator who made all things with such
precision and astounding detail. Max Lucado said that, “If
a person had nothing but nature then nature is enough to
reveal something about God.” I ask myself: What would
it cost me not to believe? Or to believe? God’s Word, The
Holy Bible, with its origin shrouded in scepticism by some,
is still the best of all bestsellers. I like to say that even if
it was forged or cooked up, it was a dish so wonderfully
prepared, so excellently fabricated, contrived for the benefit
of mankind. But we all know good things like the Bible
don’t happen by accident. For example, no other definition
of love I know can surpass that expressed in the Bible in the
first book of Corinthians, Chapter 13. If a person should say
I don’t believe in God but lived by the principles in the Bible
then they would have lived a good life indeed. The teachings
of Christ embody peace, love, unity and purity; I don’t know
how I cannot follow this Man who gave His life for me. I
don’t know how I cannot believe.
Christianity seems abstract because it’s odd, really, to say
that you believe in a God you cannot see. I draw most
of my inspiration and strength from intangible things:
meditation, belief in a cause, relying on my subconscious.
The essence of life, then, in itself is supernatural. The
seeming abstractness of Christianity is a beautiful paradox.
The Bible says that “it is impossible to please God without
faith. Anyone who wants to come to Him must believe that
there is a God and that He rewards those who sincerely
seek Him.” The same Bible says that if someone says ‘I love
God’ but hates a Christian brother or sister that person is
a liar. For if we don’t love people we can see, how can we
love God whom we have not seen? The true measure of
spirituality then is not only in how much we love God but
in how much we love our fellow men. An honest devotion
to God translates into love, acceptance and tolerance of our
fellow human beings.
Living out my faith involves sticking to godly principles
but also being willing to understand the convictions and
the lifestyles of those around me. This used to be quite
difficult, learning to assert my beliefs and still give room for
differences of opinion.
My friend, Jide, lives in the same estate as I do. We had met
during my National Youth Service Corps year and became
friends when we found ourselves living in the same area.
One evening we met on the streets where I was returning
from seeing someone off and he had gone to buy fruits. To
break his daily Ramadan fast, he said. That was the day I
discovered he was a Muslim, our discussions had always
been centred on experiences during our service year and on
computers—he was doing a Cisco certification programme.
My facial expression revealed my shock. He asked why I
was so surprised. I said nothing. He prodded. I told him
that he didn’t look or act Muslim, he seemed so . . .
“Gentle?” he said.
I looked away. All Muslim men should have a long beard,
wear caps on flowing caftans, speak Hausa or Arabic, and
be violent; having encountered so few in my lifetime that
was the image I unconsciously carried with me; so Jide
couldn’t have been a Muslim.
Later on we began to talk about Islam and the Bible. I
wanted to know what the Quran said about Jesus. He told
me that Mohammed was the last of all prophets. I told
him that Isaac was the child of promise, not Ishmael. He
told me there was only one true God, Allah. We talked
about Boko Haram, the Jos crisis and Sharia Law, how
religion was now being used as a tool for violence. He told
me about Yusuf and his twelve brothers; I told him that it
was the same story of Joseph in the Bible. We had more in
common than I had thought. In the end, we disagreed on
the most important things. Jesus Christ is the Son of God,
My Lord, My Saviour; Jesus (Isa) to him is a prophet.
But we agreed on one point: our humanity, how religion
affected us both.
Christianity is summed up thus: You must love the Lord
your God with all your heart, all your soul, and all your
mind. A second (commandment) is equally important:
Love your neighbour as yourself.
It doesn’t take much to embrace a Faith that encourages
me to do the one thing that would make my life, my
world, better: to love.
JOS
By Kola Tubosun
When I served in the mandatory one-year national
youth service in a little village close to the city
of Jos in 2005, the state still deserved its motto, “The
Home of Peace and Tourism”, even though there was
always a shadow of violence looming in every corner and
conversation. In September 2001, 4 years before I arrived
there, there was one of the bloodiest bouts of violence
between the Hausa–Fulani “settlers” and the “indigenes”
of the state and when the smoke cleared, there were over
1000 people dead, with many homes and businesses
destroyed. In a few months things returned to normal
but there was always the shadow. Nobody knew when it
would rear its ugly head or what its trigger would be. But
it was always there.
In May 2004, a few months before I got my deployment
papers to travel over 800 km from my home city to Plateau
State, there was another bout of killings in Yelwa, the
southern part of the state, in which over 700 people died.
In all of these cases, the failure of government has been
the cause of the carnage. In all of these cases, the violence
spread and caused irreparable havoc before the agents
of state appeared on the scene. And in some of these
cases, when they eventually showed up, they took sides
and did some extra-judicial killings of their own. Of all
the ills of a badly-run government, the biggest and most
disappointing crime is to be found guilty of taking sides
and complicating the situation, and finally, not bringing
the perpetrators of crime to justice.
While I was in Riyom, which is a short distance from
the state capital of Jos, I lived in relative shelter from the
political realities of the town, but only to the extent of
actual violence that eventually occurred in some parts of
the state even while I was there. I was not sheltered from
the conversations and the anger. For many who lived in
my part of the state, the problem of the state was not only
fuelled by religion, but also by a political and economic
undertone. Who were the indigenes and who were the
settlers? To many who had an opinion, the Hausa–Fulani
cattle herders had come from the North to take over the
land from the Plateau indigenes, who were of a different
tribe. Plateau state is one of Nigeria’s most linguistically
“In Nigeria today,
this politics of
ethno-religious
domination,
mistrust and
ignorance/
arrogance is
sadly one of the
biggest threats to
the survival of the
nation.”
and ethnically pluralized states, yet Hausa is a language
spoken by all in addition to local languages. In Riyom,
where I lived, the language was Berom. The indigenes did
not see themselves as Hausa–Fulani and always seemed to
be fighting against a perceived dominance of the language
and culture of the “settlers”.
In Nigeria today, this politics of ethno-religious
domination, mistrust and ignorance/arrogance is sadly
one of the biggest threats to the survival of the nation.
And because of this, an agriculturally unique region
of the nation—that was famous nationwide as the best
place to live in the country because of its climate, history
and people—is trapped in a burning fire. In an ideal
federation, there should never be restrictions on where free
citizens should live, as long as it’s within the borders and
one can respect the rules of the land, which are fair and
just.
The religious dimension of these series of crises is as
unfortunate as it is saddening. It is high time we removed
separated religion from all affairs of state, as is accepted
practice in the most developed countries in the world. The
case in Plateau state as well as many other volatile regions
in the country—including some places in the Christian
south—is the distrust that comes from ethnic affiliations.
When it becomes tied to economic and political survival,
hell is let loose— especially in the absence of a moderating
influence of a trusted agent of state.
I am, like every other patriotic Nigerian, wondering how
we got to this sad juncture, and wondering, too, how to
move on from this cycle of violence. More than prayers
for the family of victims, we need a more responsible
and responsive government, just as much as we need
better education for all. Also, as deterrent, all culprits in
the killings must be brought to justice. If international
intervention is needed, let us have it. Those who kill fellow
citizens do not deserve to live among us, if they deserve to
live at all. There is nothing that should stop Hausa–Fulani
cattle herders from living and prospering in Jos or in
any other part of Plateau State, and neither should there
be a threat to the practice of Christianity, Islam or any
other religion in the state. For years the 2 major religions
practiced in this area—Christianity and Islam—have lived
alongside each other without any hint of violence. What
changed?
I intend to visit Plateau State again. I still have friends
there, many of whom I’m still in touch with. I will go
with a camera and I intend to visit places I didn’t get to
see during my first visit. It is not just a sense of loss and
sadness that moves me to plan this visit; it is also a sense
of disappointment at the wasted lives, the wasted property,
and the wasted chance of nationhood as exemplified by
Jos, formerly the home of peace and tourism.
Kola Tubosun is a Fulbright Scholar and the author of the
blog www.ktravula.com where a version of this piece first
appeared in March 2010.
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12
Unoma Giese
What is the first question a foreigner
would ask about Nigeria?
Depending on the foreigner, “Where’s
that?”
What do you do?
Photographer and writer.
How many states in Nigeria have you
visited?
Dunno but quite a few.
Who are you?
#Unoma Giese (yes, with the hash!)
Name 3 Nigerians that inspire you.
Babatunde Raji Fashola, Igoni Barrett,
Prof Onuora Osamo.
“Shame” 2 Nigerians that make you
want to migrate.
IBB and Anaconda the attorney general.
What is identity?
Who one feels one is.
Describe—in one word—how Nigeria
will be in the year 2060.
Depends.
What is Nigeria?
That big country with big brains, big
egos, big mouths and big mistakes.
If you were President of Nigeria what
is the first thing you would do?
Implement the constitution to the letter.
When was the last time you told a lie?
Less than an hour ago.
Who are you?
I am Chris Ihidero.
What do you do?
I am a writer and TV drama & film
director. I run the Centre for Excellence in
Film and Media Studies, the training arm
of Amaka Igwe Studios, where I’m also
the Creative Head.
How would you define identity?
It’s a combination of how we see
ourselves and how we are seen. While I
strongly believe that how we see ourselves
is primary, I also insist that it is extremely
important to pay attention to how we are
seen by others. Not so that we may change
to suit their purposes, but that we do not
live in a fool’s paradise constructed by the
identity we have created for ourselves.
What is the first question a foreigner
would ask about Nigeria?
