Tunde Fagbenle: Dear dad, how come Nigeria is dirty?

by Tunde Fagbenle

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“How come Nigeria is dirty, and there is mud everywhere?” He asked. “Is it because the white men left?”

I posted this short conversation on my Facebook status last week and the reactions to it by scores of people, Nigerians and non-Nigerians, came in torrents. It touched a sensitive nerve and evoked emotions akin to such that set off revolutions. It made some sad, it mad some angry, but left none without some thought. Here:

I have a 6-year old who, though much younger than a couple of my grandkids, is my son – my loving and loveable son. His name is Tani, for Tanimola.

Tani took me on yesterday (06/03/14) as we were in the car driving to our recreation club in Ibadan, Nigeria. And the engagement did task me some.

“Dad,” he said from the blue, “how come the writings on all the shops are in English?”

It was a question I wasn’t expecting. A brief silence, then, “it’s a long story,” I said.

“Then tell me it,” he said.

“It’s because English is the common language spoken in Nigeria,” I offered.

“But why,” he persisted.

“A long time ago, we were ruled by the English.”

“How come?”

“Well, they came with their guns and forced themselves on us, killing those who did not want them until finally they were able to stay and rule us. They then forced their language on us. But that was a long time ago. And when they left we found ourselves still using their language for business and stuff.”

“But we don’t have to still be using the language,” he said.

A ting of shame came over me. How can a 6-year old query thus.

“Tell me more,” he said.

“Before then,” I began, with a bit of shame, “they took many of us black people away as slaves to England and America to go work on their farms and build their roads and work in their factories. That was because the white people were not enough in their lands and so needed more hands.”

“Did they pay for those they took away?” He asked.

“Sometimes they did, sometimes they did not. They took them away forcefully because they had the guns,” I said with a lot of discomfort.

“Were you alive then,” he asked.

“No I wasn’t at the time of slavery, but I was when we were ruled by the white man.”

“Man?” He queried.

“Men,” I corrected, “it’s the same, you can say white man for white men.” I said wishing we changed topic.

“Tell me more,” he kept on.

I really didn’t know what else to say, so I was quiet.

“Tell me more, dad,” he kept on and on.

To be honest, I didn’t have much else to say and so kept quiet.

Later as we drove on:

“How come Nigeria is dirty, and there is mud everywhere?” He asked. “Is it because the white men left?”

“Mud? What mud are you talking about?” I asked a bit exasperated.

He pointed at the dirt and soil and shrubs everywhere.

“No,” I said. “It’s the weather. Africa is hot and dusty because of the weather. We don’t have cold weather or snow like in England. That is why you have so much dust and sand everywhere. But it’s not as dirty as it used to be. Things are changing.” I said with some pain.

It was a big relief when we turned into the club grounds. He hasn’t gone back to the questions, but I’m sure he will again.

 

Fashola gives Romoke hope

Readers of this column would be familiar with the fervour with which I had in the last couple of years brought to the attention of Nigerians a young girl tennis prodigy, Sarah Romoke Adegoke, and sought, to no avail, help to send her to IMG, in Florida,USA, arguably the best tennis academy in the world, to give Romoke the best chance of attaining the optimum of her potential and possibly give Nigeria her first female star in the Women Tennis Association (WTA) circuit.

Romoke then was a 14-year old student of a high school in Ibadan and was ranked No. 1 in the world in the 14-and-under age category, by the African Tennis Federation; a remarkable feat when viewed against strong tennis-playing countries such as South Africa, Egypt, etc.

Then, in my column last week on my encounter with Governor Ajimobi of Oyo State (who, by the way, has called to explain the “non-recognition” issue to my satisfaction) I, again, touched on the case of Romoke, now a 16-year old who has moved into the 18-and-under category and holding her own.

Lo, and behold, before the end of the day came a text message directly from Mr. Babatunde Raji Fashola (BRF), the action governor of Lagos State. “Can you please,” he requested,“give me an indication of what it would cost to finance Romoke’s admission into IMG”. That is a responsive governor for you. BRF has beaten any other possible interest to it. I was over the moon.

Immediately, I was on the phone to the admissions Office of IMG and thus have begun the process of getting Romoke to IMG to start in August 2014 and continue both her academic studies – to go into 10th Grade of the US education system – and a tennis career!

On behalf of Romoke and Nigeria, “thank you, BRF!”

 

Adieu, Demola ‘Fireman’ Ali

A little 3” x 2 column in the middle of The Nation newspaper of Tuesday March 11 was captioned: “Ex-T/Tennis star Demola ‘Fireman’ Ali dies at 83”

I gasped in bewilderment and grief. ‘Fireman’ Ali was one of Nigeria’s greatest table-tennis stars of yore. I was but a little boy when the name Fireman Ali was a household name. He, along with Alagbala and Karimu Kotun, was synonymous with that most popular “everybody’s game” table tennis, in the 50s.

But later I got to know “Broda Demola” as I used to call him, personally. We lived in the same house, No. 7 Igbosere, most briefly in 1966, a year after I left secondary school and came to Lagos.

No. 7 Igbosere was right in front of Campus Square cemetery and, as was rampant in those days, there was a tennis table right beside the road by the cemetery.

Table-tennis was my first love at school, and I was part of the Kiriji Memorial College table-tennis team that won the prestigious “Olowu Cup” in Western Region in 1963-64. And so, what fortune! Broda Ali, though years away as an active player on the national scene, still had it all in him. He would take a bet (and betting and table-tennis were one) that he would beat me playing only with his backhand strokes. Conceited as I was (after all an ex-Olowu-Cup player) how could anyone beat me using only the backhand or forehand, an “old” man at that?

But Broda Demola Ali would tease me to no end, using his backhand with such dexterity and power – what earned him the name “Fireman” in his playing days – and it didn’t matter how much I played the ball to his forehand, he would still beat me silly. If I was always broke within the first week of getting my salary then, no thanks to Broda Ali.

We remained close long after those days, and I was his little brother. He later became a sports administrator and was always at the Lagos Lawn Tennis Club till he breathed his last. Whenever he saw me he always showed pride in me, “I read you all the time,” he would say, “I buy the SUNDAY PUNCH because of you.” He always asked to get his own copies of my books and I always promised to deliver them.

I am glad I finally did before he died. Goodbye Broda Demola ‘Fireman’ Ali – a quintessential gentleman.

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Op-ed pieces and contributions are the opinions of the writers only and do not represent the opinions of Y!/YNaija.

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