Hackney, East London. In a red London bus travelling from Dalston to Shoreditch where I earn my income. A middle aged woman sized me up and requested to sit beside me. I obliged instantly. The writer in me began to rear its interrogative head. Talk to her, it began. Don’t talk to her, it cautioned. Relax and chat her later, it reasoned. Look, you are getting down soon, why bother the poor woman……let go….let….go!!! I shut down that devilish operating system confusing my mind. It was either I challenge this demon and announce that I was in charge or he will smile and wink in triumph like the absconding scoundrel he always is.
It is summer in London. We are all basking under the baking sun. Sun’s out…fun’s out!!! Sun worshippers among us have emptied into all the streets, malls, parks and gardens all across Hackney. There are soft nudity anywhere you turn. Exhibitionists are proud to offer their curves for free to every male prying eyes roaming to feast on cleavages and bums. Men now show hairy legs through their khaki shorts. Some of us who have pumped up chest are proud to display our muscles to a chorus of ooohhh and ahhhs from appreciating women.
Then my co-traveler received a call. She dissolved into Yoruba language. After lengthy gossip with the caller, she heaved a sigh of relief. Then I opened the door into her universe. I used the most potent passport that will grant me entry – I spoke in the best tradition of an Ibadan man. Shocked and ruffled, she gave me an unbelieving look. It dawned on her that I was not the Ghanaian she thought I was. E pele madam, I started. Ese sir, she responded with dignity. We talked about the baking hot weather, family, work and Nigeria.
On the last, she frowned. Nigeria ke? It was as if I had struck her on the solar plexus. She descended so heavily with blistering expletives on that geographical space called Nigeria. She was throwing grenades on all our value systems: institutions, leaders, religion, lifestyle, education, marriage, our attitude to money, man inhumanity to man, herdsmen killings, political parties, politicians and at the end, pronounced bitter curses on her native land. Her reminiscences of what Nigeria did to her was lamentable.
Her nostalgia of the harm and disappointment she received from family and friends made her issued more curses on Nigeria. She renounced, rejected, divorced and vomited Nigeria. There was palpable sadness in her tone. She kissed her teeth in revulsion……Pssshhhhhh!!! She cursed Ibrahim Badamasi Babangida, Olusegun Obasanjo and Goodluck Jonathan. She vowed never to set her foot on Nigeria again…..ever! Madam Kofo, let us give her that name for now, roared like thunder, her mouth foaming with saliva. She left Nigeria 30 years ago for a greener pasture of UK. But each time she visited Nigeria in those 30 years, she returned to UK with horror stories of man’s inhumanity to man, arrested development, 419 among family members and all sorts of hard luck tales. All the money sent for investments were lost to 419 among family members. Other business startups funded by her wealth were looted by her own brothers and sisters.
Eventually, something happened. In 2008, the father died. The only magnet that kept attracting her back to her root was now gone. She visited for the burial. She celebrated her dad and fondly remembered all his evergreen values he bequeathed to his children. She left in acrimony. Baba was yet to be buried and given the final respect, yet the siblings have been warring for the houses, cars, gold, silver, brass and other warts left behind. There were threat of juju among the siblings. Madam Kofo, was cast in the mould of a rich woman by the family. She lives abroad and so she should not scavenge for her dad’s possession left for all. This idea was mooted in secret and among the more aggressive members of Madam Kofo’s family.
Two days to her departure, she was told all that was said in secret. She was shocked and dazed that her own siblings plotted to disinherit her because she lives abroad. She smelled blood, warfare and imminent death. She took her bag and fled back to the UK. Another victim of Nigeria’s theatre of wickedness and greed. She has vowed never to return to Nigeria.
Yemi, a young teckie (he works in IT) lives in the IT hub of Shoreditch. He has a wife and two small children. I see him every morning cleaning his gleaming, late model, Mitsubishi station wagon. I befriended this dapper car loving guy. With time we got talking. He, like Madam Kofo, also thought I a Ghanaian. I am learning here that appearance could be deceptive. I am learning that we should avoid presumption when it comes to nationalities. When Nigerians meet, the glue that always bond us together will remain talk and debate about Nigeria – that behemoth that still shames my own tribe of Diaspora Nigerians.
Yemi has a bundle of horror stories to share about that nation. Nigeria, it seems, gives a bitter baptism to his children that leaves a permanent scar on their mind. Yemi once shipped buses to Nigeria to try his hand as a transporter. That business was ruined by supervisors at home who are more ambitious than Yemi. He bought a land in Lagos. The land was sold to multiple buyers. The buyer who could boast of having the most merciless Babalawo in his service won the day. He lost millions of naira.
Like Madam Kofo, death and funeral took him to Nigeria in 2008 also. A chilling coincidence! His father answered the call of heaven. After the burial, he called it a day with Nigeria. Since then he has neither visited Nigeria nor hope to do so again. Yemi is 40 years old. Madam Kofo is in her 70s. Each generation is handing the baton of rejection of the homeland to another!!
Sister Efe is also a Hackneyite. Petit, smart and beautiful. She left Nigeria in the early 80s. Her own rendition of the Nigerian story was also tinged with sadness, sorrow and horror. I never knew until one day when I teased her and asked about her last visit to Nigeria. She looked intently and gave me an angry look. She was initially speechless but then opened up. So, you still dey go Nigeria, she asked. I do, I responded. Na wa o……you dey go that stupid ….thief….thief country wey politicians don finish, she said. I hate Nigeria, she blurted out…….Yes, I hate that country. I shook my head ready for more grenade. Then she said that she was last in Nigeria over 20 years ago. Her business trips now takes her to Hong Kong and Dubai. Nigeria no be my country…..manke una hold am, she said shaking her head.
I have distilled here the depth of sorrow and shame brought on Nigeria by corrupt political class. Thousands of Nigerians abroad are denouncing Nigeria because of the shameful aberrations of our values, friends, families and politicians living in that space. Nigeria is a moral conundrum. Trust is deficient in our gene pool. You cannot put your trust on Nigerians when you live abroad. Wickedness is pervasive. Love of money has destroyed family unity. Greed has eaten deep into our souls. Diaspora Nigerians are losing pride in their country. Being Nigerian and hating it is gaining converts. Identifying with Nigeria is becoming a dying patriotism. Politicians have brought the most dishonor, disrespect and moral disruption to our nation. To many Nigerians in the diaspora, Nigeria is no longer a home to return to, but a living hell to avoid, renounce and denounce all together.