If the foreigner is American, it most likely
would be “Where is Nigeria?” Or worse
still, “What is Nigeria?” Americans can
be notoriously uninformed! If European,
it could be how we are sorting out our
numerous wahala. If Chinese, it would be
about investment opportunities, seeing as
half of Africa has already been “bought
up” by China. If Indian, there’ll be no
question, as Indians litter all nooks and
crannies of Nigeria and Nigerians are
beginning to look Indian these days! They
even have their own cinema; what’s next,
an Ashram? If the foreigner is a fellow
African it most likely would be “When
are you Nigerians going to finish killing
yourselves so that Africa can truly be
great?”
Are you comfortable making movies
about non-Nigerian characters?
I could be, especially as a great story
transcends borders. However, context is
key, and the stories we tell best are the
ones that are skin deep, steeped in our
reality.
How many states in Nigeria have you
visited?
Six.
If you were President of Nigeria for a
day, what would you do?
Nothing. One day is too short to
do anything that would amount to
something.
Name 3 Nigerians that inspire you?
Obafemi Awolowo, Amaka Igwe and
Williams Ihidero, my father.
“Shame” 2 Nigerians that make you
want to migrate?
None. I shall not be moved!
Describe, in one word, how Nigeria
will be in the year 2060?
Confused.
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Lola Shoneyin
What is the first question a foreigner
would ask about Nigeria?
Why hasn’t there been a revolution?
What do you do?
I teach and I write, without the luxury of
changing that order.
How many states in Nigeria have you
visited?
About 20. I found myself in some
unexpected states during my NYSC
year.
Who are you?
A woman in search of substance.
Name 3 Nigerians that inspire you.
Christopher Okigbo, Mamman Vatsa and
Fela Anikulapo. Go figure.
“Shame” 2 Nigerians that make you
want to migrate.
I’ll rather not mention names. But I’d like
them to migrate, for the sake of the next
generation.
What is identity?
The sum of what we most want to be.
Describe—in one word—how Nigeria
will be in the year 2060.
Smaller.
What is Nigeria?
Potential interrupted.
If you were President of Nigeria what
is the first thing you would do?
I would abolish poverty.
When was the last time you told a lie?
When was the last time I said the
pledge?
Wana Udobang
What is the first question a foreigner
would ask about Nigeria?
Dangerous place, isn’t it?
What do you do?
I work as a radio personality at 92.3
Inspiration FM. I am a freelance writer
for Next, FAB magazine, Naija Times
magazine and Bellanaija website. I also
have a blog called Guerrilla Basement
productions. I’m a publicist on the side
and a voice over artist. I also write
poetry. I have too many occupations . . .
How many states in Nigeria have you
visited?
Nine
Who are you?
I’m just a young gypsy woman educating
myself about the universe that surrounds
me—its infinite opportunities and its
energies. Also hoping that in some part
of my existence, I can make some kind
of difference to humanity.
Name 3 Nigerians that inspire you.
Iheoma Obibi, Ken Saro-Wiwa, Rev.
Mrs. Bamidele George. Can I add my
mother in there?
“Shame” 2 Nigerians that make you
want to migrate.
OBJ and Abdulmutalab.
What is identity?
It’s an awareness and acceptance of
who you are and what you are.
Describe—in one word—how Nigeria
will be in the year 2060.
Progressive.
What is Nigeria?
An abyss of contradictions.
If you were President of Nigeria what
is the first thing you would do?
Make it mandatory that anyone running
for any kind of political office undergoes
extensive psychiatric evaluation and lie
detector tests as a part of their process
to evaluate if they are even fit to run for
anything.
When was the last time you told a lie?
Probably today . . . just an “alternative
truth” really.

Who are you?
I am Afolabi Durotoye. Aka Beazy.
What do you do?
I make music, so I guess that
makes me a musician. To be more
specific, I’m a rapper.
How would you define identity?
I would define it as a state of being. It’s
what I am, what I do and what I stand for.
What is the first question, in your
opinion, a foreigner would ask about
Nigeria?
“Um . . . excuse me, but how do you guys
cope with the lack of constant electricity?”
How many states in Nigeria have you
visited?
I’ve been to Lagos (I currently reside
here), Ekiti (I’m from there), Ondo (I used
to be from there before Ekiti was formed),
Kwara (my mom lives there), Oyo, Ogun,
Kaduna, Kano (just visiting), Abuja (my
dad lives there), Katsina and Plateau
(I was born in Jos). I’m pretty sure I’ve
been to more but I just can’t recall at
the moment. So by my count, that’s 11
(eleven) states.
If you were President of Nigeria for a
day, what would you do?
Realistically, there isn’t much I’d be able
to do in just a day. But for one thing, I’d
fire everyone. Don’t know how much
good that would do but it would at least
change the course of the nation. The way
I figure, it can only get better, right?
Name 3 Nigerians that inspire you?
Abake Durotoye (my mother), Femi Kuti
and I’ll get back to you on the third name.
Shame 2 Nigerians that make you want
to migrate?
That’s a tough one but I’d have to say
that Muttallab fellow.
Describe, in one word, how Nigeria will
be in the year 2060?
Better.
Who are you?
Dudutoonz Studioz is a group of young,
creative and competent Nigerians with
years of experience in different areas of
digital arts—animation, characterization,
graphic design, motion graphics, music
production, sound recording and design.
Dudu means black in Yoruba. The
name Dudutoonz goes beyond just a
name, it’s a mission statement. We
promote and contribute to what can be
called Black-toons, or better yet Africancartoons,
a platform that educates,
celebrates and promotes the lifestyle
and the rich cultures of Africans. We
are working towards the creation of a
network of African cartoons.
What do you do?
What we do can be classified into two
categories. First, services for corporate
bodies or individuals which include
all areas of digital arts. Second, our
products, one of which is a TV animated
series called “Baba Imuleru”. It’s a story
about the wisdom of the Yoruba tribe.
We also have a comedy magazine
called Crazy.
How would you define identity?
The individual characteristics by which a
thing or person is recognized or known.
What is the first question a foreigner
would ask about Nigeria?
The foreigner will ask about the people
of Nigeria, about their lifestyle, culture,
arts, their values and belief systems.
This defines a nation and without it a
nation is just another piece of land.
Are you comfortable writing about non-
Nigerian characters?
Promoting Africans and their works to
the world comes first. We still uphold the
value and respect that we have for other
non-Africans characters.
How many states in Nigeria have you
visited? More than 7 states.
If you were President of Nigeria for a
day, what would you do?
Dudutoonz is an organization, so it cannot
be president.
Name 3 Nigerians that inspire you?
Philips Emeagwali, Chinua Achebe, and
Chris Ofili.
“Shame” 2 Nigerians that make you
want to migrate?
None.
Describe, in one word, how Nigeria will
be in the year 2060?
Robust.
Who are you?
My name is Josephine Dorgu.
What do you do?
I’m a bit of a Jack-of-all-trades. I’m a
management consultant for small-scale
industries, particularly in the O & G
industry. I also do web development
for some of my clients. It’s basically a
one-man outfit so my client load is not
KPMG-size but it keeps a roof over my
head. Currently I’m doing a part-time
gig with a new client, which requires
that I come in 2–3 days a week and
oversee their IT network and I’m also
their Admin Supervisor. I also have
a number of artists who want me to
manage them and I’m contemplating
looking at expanding my consulting area
of concentration. See . . . I did tell you . .
. I juggle many balls!
How would you define identity?
Identity for me is fundamentally who
you are. That thing that defines you and
gives you definition and purpose as a
person.
What is the first question a foreigner
would ask about Nigeria?
Is it true you are all fraudsters?
How many states in Nigeria have you
visited?
I’ve been to 11 states so far.
If you were President of Nigeria for a
day, what would you do?
If I were the President of the FRN I’d
first and foremost decree that all bills
and edicts passed would be irrevocable
for at least four years. Thereafter I’d
give states autonomy as is implied by
the word “federal”, forcing each state
to generate their own income streams
and diversify the economy. 30–40% of
all revenue would be directed to the
Central government for social capital
development projects. Infrastructural
development would be the responsibility
of the state governments, as it is
believed that the states have a better
understanding of their requirements.
I would also set up a short-term (limited
to 6–18 months). Social welfare
system that included entrepreneurial
development training and a grant to
start business after the benefit program
ends. Also, I would privatise the power
production sector, as business cannot
thrive without power. These are the
basic things I’d do.
Name 3 Nigerians that inspire you?
Fela Kuti, Abike Dabiri and Queen
Elizabeth Bens (my mother).
“Shame” 2 Nigerians that make you
want to migrate.
IBB and (does it have to be just two?
Can’t I select a group and call it one?)
“the Super Eagles and NFF”.
Describe, in one word, how Nigeria
will be in the year 2060.
Divided.
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16
By Eghosa Imasuen
While admitting that I have (as a writer) milked
Warri’s reputation as a wild town for all it’s worth,
while acknowledging that most comedians exaggerate the
crassness of the oil city, while smiling at myself—knowing
that this is one of the most boringly middle-class cities
in Nigeria—I cannot help but put down here that yes,
Warri isn’t an ordinary town. But if you live there you
still wonder at the wide-mouthed gasps that greet your
accent when you visit Lagos. You smile to yourself at the
ridiculous questions:
“Is it true that you see machinegun-toting teenagers
walking the streets?”
“What is it really like at Enerhen Junction?”
“How una dey sleep at night with all the explosions?”
“We hear say pick-pockets for Enerhen Junction fit naked
you for broad daylight. Na true?”
Such questions remind me of the ones we accuse
Americans of asking; the do-you-live-in-trees-and-playsoccer-with-lions-and-baboons
variety. We complain
and discuss the issues above at family gatherings, at beer
parlours, and wonder at the madness of it all. My Aunty
Phina—who’s lived in Warri all her life—says she now
fears the city more after she returned from a journey to
Lagos. She tells me that what she hears in other places
about a city she knows like the back of her hand makes
her think twice about going out late, about walking past
Enerhen Junction.
