After a recent three week visit from the US to Lagos, Ibadan, Ijebu-Imusin, Accra, and several other places in between, one phrase I could not stop using was “What a Country!” Of course, the wording came from the title of Kunle Ajibade’s recent book. Why wouldn’t I appropriate Mr. Ajibade! The same historical forces produced us, after all. Whether he knew it or not, Kunle Ajibade’s exclamation--or is it an exasperation--speaks for a large stratum of living Nigerians. As it does for Mr. Ajibade, this country that many of us love very dearly surprises, perplexes, inspires, revulses, and frustrates us all, frequently at the same time.
Somehow, on this trip I developed a new appreciation for what newspaper writers describe as petty trading. Maybe that was because of my formative experiences which were partly derived from my mother’s (and that of many other women around me) involvement in small scale smoked fish retail trade. For reasons I do not know, the image of petty traders burned itself into my head during this visit and became the gecko dung that I could not clean off no matter how much I try: at the airport, on the lowways, on the highways, under the bridge, over the bridge, over drainage ditches, at Akute, at Lambe junction, at Ikeja Roundabout, at Ilagunjo, at Ilodo, at the gates of the University of Ibadan, in front of the elementary school at Obalende, at the entrance to the Foursquare Gospel Church at Balogun. These outfits, many of them shopless, peddle cribs, cots, and coffins, catering to all from cradle to the grave. They sell auto parts, SIM cards, recharge cards, playing cards, and many other cards I cannot name. They ply fruits, tiles, shoes, and clothes. To my dismay, no airplanes were on sale. (Someone told me that I shouldn’t rule out aircraft parts.) It looks to me like every Nigerian between Lagos, Ibadan, and Ijebu-Imusin is either a trader or a maker of something to be traded. One person corporations—or aspiring corporations—fill the land. There must be a reason, after all, that the Yoruba people invented and installed Ajé Sàlúgà as the patron divinity of traders.
Having lived in the US, the most advanced capitalist country of our time, for the last 22 years and having visited several others like it, I risk no exaggeration in asserting that the typical Nigerian’s drive to own something of his or her own is unparalleled. I hope I am believed when I declare that Nigeria is the real “ownership” economy; America merely pretends to that title with shameless sloganeering. No evidence confirms this hunch better than what we call the “owner’s corner” in private cars. Those who do not believe me should please name another country where people speak of the “owner’s corner” the way Nigerians do. My brother-in-law gave me a valuable lesson in the semiotics of Nigerian ownership culture when he advised that I should always sit in the “owner’s corner” whenever someone else is driving. Projecting ownership, he insists, is not for my sake. (“Who does not know that English teachers don’t own anything,” he snickered.) Biodun’s advise was to save the driver from undue harassment by uniformed officers.
The persistence of trading I saw left me restless and puzzled because an “ownership” economy like ours should not suffer the grim lack apparent in the faces, physique, and mien of the traders. It remains unclear to me how the abundant economy of scale lurked in the countless one person corporations could be harnessed. Because I am not an economist and has never pretended to be one, my Ijebu progeny notwithstanding, I would not know what to say. Clear to me, however, is that the thousand and one phone card peddlers on Iju Road, put together, lack the productive power of a few well located distributors. Isn’t ubiquitous trading a sign of underutilized production capacity? That is a question for the Charles Soludos of this land to answer.
I would speak of another set of petty retailers, the countless brokers of born again spirituality that litter the physical, cultural, and sonic landscapes. My many attempts to count the exact number of churches between Akute Junction and Lambe Junction, a distance of only a few kilometers, failed because it looks like a new outfit pops up every time I try to recheck my numbers. One day I tried to extend my census effort to span Sanngo (Ota) and Berger Junction (Ikeja)--by the way, Lagos and Ogun state governments ought to join hands to widen that road into a major bye-pass--and soon learned the meaning of “God is in control!” Without a supremely powerful divinity in charge, one stretch of road cannot possibly hold that many churches. The traditional conglomerates’ involvement in the petty retailing business, with the Anglican church further in the spirit race than their Catholic counterpart, also surprised this observer.