The gist she hears in Lagos makes her wonder why she
finds Warri comedians unfunny. I tell her that this is
because everybody in Warri is a comedian. She agrees,
saying that she now understands why everyone she meets
in Lagos laughs whenever she speaks, even when she is
saying something serious.
“It’s the accent,” I tell her.
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My uncle’s wife, Aunty Phina, lives at Igbudu Estate.
Igbudu Estate used to be called Bendel Estate II, before
the old state was divided in two. Bendel Estate I, presently
Ugborikoko Estate, was on Airport Road (a road with no
airport on it. There’s a heliport though, but that’s not the
same thing, is it?) She teaches pro bono at a secondary
school inside Igbudu Market. She can afford to teach pro
bono because she is employed by DESOPADEC, which
is the acronym for the Delta State Oil-producing Areas’
Development Commission.
DESOPADEC is Warri’s version of a state welfare system.
All you need to do is hustle to place your name on the
salary list. You do not need to go to work everyday; just
appear on payday and collect your slip; and keep your ear
to the ground in case the commission’s executive board
decides to carry out a staff-screening to weed out “ghost
workers”. The only problem is that with its bloated payroll
DESOPADEC can only afford to pay salaries once every
three months, when its quarterly subvention from the State
Government is received.
Aunty Phina wakes up every morning, greets her politician
husband with a kiss, takes her bath, and rushes off her
children to school. She has three. The first is a genius
with a tested IQ of 160. Tsewo is fourteen and is an
embarrassment to his mother. Being a genius doesn’t
guarantee good manners. He contradicts his elders at
every turn, has done so since he turned five and developed
‘good judgement’. I do not talk to the boy—I fear him. I
remember when he explained the workings of the “global
positioning geo-stationary satellite system” to me. He was
seven at the time.
After Aunty Phina drops her children at school she
“branches” at her mother’s hotel and sits there for a while.
Every day, like clockwork. She doesn’t have to hurry to
the job at WCC. It is pro-bono, so she keeps her own
time. Aunty Phina works two double-periods teaching
Economics and Business Studies to the SSC2 and JSC3
classes.
By now the time should be eight-thirty. She isn’t due in
school for another hour.
Aunty Phina’s mother’s hotel has just recently been
painted. The front has a fresh coat of whitewash. The walls
give off a white powder that turns a stubborn yellow when
you try to rub it off dark clothes. Nobody leans against the
walls. Mama Phina had the hotel painted because she felt
that events had overtaken the old sign she put up, in bold
red oil paint, on the facade of the hotel ten years ago. It
read, “Calabar Woman Hotel.” One sees these signs all
over the old Bendel State. In Benin City they usually read,
“This house is no (sic) for sale, by order family,” to deter
desperate children, and nephews, and nieces, who are
looking for money to travel abroad; or, “This house is the
property of so-and-so family,” to dissuade everyone else
from selling the house for money to travel abroad.
But in Warri the signs read, “Agbor Man Hotel,” “Ishan
Man Hotel,” “Port Harcourt Woman Hotel.” These
signs became popular in the late nineties and early twothousands,
at the time when fighting raged between the
three main Warri tribes, when people were burning houses
and blowing up buildings, and so nobody painted Urhobo,
Itsekiri, or Ijaw on their houses.
Mama Phina has wiped the Calabar Woman sign off her
hotel. She is Urhobo; but she has a right, by law, to claim
Calabar. She was married to an Efik man for thirty years.
Her children, Phina and the others, are all Efik. And the
fight has shifted from Warri since the Ijaws recognised that
the real enemies were the government people in Abuja
who chopped the oil money and not their fellow state
indigenes who just wanted to survive.
Mama Phina is an old woman with a bad mouth. Each
time her daughter—Phina—visits her shop she spends
her time cursing the “fake militants” corralled in a former
hospital on the Warri–Port Harcourt expressway. She says
they are all looking for money; that the real militants are
still in the creeks; that the real guns are buried somewhere
in Ijawland.
Phina goes to see her mother to complain about her
husband’s sisters, one of whom is my mom. Her husband,
Uncle Jeyisan, is an only boy. Uncle Jeyisan is a politician.

“The gist she hears in
Lagos makes her wonder
why she finds Warri
comedians unfunny. I tell
her that this is because
everybody in Warri is a
comedian.”
Things have started looking up now that he has been
appointed the local government chairman of a major
political party. But the sisters: they do not let her rest.
Phina, this is how they cook Edi Ka Ikong, not like that. Don’t
you know we grew up in Calabar?
Phina, why don’t you keep your pampers stacked in the drawer.
They get bent out of shape if you stuff them in a carry-all bag.
Phina, abeg, look after our brother well o. I hope you’re making
him stop cigar?
Phina, Phina, Phina, Phina, phina, phin, phi, phi . . .
Mama Phina laughs and sends for two bottles of beer.
Ice cold. For breakfast. Mama Phina knows about her
daughter’s stutter. She knows that the beer will help loosen
the tight crank ratcheted up to maximum between her
daughter’s shoulders. They drink, and laugh, and Mama
Phina with her badmouth and acerbic wit lambasts Phina’s
in-laws.
It has been three months since the last salary from
DESOPADEC. The pantry is almost empty. Aunty Phina
calls me from the school where she does her pro bono
work.
“Eghosa, dem don pay?”
“No aunty, they haven’t paid the salary yet o. Although I
heard that the MD signed the cheques today. Check your
bank account tomorrow,” I tell her.
#
She rings off, thanking me before she does so; saying that
she will check the bank tomorrow. We laugh at a joke she
cracks. Something about Warri having a DESOPADECdependent
economy. This is true. After the salary is paid
tomorrow, the town will awaken again. The beer parlours
would have already heard that the payment schedule is on
its way to the banks. The market women already know the
timetable for clearance of cheques: Bank PHB, three days;
Oceanic Bank, two days; Ecobank, two days; UBA, two
days; ETB, that same day. Aunty Phina banks with ETB.
She will go to market tomorrow.
In Aunty Phina’s Economics class contains a slice of
Warri’s demographic. Urhobo students chat with Itekiris;
Ijaw boys and girls try and complete class assignments
while pretending to listen to what she’s saying—they know
that she doesn’t acknowledge NEPA as a valid excuse for
not doing your home work; Hausa students pass notes to
Igbos. All speak in the sing-song of Warri English. All Ls
confused with Ns, all sentences and questions ending with
the exclamation mark, “O”. The noise of trucks bringing
goods to Igbudu market ignores the walls and shuttered
windows of her class, she can barely hear herself above
the din. She gives up and backs the class to write the gist
of the lesson on the I-was-formerly-black blackboard. Before
the end of the day she will ask for the list of noisemakers.
She will wonder why the truck drivers’ names are not on
the list, and the annoying voice of the hawker passing her
window screaming, “Buy your sweeeeeet tomatoes here!”
#
Uncle Jeyisan and Aunty Phina have a date tonight. She
muses on what she’ll wear on the drive back home from
her children’s school. Tsewo sits in front beside her, his
thick glasses down to the tip of his nose, while he peruses
a tome on “Ezra Pound and Literary Patronage in the
Nineteenth Century”. The twins, a boy and girl, make a
game of naming the taxi drivers and tuke-tuke drivers who
overtake them. They tell her to drive slower so they do not
lose track of the game.
Phina forces them to take their siesta. With Tsewo she has
to confiscate the book he is reading. Then she sits outside
in the veranda and has a smoke. She prefers menthols, and
has to hide them from her husband because he believes
she hasn’t had a drag in five years. He smokes Benson and
Hedges but doesn’t seem to know the difference in smell.
He should be back from work in two hours. It will be two
hours of marking assignments, annotating homework,
filling up the washing machine in the garage and preparing
dinner. She remembers to call her niece, Ekaette, who will
have to babysit tonight. She will warn her not to invite that
her Ijaw boyfriend over. Aunty Phina smiles, there will be
no need to police her niece with phone calls; tatafo Tsewo
will take care of the policing.
#
Aunty Phina tries not to drive the car from the passenger
seat. She grips her right thigh, silently telling it to stop
pressing on an imaginary brake pedal. She says to Jeyisan,
“Slow down. We no dey hurry.” When he laughs at her
she remembers why she married him. It is a loud guffaw,
it echoes and seeps out of the wound-up car windows.
They are going to The Pub, a beer parlour and night club
in the compound of The Palm Grove Motel. The Palm
Grove Motel used to be the staff quarters for Hussey
College, a grammar-school owned by Alfred Rewane.
After all schools in the country were seized by the Federal
Government in the seventies, he hurriedly walled off the
staff quarters and, viola!
The Pub is a popular bar because it is inside a walled
compound. Thieves do not come in. And anyone staying
behind for the night club can pay for a room to sleep off
the drink. It is a nice place. My employer, DESOPADEC,
keeps rooms there. I have the keys to one, and am twirling
the bunch on my right middle finger when I see my uncle
and his wife walk in. I join them and we are immediately
joined by about four others, all Uncle Jeyisan’s mates, all
looking for patronage from the chairman of a political
party.
“Hail Chair!” they chorus.
He nods at them and shouts out his party’s slogan.
The DJ acknowledges his presence with a dedication. It
is an old disco track by the Bee Gees. Staying Alive. The
dance floor erupts and Uncle Jeyisan is dragged to his feet
by the gaggle of friends.
“How work?” Aunty Phina shouts above the music.
“Boring,” I reply. She is wearing a body-hugging spaghetti
top. Her paunch, which she blames on the twins and
Gulder lager, is barely noticeable because of the girdle.
“How your book? It is selling well?”
“If by selling you mean I buy it to give to friends, then it’s
not doing too badly.”
“No worry. When you win award, e go begin sell,” she
soothes, but not in a soothing voice—the DJ and his loud
music will not allow for a soothing voice.
#
“I know.” I do not tell her that the awards’ season is almost
over; that I haven’t got as much as a nomination; that I
will have to write another, a less genre-specific novel, to be
recognised as what my mother thinks I am: a great novelist.
She smiles when she sees her husband beckoning from the
dance floor. She drags me and we join him.
We dance. To syncopated beats of Naija hiphop, we dance.
To the reggae of Jimmy Cliff, to oldies from the Bini-bus
staple, Chaka Demus and Pliers, we dance. I am happy.
Uncle Jeyisan will provide free beer. And tomorrow is
payday.
Eghosa Imasuen is the author “To Saint Patrick”
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18
A Chat
with the
Radio
Amazon
By Anwuli Ojogwu
It was almost impossible to pin down Wazobia FM radio
star, Matse Uwatse, for an interview. Several text messages
and many phone calls remained unreturned for days. But
just as this interviewer was getting ready to give up, a
message arrived. Apologies were offered, accepted, a date
was set.
On the day of the interview, after waiting in the reception
of the Wazobia FM radio station for over an hour, Matse
finally appears. We head to her office, which is a cosy little
space, furnished with quaint bits of furniture designed by
her. The most conspicuous item in view is a shelf lined
with books and numerous award plaques. The 5 feet 9
inches broadcaster is slender and attractive, with probing
brown eyes. She is quite at ease—she drops onto the rug
and stretches out her legs. During the interview, she chats
articulately, without hesitation, and—unlike her radio
persona—in faultless English.
Tell us about a bit about your background?
My parents were young people. My mum gave birth to
me at the age of nineteen and my dad was in his twenties,
and so they had me and they parted ways. I have a large
family. My parents remarried. From my mum’s side I have
two brothers and from my dad’s side I have four brothers
and three sisters. I attended Abraka State University and
Village du Belle, Togo for my first degree in French.
Describe yourself in one word?
I am a lioness. I am a strong woman. I am very talented. I
am assertive. I am intelligent. If you look at the symbolic
lioness, the figurative lioness, the literal lioness, you will
see all these virtues I just mentioned. The lioness will roar;
she is intelligent because she has to go forward to feed her
pride; she is creative because she chases after prey, knows
how to observe and catch different prey. A lioness is what
I am.
How did you get started as a radio presenter?
Through a friend. I had a call about this new radio station
coming up and [the person] was like, why don’t you go
there and audition? I am from Delta State and I can speak
pidgin, so there was no big deal. I came in for the audition
and was later invited for an interview. Even before the
interview, I had programmes that I had written down
because I am very creative. During my interview we talked
and I kept them laughing; they taunted me and I teased
them back. And when I was leaving, I sort of knew I was
going to get the job. At that time I was an administrative
www.switchedonnaija.com - re’load
executive with Bangs & Olufsen. I always knew I wanted
to let my hair down, I am not the proper-proper office
person . . . I am imaginative and creative. I always wanted
a way to channel out my energy, my extra passion, and I
found it in broadcasting.
How do you remain proficient in Pidgin English? Do you
keep up-to-date with slangs?
Yes, I do . . . when you talk with people in Delta State. The
Lagos pidgin is not really slangy. When you talk about the
real pidgin slang, you get it from the Niger Delta. You get
it from the Edos, the Benin people, the Warri people. That
is where you hear the current language. The Warris speak
the best pidgin; they are the main pidgin people. I have
cousins from there and I talk to them and chat and I get
one or two things. I keep updating.
Has broadcasting redefined your personality?
I was somewhat confident in the past, but right now I call
myself a very confident woman. I can walk into anyplace,
any day, anytime, and I can talk. Before, I used to be shy
in public. Maybe I would want to ask a question, but
would keep quiet because of nerves—but right now I find
that I can manage it. The more you grow, the more you
are acknowledged, the more awards you win, the more
people recognise you. It keeps you confident. It makes you
believe in yourself. The confidence builds up and you have
a clearer perspective where you are going. You know what
you want, you think of what to do, how to better yourself.
With broadcasting, you have the chance to go to so many
places. You meet like minds and it makes you a better
person.
On radio, you are dubbed a “virtuous woman”. Does
that carry any responsibility?
It does. For example, I love fashion. I am a reserved
person, but I love to experiment with clothes. But because
of the way people see you, it affects the way you dress. I
love to wear short skirts sometimes, I love to be fashionable
. . . but because of what people would say, you have to be
more conservative, mind how you dress because you are a
role model and people are watching. It affects a lot about
me. So you have to live up to what people want you to
be, but that doesn’t mean that you have lost your sense of
identity. But you have to know what you like. You have to
keep a balance; you have to learn to keep a balance. As for
being called a virtuous woman, all those “virtues” being
mentioned . . . there were people that studied me and came
up with the label, I didn’t come up with it myself.
Describe what being a “Waffarian” means?
Waffarian is a term used for people from Warri. Waffarians
are born in Warri, or they grew up in Warri, or migrated
there and lived with the people and learnt the culture
of the people. But it is not so easy because most people
who come there, they are already grown, they already
have ideologies and cultures from other places. But the
Waffarian child, the full-blooded Waffarian, is that person
grew up in Warri from childhood—you have everything
in your head. You know their way of life, you speak their
way. That is what makes you a Waffarian. We Waffy
people are strong people . . . we are assertive people, we
don’t keep words in our minds, we are bold people and
very energetic. So these are all the embodiments of a
Waffarian. Some people say that we are militants and all
that, but we are not. If you study people from Delta State,
if you study their way of life, you will notice how they
dance, you will notice a lot of energy. And if you notice
how they speak, the pronunciation—consonants, vowels,
clusters—you would notice the energy. So we are people
of energy and so when we are oppressed, we still talk with
energy. It doesn’t mean that we are militants. We just
know what we want.
Who is the one person you admire most?
My mother. She is strong. She had me at the age of 19,
and she had to leave me when I was 7 months old, but she
always kept in touch. She still made her mark even though
she was far away from me. She contributed a lot to my life
and has kept me strong, even in the face of difficulties;
she gives me advice and tells me what to do. She doesn’t
enforce it on me, she guides me. Most of the traits my
mother exhibits are similar traits that I have.
What is your guilty pleasure?
I love perfumes and chocolate and bathing salts. I am a
creature of comfort. I love comfort.
Your programme gives people a platform to air their
views. What type of phone solicitation messages are you
likely to listen to on a typical day?
I get that all the time. People come up to me and say,
Matse, do this for me, do that for me. If it something that I
can, I give advice, but if it something I need many people
to think about, I take it up on radio. Especially if I know
it is something that people can benefit from. It has to be
something people will learn from—if it is unbeneficial,
I will not handle it. I have also helped some people
moneywise—I help in my own little way. I have spent a lot
of money and I do not regret it.
What drives you to succeed?
My driving force is passion. I am a very passionate person.
Seeing people suffer, seeing people abused, coming from
a broken home myself, watching the young ones growing,
knowing the things I lacked as a child . . . all these things
are my driving forces. To make a better life for myself, to
make a better life for people—basically it’s people, people
are my driving force.
How would you like to be remembered?
As a woman of the people.
Many Nigerian radio presenters speak Americanised
English on air. How do you compete—how do you think
you come across?
As a presenter who speaks Pidgin English, some people
think you are classless—some think you are a street person.
When you go into the entertainment world and meet
people, they are like, what? Pidgin broadcasting? I used to tell
my colleagues, don’t let this people behave this way to you.
I had to tell them, you are beyond what they think. Tell them
you are strong; tell them you are so many things in one.
I always tell them that if you bring an English presenter,
I, Matse will beat her at her game because I don’t see
limitations in anything. Many of them are cocooned,
but I have to burst out of it—and I won the 2010 Future
Awards [for best radio personality]. I beat Tosyn Bucknor
and Gbemileke of Inspiration FM. These are all English
language presenters, and I am a pidgin presenter. Some
egotistical people think you are classless because pidgin
is the language for the man on the street. But you know
what, Wazobia has made people understand that you
don’t have to think that way—it’s a way we can teach from
the grassroots. If everyone is speaking Queen’s English,
how will the man on the street learn when he didn’t have
the opportunities and education you had? One way or
the other, you teach. With pidgin, we have changed the
perception. People find it hard to match my real and radio
personality. We have brought the sexy back into pidgin.
What is the best and worst part of being a radio
presenter?
The best part is that I get to talk to people every day. The
worst part? I don’t think there’s any.
Any advice for aspiring radio presenters?
Be yourself. Don’t try to be somebody else.

At the #EnoughisEnough rally in Lagos, young Nigerians
gathered at the Archbishop Church. The event was led by
former Campaign for Democracy leader, Joe Odumakin.
Various prominent young people were also present, including
Audu Maikori, Ali Baba, Tolu Ogunlesi, Banky W, Timi
Dakolo, Rita Dominic, Sound Sultan, Denrele Edun, GT,
Kola Osinowo, Djinee, and Segun Demuren. Students came
from OAU, UI, LASU, UNILAG and LASPOTECH. The
international press and local media were present to cover the
event.
#EnoughisEnough belongs to all young Nigerians who are concerned
about positive change in our country and want to make sure that in
the 2011 elections, this change comes to Nigeria.
www.enoughisenoughnigeria.com
PICTURES from the Abuja Rally...