What else did I see that boggled my mind? Ijebu Imusin’s two churches--the Anglican St. Mary’s and the Catholic Most Pure Heart of Mary--of two and a half decades ago have multiplied many fold into Winners’ Circle, Deeper Life, two parishes of the Redeemed Christian Church of God, Christ Apostolic Church, The Apostolic Church, The Apostolic Faith, an extra Anglican outfit, a smaller Catholic outpost, Cherubim and Seraphim, ECWA, and the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints! Of course, the Reformed Ogboni Fraternity has built a newer meeting place right next to the Winners’ Chapel. The town’s central mosque sits squarely in the town’s approximation of a Civic Center! When I saw the Mormon temple, second in size to only the Winners’ Chapel among the newer sanctuaries, I screamed Yéè Pà! What carrots did Mormons dangle in front of my people. Didn’t that church outlaw polygamy over a century ago! Does Ijebu-Imusin need the teachings of another last and final prophet?
Are my people that spiritually starved that they need so many competitors for their soul? Then I remembered that this Nigeria of mine, where the rule of economies of scale has gone to bed, favors an “ownership” economy, the spirit market included. Be it “Eríwo Yà” or “Alelúyà,” let a thousand shops bloom! Let every Christian open a church. The stagnation in the number of high schools in Ijebu-Imusin--we still have the two that were there 25 years ago--the size of the small dispensary and maternity center, and the shrinking size of the central market confirm my estimation that the pond being fished by all the churches is not expanding, after all. They will certainly fish the source to death, I argued with myself.
The effect of the sprit environment on the sonic atmosphere deserves some comment. One night at about a kilometer away from my father’s homestead in Ijebu-Imusin, an end of time preacher screamed the dickens out of his lungs. The stereo amplification could not hide the preacher’s obvious distress as his concern for the grievous condition of souls yet to be born again rang insistently. My niece, Ramota, replied in the negative to my inquiry about whether some crusade was happening uptown. She told me that the sermon is recorded! Ijebu-Imusin’s “Hour of Power” comes up every evening, now sans radio. But for the screaming preacher, I probably would not have noticed the croaky mating tunes which a large choir of toads residing in some invisible ponds nearby belted out for what seemed like an endless period. While the toads jogged childhood memories, the preacher stoked indifference. The love shouts from the church and from the ponds killed my sleep till at least 1 AM, when power holders restored light. Unlike former days, however, no one hailed the moment with “UP NEPA.” UP PHCN defies prosody, doesn’t it.
Pervasive darkness cannot nurture poetry. Market nooks in Ijebu-Imusin appeared darker than I can recollect, probably because light was on in the houses that surround the marketplace when I walked through that place at sundown two years ago. Akute served no better experience. There, we turn off Gen, our darling Gen, every night before going to bed. My very young niece, Titilayo, missed the joke when I told her that Jen is a girl’s name. How come none of the many hip-hop singers has composed a number for the Gen! Don’t they know that “Yahooze”’s popularity would pale beside Gen’s? Come on 9ice, give us something about Gen. I promise not to seek copyright credit, if you do it. Just give us something in praise of the Generator. Karen King-Aribisala’s tender story on the Generator needs a popular medium update. Maybe this is a chance for the novelist to collaborate with the hip-hopper. Imagine Karen King-Aribisala writing lyrics for 9ice! Gongo A So, should that day come. If 9ice would not do it, can we call on Styl-Plus for a paean to the Gen, the bringer of light? D’banj can start by singing about “Gen Dúdú” and “Gen Pupa.” Sesan runs a Gen Pupa. His neighbor operates the “baddest” Gen Dúdú, I mean real diesel black. The vibrations of Sesan’s neighbor’s Gen Dúdú resonate so deeply that neither the toads nor the preacher of Ijebu Imusin compare. All hail the Gen, the bringer of light.
Talking about another type of darkness. What is it that makes many banks insist on black uniforms for their employees. This observer believes that our country’s pervasive darkness deserves relief, particularly at places where we keep our monies. The churches rail endlessly against the blackness of evil and pray for the cleansing power of the savior’s red blood. In contrast, the few banks I visited projected a funereal atmosphere. Everybody looks serious, unsmiling, and barely opens their mouths to either ask or answer questions. Come on, banking should be different from undertaking. Bank PHB, and others like it, please free your people from the power of darkness! Banking halls need some cheer. This poor customer wants some color and would like to suggest that you give your human resources people a new mandate. The overwhelming dark look worn by your folks worsens the effect of the bland, unrelenting whiteness of your interior walls. The back office folks can be dark, if they choose. May UBA be blessed for letting color into its front office. Who knows, maybe UBA’s catholic attitude towards color is responsible for its success.
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