19
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20
anything is possible
by Simidele Dosekun
moved back to Nigeria after almost 12 years abroad.
I At the age of 25, I was once again under my mother’s
roof. Although relatively liberal, she remained unswayed
by the proposition to take me in less as a daughter than a
housemate, especially as I had plenty need as the former
and no budget for the latter. She moved instead to reassert
her authority. Minor conflict ensued. Other challenges
of my move, requiring adaptation and negotiation, were
the mosquitoes and NEPA, the lack of privacy, the okada
riders and potholes, police checkpoints and overzealous
LASTMA officials. I learned these things new or afresh,
mostly the hard way, scarring body, soul and car.
Most difficult, I found, was the conservatism and
materialism of the lifestyle options and values on offer.
I had at the time dreadlocks falling midway between
my shoulders and waist. Virtually everyday I was forced
to explain and defend this and within two months had
partially succumbed to the pressure (and the weather)
and hacked off two-thirds of the length. But no, I still did
not want to work in a bank, oil or telecoms company, nor
did I care for the status and accessories that such would
afford me. I refused all invitations, admonitions and even
emotional blackmailing to attend church. Not seeking God,
I was not looking for a husband either, though I apparently
should have been. And so it went, conversations with
family and old friends, too, leaving me feeling somewhat
alienated in those early days.
Even before such feelings, my plan had been to stay in
Nigeria for only a year and then leave again for more
school. I saw myself as something of a tourist then: having
an experience, only passing through, noncommittal.
However, life got in the way—life of a distinctly Nigerian
and admittedly privileged sort—and I find myself here
going on three years later. This life was one of possibility,
ironically enough. I felt, and still feel, that Nigeria is the
kind of place where anything can happen. Of course,
it is precisely this unpredictability which makes it such
a difficult and frustrating place for many of its citizens,
and altogether too uncertain for some, who choose to
remain ‘safely’ cocooned abroad. Yet fresh off the boat,
with a particular blend of naiveté and realism, and with
the cushioning my family provided, their concerns and
comments notwithstanding, Nigeria also seemed the kind
of place where I could do almost anything. And there
appeared so much to do, in a way that was not true in New
York or London, say.
Switch A Future
The aim of the campaign is to touch the lives of
children who would otherwise never have access to
education. Specifically, each time an InterSwitch
cardholder uses their Interswitch ATM or Verve
debit card on another bank’s ATM, InterSwitch
will make a donation to Freedom Foundation,
and by doing so “Switch A Future” for a Nigerian
Child.
http://www.switchafuture.org/
www.switchedonnaija.com - re’load
Note2Note
I do not mean that I thought I could get any job or that
I could ‘save’ or change Nigeria. Rather, or for the time
being, I had more modest ideas for projects, for spaces, for
cultural life—a book, a documentary, a park, building an
arthouse movie scene, amongst others—for which there
seemed to be chance, simply because they did not already
exist. In retrospect these ideas were still informed by a
touristic mentality. They would have amounted to dabbling,
to experiences, not a life here. None came to fruition.
Instead the particular possibility that kept me in Nigeria
was the unexpected offer to run a small business aiming
and just maybe able, in my view, to make at least some
meaningful impact. I was now about to turn 26. This would
have never happened elsewhere, I reasoned, not least for
my lack of formal preparation for it. My foreign friends,
only just climbing career ladders, confirmed as much. They
did not quite understand how it was possible. Did I not
worry I had already “hit the ceiling”, one asked? I didn’t.
Quite the contrary; more would be possible from this new
position. So I stayed.
Time and the experience thus far have tempered my initial
excitement. I appreciate now how I could have benefitted
from a manual or course on ‘how to manage Nigerians,’
as so-called universal management principles seem to
rarely apply. There is no principle for knowing when one
employee, looking you in the eye and swearing otherwise
on his mother’s life, is in fact stealing the company’s
money. Nor do I know of a formula to explain why
another who earns barely enough to survive is first to arrive
and last to leave the office, and making the most effort,
however small or large his task, in the intervening time. It
is the people who daily make and break this country. The
people in all their variety. They have an amazing capacity
to inspire and to aggravate, to pull up and to pull down.
NLI believes that one step to getting the country
back on track is to reach out to young people
during their formative years, with the aim of
reinforcing values necessary to rebuilding a good
society. This was the driving impetus for the
conception and formation of Notes2Notes.
http://www.thefuturenigeria.com/introducing-thenotes2note-campaignolik/
Heal Jos Wallpapers
http://www.switchedonnaija.com
“In fact I
think it a little
ludicrous and
indulgent to
even pose
the question.
For, am I not
Nigerian?
Where else
would I be?
Apart from
any sense of
opportunity or
duty, or any
moralising,
this is my
country. It is
my home.”
They create the great possibility and energy of Nigeria but
it is they who also sap and corrupt it. One result, for me
personally, is lingering uncertainty over whether I am really
back to stay or not, on this seesaw. Most days I think I am.
In fact I think it a little ludicrous and indulgent to even pose
the question. For, am I not Nigerian? Where else would I
be? Apart from any sense of opportunity or duty, or any
moralising, this is my country. It is my home.
Yet most days are not everyday. I also flirt with the notion
of leaving very often. I do so for many reasons, mostly for a
sense of normalcy and balance, in which, yes, not so much
may be possible, but then again, not so much would be
impossible.
Cool2Vote
Cool2Vote Nigeria is a non-partisan platform
aimed at informing and giving a voice to young
Nigerians about their civic responsibility in the
electoral process. It is a platform for mobilising all
Nigerians to register to vote—and also to defend
their votes—at the 2011 elections and beyond.
http://cool2vote.org/

LET THE TRUTH BE TOLD 2 by Lati
So many videos to critique but only few made the list because some are just not worthy to
write about. If we want change in Nigeria we have to learn to tell the truth in order to help
ourselves grow. If not, we will remain stagnant. Mediocre and appalling materials are not
acceptable. It’s high time we demand for quality and excellence, in music videos as well as
governance!
Naija Music Videos
Terry G’s “Troway”: Without the
video, the song doesn’t hack it. The
video highlights the failures of the song,
especially its lack of depth. The only part
of the song that makes some sense is the
chorus: “Bad belle troway troway/wooroo
wooroo troway troway/oshi oda troway troway .
. .” Everything else in the song is gibberish.
But the video, for me, offered a bit of
redemption—it painted pictures and told a
story.
Jim Iyke’s “Born to do this”: Where
do I start from? Mr. Iyke, you are not the
sun and rapping isn’t made for you. You
are simply, absolutely, not born to rap.
Truth hurts but face it, in years to come
no one will remember any of your songs.
Not one. Wudi Awa shot an interesting
video; still, I must admit the video doesn’t
help the song in any way. The song is not
redeemable. The lyrics are a big turn off.
I guess Jim has money to blow—after all,
he’s a Glo ambassador. I just wish he’d
spent the money on his charity foundation
instead and saved us the pain of listening
to rap lyrics like “Sceptics were born to doubt
this/critics were born to break this/cynics were
born to diss this/chicks were born to love this . .
.” Etc etc.
Naija Music
Jesse Jagz’ “Pussy Cat” song is hilarious; in
fact, it’s the joke of the month. It prompted
some people to ask some questions, such as
“how can a grown man go around singing
‘pussy cat, pussy cat’?” Jesse, you are really
creative but you need a songwriter. How can
you provide us with a melodious tune that
has WACK lyrics? If I was still in preschool
I might sing along, but I doubt my mum will
approve! Your lyrics are weak. Your other
song, “Pump it up”, also had a groovy tune
but the lyrics were not memorable. At least the
lyrics for “Pussy Cat” is memorable . . . how
can anyone forget “meow meow cat, meow
meow cat”? Please, get a songwriter!
Pincode’s “Your Pincode” song is stupid. If
any lad uses that to approach a sensible girl,
he’s definitely not going to get her number. I
came across this song on Truspot and I was
repulsed when I listened to it. What were they
thinking about when they made this song? The
song is definitely nonsense and not sexy at
all. If you going to sing about love, do it right.
Make it sound intriguing instead of cheap and
lame. “I dey beg u like bambi’allah . . . wetin be
your pincode o? But you say access deny o . . .”
Kefee’s “Karoyovwe”: This video is
absolutely beautiful. It’s so surreal and
captivating. I see the celebration of nature
and it captivates my attention. Wudi
Awa is definitely paying attention to his
environment—to the shapes, colours, light,
movement and rhythm. Although I don’t
understand the language of the song, the
music is soothing. It touches my soul. Can
Kefee do any wrong? Nope. Not with God
on her side!
Jaywon’s “Gbon gbon gbon”: The song
has a melodious beat and the lyrics are
not too bad. It’s a fun song—but I found
the video uninspiring. The video got a bit
playful towards the end, just before Terry G
surfaced and did his bit. DJ Tee must have
used a Canon 7D to shoot this video—the
depth and quality of the picture was
refreshing. But the concept was boring.
Very boring.
Illbliss & Tha Suspect’s “Capital
Anthem”: The song and the video are
quite aggressive. That’s not a bad thing! I
see attitude, lots of it. The video is dark
but also colourful, and there was some
interesting play with light—pretty. The
wordplay in the song is also quite good. But
Capital, why were there so many bottles?
The bottle that was placed on the little
girl’s neck was not appealing at all; it took
aggressive all the way to the other side.
Careful . . .
Kaha’s Caro song is definitely Osuofia meets
Sidon P—it’s a blend of high-life and fuji. He
featured a fuji singer called LKT on the song.
The fuji gave the song some flavour. The lyrics
of the song were stereotypical: the whole
message of the song is that light-skinned
chicks run off with richer men or foreigners
and they are heartless. There is nothing special
about the song. The video for this song made
me listen to it. The video gave the song a story.
There was a lesson in it; it showed that all that
glitters is not gold. So Kaha, thank your stars
that you have a solid video to promote your
song. Nevertheless, please stop stereotyping
and offer us good music!
music
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22
my representation of
heaven : an interview
with Wanuri Kahiu
by Tala Leratadima
Wonder woman storyteller, Wanuri Kahiu, agreed
to talk to your royal ambivalence, and after it was
done, I felt as though I should read more books and find
ways of making myself more useful to humankind.
When I called her the connection was bust. There
were some unique things happening in cyberspace that
were hard at play to mess us up. But the algorithm
of cyberspace got nothing on “black chic” vibe—we
eventually got it locked down. She had just woken up,
like we all would be if we were in New York. And brace
yourselves for this bit of coincidence: I asked her—out
of the blue (I mean, it’s not every day that you ask an
interviewee this question)—what was in her sound system,
and she said Bantu Biko Street. I just about had a fit
because that was exactly what I was bumping just before I
called her!
Wanuri is smart, sharp, intuitive, reverent, funny and
really cool about her genius. This Kenyan UCLA-master’sin-film
graduate has created poignant and powerful work
that will go a long way in how we see ourselves—our
glory and ingloriousness. I forgot to mention that she is
humble, too, and sees her participation and success on
the international film circuit—African Film Academy
Awards, Zanzibar International Film Festival, Berlin Film
Festival and Sundance, to name a few—simply as a way of
furthering her work.
www.switchedonnaija.com - re’load
I love how her deep spirituality does not cloud her
exuberance and youthfulness. She is vegetarian, and
she feels that it is her daily sacrifice. Power to that—I
do believe that vegetarians shall inherit the kingdom of
heaven. Her vegetarianism is not all we have in common;
she agrees with me about wives following their presidents
around being a waste of taxpayers’ money. And she
has fantasies about dead political icons, and is actually
working on a film about the Mau Mau: a “braveheart”
version told from a woman’s point of view, by a woman in
love with Dedan Kimathi. Finally, she also struggles with
family members thinking her craft is a whimsical hobby.
“Storytellers, singers and dancers are not taken seriously
within the context of our society and [are not] given
the proper respect in our society . . . because we are the
forecasters, the seers and the memory-keepers and without
those things we are doomed, and people just don’t see
that.”
I agree, totally. We are like two peas in a pod, me and
Wanuri—but I fell out of the pod at the point where she
said she would not marry for money!
I asked her about a trillion questions (speak to “my
people” while holding your wallets and maybe we can
make the transcripts available). For now, here’s a glimpse
into this phenomenal woman’s mind.
Tala: What gets you excited on an average day?
Wanuri: New scripts, new ideas, listening to people,
watching people. I like to watch how people hold their
bodies; I think it tells a story in itself. I can watch
somebody’s expression and I have a whole story around it.
Tala: Do you think you are beautiful?
Wanuri: I think it comes from inside.
Tala: What is our answer—as African women who come
in all shades and colours—to the West’s insistence that we
conform to their “straight hair and skinny” ideal?
Wanuri: I don’t think body size can ever define beauty.
I don’t think it can ever be contained in what we wear
on our skin—it is something that goes much deeper and
once we tap into that I think we tap into God because it
transcends race, height, weight . . . because we’re all God
inside and once we realise that, we’ll see true beauty.
Tala: You should make a film on beauty, an African
perspective.
Wanuri: I think I do in different ways, because the people
I cast are not what some people think are beautiful. The
people I cast are really dark-skinned, because I think
they’re so gorgeous, but everybody has a different reaction.
Tala: Do all Kenyan girls dream of becoming filmmakers?
Wanuri: Not at all. Most people dream of becoming
lawyers and doctors. I know that when I was sixteen I
walked into a film editing suite and I fell in love and up
until that point I never thought that people made TV or
film and when I realised I could, it made perfect sense,
because I am a bookworm and a telly addict.
Tala: Do you remember any Swahili nursery rhymes?
Wanuri: More nursery stories than nursery rhymes. My
mother used to tell me stories all the time. I think that is
one of the reasons I became a filmmaker—she used to tell
me stories so I would eat, sleep, anything. She used to
tell me to eat pumpkin so that my hair would grow. My
mother is extraordinary. The things she told me—it took
me until my early twenties to realise that some of them
were lies!
Tala: Why does Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf, the first woman
president in Africa, not get as much coverage as Michelle
Obama?
Wanuri: I think she is protecting herself. But I love that
woman—I think she is so phenomenal. It’s so crazy
because in Kenya we are told that African women don’t
vote for African women. Sometimes as women we are selfhating
and self-loathing and that is a sad thing to watch.
Also, politics is deteriorating into this demonstration of
testosterone.
Tala: Do you think the terror being spread across Africa is
indicative of something sinister happening on the psyche
of the African male?
Wanuri: I wrote a whole article about how we as mothers,
sisters, wives, lovers, have to be blamed as well because
we are the people that raise those men, we created these
monsters, we created these egos, [so] we are also to blame.
I think the family is my nation. If I can’t raise my family
right then how do I expect my nation to work?
Tala: What is Africa’s most glorious achievement?
Wanuri: Its people. It doesn’t matter whether we are

“It pisses me off
that I need a visa
to move within
the continent. It’s
ridiculous that
sometimes we
use Europe as a
transient point to
go back into Africa.
And it vexes me that
we are so far from a
pan-African union.”
poor, hungry, sick, and war-weary, we’re just so resilient.
It doesn’t matter where we come from: in Mogadishu
they still crack jokes! In Sudan it’s the same! We are so
beautiful and humorous and glorious and hospitable. I
think our asset is our people.
Tala: What is every African youth’s duty to the continent?
Wanuri: To be themselves and not question who they are
or try to imitate other people. I’ve seen people lose that;
lose their identity, their culture, their respect for people.
African youth have to be authentically who they are and
not emulate others.
Tala: “Ras Star”, “From a Whisperer”, “Pumzi” . . . with
what spirit did you make each film?
Wanuri: All my films have strong female leads. And
all of them exercise an aspect of myself. And I know,
it’s complete vanity, but that’s the best way I know how
to write. I always say that I try to make my films my
representation of heaven because it has to have a spirit of
somebody who I want to be around and who I want to be
in essence. And not only for the female characters . . . it’s
people, male and female, that I want to know. That is how
we are going to build our countries—that is, by knowing
the right people in a real way. Knowing the good, honest
and truthful people.
Tala: What does the film fraternity think of you?
Wanuri: I think I’m so below the radar that the film
fraternity does not think of me, not in a bad way. I like
to be an independent filmmaker. Sometimes independent
filmmakers don’t get recognised; that doesn’t mean they
are not prolific. I would like to make a film every year
or every other year, but I also know that my audience is
not the type that will pack an “Avatar” stadium. That’s
cool too because I like the stories I tell and I like to have
control over them. Don’t get me wrong—one day I’ll
probably do a really bubblegum film just to pay for my
next few films!
Tala: Do you think there is an expectation that, as a black
African female filmmaker, you have to make a specific
type of film?
Wanuri: When I made a science fiction film, people didn’t
expect it. I remember giving an interview in Cape Town
and the reporter asked that, with so many other stories to
tell, why did I choose to tell a science fiction story? What
does that mean? Should my imagination be limited—
should I only tell stories about women carving pots? That
does not make any sense to me and that’s not who I am.
I make films about women that I love, women that have
brought me up, and those women are so dynamic and so
cosmopolitan that I challenge anybody not to recognise
them in their own families and worlds.
Tala: Do you understand the logic of intra-continental
travel being more expensive than intercontinental travel?
Wanuri: Not at all! It pisses me off that I need a visa to
move within the continent. It’s ridiculous that sometimes
we use Europe as a transient point to go back into Africa.
And it vexes me that we are so far from a pan-African
union. Maybe we’ll just have to define it differently . . .
perhaps a pan-African union of spirituality, because a
political union could be dangerous considering some of
the men that are in power.
Tala: When travelling abroad, do you find the need to
assert yourself as an African woman?
Wanuri: I think it’s so within me that I don’t need to
question it . . . I can’t not assert myself as an African
woman. It’s so innate: it’s in the decisions I make, the way
I serve people, the way I greet people and speak to people.
It comes naturally. It took me a while to recognise what it
was, but it’s who I am.
Tala: What is the biggest gift that film can give Africa?
Wanuri: Identity. I think we are so outward-looking that
we forget we have everything we need right here, inside
Africa.
23
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24
www.switchedonnaija.com - re’load
the case of the
two police officers
detained indefinitely
on charges of rape
By JD Everimanu
How it began
The names of the principal characters in this tale
are DO [aged 22] and OC[aged 21]. In 2008, they
were new graduates from the police academy.
They were deployed to Port Harcourt and posted
to the Mini Okoro Divisional Police Station for
their first duty.
On the night of 15 September , 2009, the two
men were part of a police contingent that was
on stop-and-search duty at Genesis Junction in
Port Harcourt. At about 2 am, a car approached
the checkpoint at high speed. The policemen
flagged down the vehicle with their torches but
the driver sped past them and in the process
grazed the checkpoint barrier. The two policemen
and some of their colleagues were ordered by
their senior officer to give chase and arrest the
offending driver. They jumped into their patrol
car and trailed the vehicle to Okporo Road, Woji,
where, on account of the heavy traffic caused in
that area by a popular nightclub, they lost their
quarry.

As they prepared to return from this failed
mission, they spotted a group of people engaged
in sexual activity, in public. These persons, on
seeing the police, tried to run. The policemen
gave chase and succeeded in arresting four of the
girls.
[When I ask the principal characters about the
men—because there must have been men, it takes
two to “engage in sexual activity” after all—they
reply that the men, all of them, escaped.]
A twist in the tale
On arriving at the police station, OC was shocked
to discover that one of the detained girls was
Miss FB, his fiancé. He began to consider
many things: he became afraid that he may
have contracted HIV since he had been having
unprotected sex with his fiancé, who he now
found out to be a prostitute. Furthermore, as he
had plans to marry Miss FB, the realisation that
she had been cheating on him with every stranger
who had the money to afford her favours, got
him mad. At this juncture (according to him) he
proceeded to physically assault Miss FB—to beat
her up. When this happened, the other policemen
decided to release the other girls who had been
arrested. OC admits that he insisted on detaining
Miss FB, but argues that he took this action
in order to question her closely with a view to
determining why she was engaged in prostitution.
While OC—with the help of his colleague and
friend, DO—was still interrogating Miss FB, she
began to scream and fight back. The commotion
drew the attention of the night duty officer.
He took one look at the situation—the two
officers were alone with the weeping girl in the
detention room—and concluded that something
criminal had transpired. The officer took the two
policemen aside for questioning, and when their
explanation did not satisfy him, he concluded that
a rape must have occurred. The young woman,
who must have been desperate to regain her
freedom, agreed with the officer’s interpretation
of events. The two policemen were detained.
[The principal characters disclose to me that, as
they were being led into jail, they heard the night
duty officer make the following comment: “Una
wan’ chop wetin big man dey chop, enh.” They
interpreted this statement as confirmation that
the four girls they arrested were high-priced call
girls who usually paid the police for protection
and in some cases even slept with the police
bosses.]
A turn for the worse
The next morning, a superintendent of police
was detailed to investigate the matter. At his
very first meeting with the detained policemen,
the superintendent brought along a prepared
statement for them to sign. They refused. Later
on, Miss FB was approached by a police officer,
one Mrs. H, who Miss FB says gave her 4000
naira to obtain a doctor’s report, which would
attest to the fact that she had been sexually
assaulted. On realising the direction the matter
was taking, the young lady recanted. The reaction
of the investigating officers to this development
was to threaten Miss FB with arrest if she did not
immediately leave the station. She left, but later
returned with a lawyer to protest the innocence of
the two policemen who had arrested her. But it
was too late: the police station had already filed
the case against two of its own.
[According to the principal characters, their
tribulation has an ethnic coloration. They say
that there are plans to have a particular ethnic
group dominate the station so that “chopping”
will be easier.]
Following the refusal of the two policemen to
sign the prepared statement, they were transferred
to the state police headquarters on Moscow Road.
At the headquarters they were detained at the
behest of the provost marshal for 7 weeks. The
principal characters claim that they were later
asked by some policemen to bring a 100,000 naira
bribe in order to be set free. They refused, as they
felt they had not committed any crime; more so,
they did not have that kind of money. At the time
of their arrest they had been police officers for
only a month and had not yet received any salary.
Finally, on September 22, 2009, they were
brought before a Port Harcourt magistrate
court on a two-count charge of “conspiracy to
rape” and “rape”. They could not be arraigned
because magistrate courts in Rivers State lack the
jurisdiction to try rape cases. Thus, the magistrate
ordered that they be remanded at the Federal
Prisons, Port Harcourt, pending the decision of
the Director of Public Prosecution on whether the
state would prosecute or decline the case.
The detainees are still awaiting the DPP’s advice.
[I should mention here that for a large number
of cases, the advice will never come. The
consequence of this bureaucratic snafu is that
awaiting-trial inmates are detained indefinitely,
sometimes for decades.]
How I got to know of the case
I am a solicitor. I was in the same court for
another matter on the day the case was called.
What first drew my attention was the fact that
there was no counsel for the accused persons.
Then the clerk of court announced that the matter
was with the DPP. With no counsel, and a DPP
matter, I knew the accused were as good as dead.
I made inquiries from the clerk of court who gave
me all the information I needed. He informed
me that the accused persons had been coming to
court since September 22, 2009, without legal
representation.
I decided to assist the law on its course. I
first obtained a copy of the accused persons’
charge sheet, and then I visited them in prison
and interviewed them for their story. When I
asked about whom to contact on their behalf,
they informed me that their relatives had all
abandoned them.
My next step was to consult with a law firm
specializing in criminal law practice. The need
for this was necessitated by the fact that the
case was a matter of life and death, as rape
convictions, in Nigeria, carry a life sentence. I
was advised to speak with the accused, to impress
on them the importance of developing a logical
and believable story, one which fits the facts.
The next stage was to raise some money for the
legal process. The budget for both applications,
despite all efforts to keep it to a minimum, came
to 60,000 naira. After much running around and
many pleas for help, I managed to raise part of
the amount from various sources.
Then I had to prepare the originating processes.
These include: a “motion of notice” asking the
court to admit the applicants to bail, an affidavit
of urgency, an exhibit and a written address.
After I had prepared the papers, the application
was then filed at the state high court in the first
week of March 2010.
And now begins the waiting game. The case
file has to first be taken to the chief judge, for
assignment, hearing and determination. These
processes—when carried out without delay—
usually take 4 months.
The consequence of indefinite detention
The unfettered liberty of the citizen was one of
the important rights secured from the hereditary
monarchs of medieval Europe prior to the age
of enlightenment. The right to liberty has been
defined in jurisprudence as the right “not to be
subjected to any form of imprisonment, arrest
and any other physical coercion in any manner
that does not admit to legal jurisdiction”. Yet
the law realizes that no human right is absolute.
Indeed, the right of an individual may amount to
little if lawless members of the society prey upon
him. Derogations from the right to liberty may
only be occasioned where a citizen has fallen foul
of the law. In such a case, the state may invoke a
sanction commensurate with the offence.
Where this is not the case, then it is taken that
there has been a systemic breakdown of laiddown
rules.
Detaining individuals without trial and even
beyond the period permitted by law causes
the public to lose faith in the system. The
consequence? They rebel against the system or
become active in reaching a compromise with the
agency involved.
I hope, for the sake of the truth—which I am
still seeking, and which I hope will come to light
in the course of the judicial process—that this
“consequence” will not be the final lesson that
we take away from the case of constables OC and
DO.
Postscript: During a recent visit I paid the
accused in prison, I was informed by them
that one of the alleged “masterminds” behind
their ordeal, Mrs. H, has died from unknown
causes. They attributed her untimely demise to
a violation of Kalabari native law and custom,
which forbids one from bearing false witness.
Furthermore, it has been confirmed that it is a
female judge that will hear and determine the bail
application.
JD Everimanu is a lawyer based in Port Harcourt.
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26
Catching Up With Tosyn Bucknor and #THESEGENES
You just hosted “Jeans for Genes 2”.
What are your views on the show?
I think the show went well. We achieved
our three main objectives, and the fact that
more people now want to get on board
and support us is an extra plus! Also, this
was the second edition. While the first
edition was quite successful, there was no
telling if it was a flash in the pan. Putting
up a second ensures we test the model,
sort out glitches and work harder on the
third!
Is there a follow up to this event?
Yes o! There’s more! “These Genes”
has annual events: two years ago we had
“Jeans for Genes”, a celeb auction and a
red-and-blue day. Last year was partnered
events and a radio doc. This year, we aim
to make a secondary school run, plus
some TV and radio ads. We also intend
to keep our blog fully functional and
informative.
What areas do you think people could
get involved in?
Mehn! Areas boku o! Lol! The good thing
is we will soon put up a post on the blog
with details of areas where paid or unpaid
volunteers are needed. For now, I will
say “These Genes” is always looking for
people who can help raise funds, people
with experience in PR, website and online
content developers, “legmen” and general
volunteers!
What’s the reaction and support being
like?
The response has been good! When we
first started, there was massive support,
and even though it dipped a bit, its always
been there. We have constant supporters
like Zapphaire events and s.h.a.r.e, and of
course, support from all the volunteers,
artistes, designers and participants since
we began. We haven’t managed to garner
any corporate support though and we are
hoping this will happen.
We noticed a lot of celebrities turned up
for the event. How did you make that
happen?
Truth is, everyone wants to give back!
Celeb or no, everyone wants a way
of volunteering their time and getting
something meaningful out of it. Besides,
with the “These Genes Celeb” trend,
everyone is a celebrity, just by turning up!
You managed to create a balance
between fun, music, fashion and
an important topic like sickle cell.
I noticed there were several
serious moments during the show. Do
you think the message was passed?
Yes o! It was definitely passed. From
my personal experience, people are more
willing to learn when their minds are
engaged in a social manner. So, while
people get dressed up and prepare to party,
they also remember it’s for a cause. And
once there’s music and beauty, then people
are ready to listen to something more
serious. If you notice, we had the serious
bits as interludes; not longer than the
music or fashion intervals!
We also gave out informational material
so people could read while they were
there, or when they get home. More
importantly, seeds have been planted so
people can now go about asking questions
and doing some research!
Where would you like to see yourself
and this project in the next 5 years?
These Genes Sickle-Cell Project will
hopefully continue its annual awareness
fundraisers, and school runs, while putting
out material like books and films. We will
also have a website that I like to call the
Google of sickle cell!
And hopefully, we will keep being a voice
where words are short!
www.switchedonnaija.com - re’load
Don’t you often
wonder why James
Bond never dies?
After all, he is
human, isn’t he?
What is his secret and
how come all girls
are in love with him,
even the evil ones?

LICENSED TO SURVIVE By Chris Ugo-Jones
In spite of all the unanswerable questions
I posed above, the one thing that I can’t
understand is the complicated method a
villain employs when he tries to kill Bond
after he captures him. You would imagine
that the bad guy would put a slug through
James’ head the minute he is captured. But,
no! instead he knocks Bond unconscious and
straps him to the pilot’s chair in a helicopter.
Then he rigs the helicopter’s armed missiles
to, after a three-minute countdown, shoot
into the air and come around to landing on
the same helicopter they just issued from.
He also leaves a pretty woman in the back
seat, just in case, well, James Bond escapes
and would like to have female company. His
reward for a job well done.
Another villian programs a weapon in space
to shoot a laser at Bond, who is driving a
sophisticated and technologically advanced
Aston Martin. It is almost the same thing as
tying a cockroach to a grenade launcher and
firing into a nuclear reactor. Why go through
all that trouble with a guy who has mastered
the knack of escaping impossible situations?
And how come Q. always has the right
gadgets to get Bond out of trouble? Does
Q. see the future? Is Q. actually the master
villain, igniting trouble while helping James
at the same time, in a twisted game of
opposites?
Two more questions. Why is the den/
laboratory/hideout of the villain always
destroyed in an explosion at the end of the
movie while James Bond barely gets away?
Must they always explode?
All these questions and more I pondered on
as I left the office to buy some food. It was
about half past one in the afternoon and the
scorching sun was drying the sweat off my
face as fast as my body produced it. Try as
the glands may, they could not keep up and
I ran under the umbrella of a recharge card
retailer to escape the heat. A young man in
his twenties looked up at me through a pair
of sunglasses.
“Sorry, I’m not buying anything. I just want
to rest from the heat,” I said. He shrugged
his shoulders like he did not care whether
I was alive or dead. I decided that I would
wait five minutes before going back out into
the blazing sun.
Four minutes passed and I was getting ready
to leave when I heard gunshots. I felt my
heart beating in my mouth and feared the
worst as I turned in the direction of the
noise.
A black BMW 6 series was being peppered
with shots from machine guns. Three men
with sunglasses hung out of a white Toyota
pick-up truck, firing at the BMW. Even
though the BMW swerved left and right, it
was obvious to me that it was bullet-proof
because the attackers fired point blank at the
sleek car with no more damage than slight
dents on its paintwork.
As the cars neared where I stood, the BMW
braked sharply and turned one hundred and
eighty degrees. The driver of the Toyota
did not anticipate this and at the speed he
was going, swerved around the BMW to
avoid a head on collision. The window of
the driver’s side of the BMW rolled down
and the driver brought out a Walther PPK
handgun, firing several shots into the fuel
tank and the tires of the pick-up truck as it
passed by.
Still in the same fluid motion, the window
of the BMW went up and the car turned
another one hundred and eighty degrees to
face the right way while the Toyota exploded
in a fireball, killing all the hapless occupants
of the vehicle except one, who had jumped
out when shots were fired into the fuel tank.
At that moment I realized I was still standing
and I hit the dirt face-first.
The BMW screeched to a stop right beside
me and the driver got out. He was a white
man, about six feet two inches tall, with dark
hair and a chiseled chin. His suit looked like
it was made on Saville Row and his shoes
glinted in the sunlight. He was close enough
for me to see his watch and it was a Rolex.
There was something about the man that
was familiar but I could not place it. I stood
up suddenly and he noticed me. He began to
walk towards me and I was petrified. He still
held the gun in his hand; I started praying.
“Excuse me, do you know where Shearville
Hotel is?” He had a smooth British accent
and a smirk on his face. “I can’t seem to find
the place, not with all the excitement I’ve
had today.”
Realization dawned on me. The rugged
handsomeness; the gun; the voice; the
clothes. Only one person had the panache
that exuded from the man at that moment.
“James Bond!” I said in a loud whisper. I
could hardly control my excitement.
“Oh, you know my name? How, if I may
ask?” He responded, his eyes shining.
“I know your MO. I’ve watched you since
I was a kid and I know there is no move
you execute without chivalry and major
explosions.”
“I try my best.” He suddenly seemed
distracted. “See, do you know the hotel I
asked about earlier?”
“Sure, I do. In fact, I’ll take you there.”
He paused, and I felt he was contemplating
whether to take me with him or not. I
was giddy with excitement at meeting my
childhood hero; my face was locked in a
wide grin
Please, take me on an adventure.
“Okay. But you must promise to keep my
identity secret or I will be forced to . . .”
“Kill me? I promise, I won’t say I word to
anyone.”
“Kill you? No, I was about to say resign
from double O status.”
“Okay.” I said, relieved. This meant that I
had gist for some of my friends later—if they
would believe me.
“Get in, quickly.” We heard the sirens of the
mobile police as we sprinted to the car. I had
barely sat down before he pushed a button
and the car zoomed off.
I’m sure you don’t believe me when I say I
sat next to James Bond. I can almost hear
you say,
“Ah ah, what is that supposed to mean?”
I knew you would not believe but then, I
have not finished my story, have I?
The BMW had more controls than the panel
of an aircraft and they were labeled with
abbreviations. I was sure people went to
school for the sole purpose of studying the
car.
“How do you know which buttons to press?”
I asked, to make conversation.
“I’m James Bond,” he answered. “I just keep
pressing till the right one comes on.”
“Ah,” I said, mesmerized.
“Besides, most of the controls are meant to
activate or fire weapons. As long as I have
figured out where the big guns are, I’m
good.” He turned, soaking up the admiration
coming from me.
I directed him to the hotel and he invited me
to the bar for a drink. How could I say no
when I just had to hear him say the words:
“A martini, dry, shaken not stirred.” I almost
screamed with delight. He looked at me and
asked,
“What would you have?”
“Oh, just Fanta on the rocks, shaken not
stirred.”
“That’s my man.” James tapped me on the
back. The barman looked at us like we were
a couple of nutcases. “All drinks are meant
to be shaken, not stirred,” he said.
A woman in a white dress walked up to the
seat beside James and sat down. The slit in
the dress revealed her long legs when she
crossed them. She had that appeal that drove
men nuts and I knew James was in trouble.
He promptly forgot me. “Hi sweetheart,” he
said, turning to her with a flirty smile, “what
do you say we leave this place and I show
you what life is all about?”
She turned, smiled and leaned close to him.
“I think I’d prefer to show you what death is
about. I have a gun pointing at your heart.
Remove your gun and pass it to me.”
Oh, James Bond. You and women! Can’t
you control yourself?
“Who’s your boss? I’d very much like to see
my captor in case I don’t survive this.” He
removed his gun and placed it within her
reach. She took it.
“Turn around,” she said. James and I looked
at the man wearing a leather jacket and
standing in the doorway.
“Q.!” James said.
I knew it. I was right all along.
“Don’t try anything fancy James, I know
all your moves.” He walked toward us,
sweating profusely. “I do say, it’s pretty hot
in Nigeria.”
“Why, Q.?” James asked.
“Why? Money, what else? You can’t expect
me to retire on the pitiful pension MI6 pays
ex-spies, do you? And you had to stumble on
my uranium mining operation in Nigeria. I
tried to keep you from finding out, diverting
your attention to hotspots in Asia, but you
couldn’t keep away, could you? You are
attracted to trouble like flies to a heap of
dung.”
“That depends on how attractive the dung
heap is.”
We all looked at him. I voiced the question
that was on everyone’s mind.
“And how in the world can you make a dung
heap attractive?”
“I don’t know, but the line sounded good,”
he said.
“Typical,” the woman in the white dress
said. She moved over to Q. and stood beside
him, the gun still trained on James Bond. I
had shifted away from him in the event that
they began blasting away. He has survived
for almost fifty years in the movie industry
and still looked thirty-five. I, on the other
hand was just starting life.
“There is a bomb under your seat, James,”
Q. said. “You have exactly two minutes to
disarm it. However, if you stand up, it will
detonate, killing everyone in here. You don’t
want that, do you?” He smiled.
I looked at James, always the picture of
calm. But I had watched all his films and
I knew he was seething, just waiting for a
chance to get his hands on Q. Then he did
the most spectacular thing I have ever seen.
He brought out the bomb and held it in his
right hand.
“You mean this bomb, Q.? I disarmed it the
minute you started talking.”
Q. was stunned. “Chivalrous dog, you can’t
best me like you did the other villains.” He
looked at the woman in the white dress and
ordered. “Iyabo, shoot him.” She pulled the
trigger but nothing happened.
“I also took the liberty of removing the
magazine from her gun when she was close
to me,” James said.
Ah, James Bond, you are too much.
“That leaves one in the chamber,” he
continued. “The question is, would you be
able to shoot me before I get to you?”
Her eyes opened wide and I saw her finger
move to pull the trigger. Quick as a flash, a
knife appeared in James’ hand and he hurled
it at Iyabo. The knife pierced her heart.
Just before she fell, she turned to Q. and
involuntarily squeezed the trigger. The bullet
blew a hole in Q.’s head and they both fell
down, dead.
“Amateurs. They should know not to engage
me in a conversation when they want to kill
me.” He turned to me. “Have a great day
and thanks for the help. I’ve got a date and a
plane to catch. Bye.”
And with that he ran for the BMW, jumped
in and drove away.
Do you believe me now?
Chris Ugo-Jones is the pseudonym of a banker
who is also, in his spare time, a writer with a flair
for the comic.
27
“I know your
MO. I’ve watched
you since I was
a kid and I know
there is no move
you execute
without chivalry
and major
explosions.”
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