Welcome to Nigeria

In Malaysia he got away with everything, the community treated him like a child that he’s – they smiled and laughed at his frolics.  What he took away from that woman’s look, I guess, what he took for granted in a foreign land was no longer possible in his own country.  As a  sensitive child, […]

In Malaysia he got away with everything, the community treated him like a child that he’s – they smiled and laughed at his frolics.  What he took away from that woman’s look, I guess, what he took for granted in a foreign land was no longer possible in his own country.  As a  sensitive child, he immediately knows when one is not happy and gets visibly disturbed when one wears a scowl. But while he can hold his parents’ faces and plead with them until they relax their faces, he considered the woman a lost cause, hence the crying.  “O boy, this is the new reality,” I told him, “wait until we get home, it will only get worse.”
And it did get worse, at least for his father.  So far, I’ve lost one of my luggage (a box which contains my clothes and academic credentials), the Internet failed me when a panel of professors wanted a final discussion with me via a Skype video conference for an assistant professorship position that I had practically been offered and had been brazenly short-changed at a bureau de change – to count just a handful.
Making me wonder what on Earth Nigerians mean when they said they’re proud of their country.  Do they mean they love their country?  Because there’s no accounting for love.  Love falls in the domain of the heart and the human heart is an unstable web of contradictory emotions – impossible to decide for all its complexity. Thus,  nobody questions matters of the heart – and anybody that’s pedantic enough to do so, gets an answer that’s a cross between a manufactured truth and the babbles of a mad man.
However, launching into expression of pride invites logic.  A mother can’t be proud of a son who’s a murderer, a thief,  an idiot, but the mother is allowed – expected even – to love the son.  So, if translated from the murky illogic of their minds, Nigerians love their country but are not proud of it – you can’t be proud of shit.  Yet, I have friends in Diaspora who, although educated, can’t distinguish between logic and emotion and wander about with t-shirts screaming “Proud to be Nigerian!”  Events of the last few days make me want to jump on the rooftop and shout: “I’m not!”
This is a country where the leaders whine and grumble in their sinecures – while oblivious of the reality that the masses are drowning in their own misery.  The people on the other hand, unmercifully covet more troubles than misery itself would give.
But the words which have been my consolation since we came in didn’t register on my consciousness until my wife uttered them at Abuja airport.  We just came down from the plane and were about to line up for the immigration.  However, I didn’t see the lines – I saw just a dark room with a mass of people.  “Which queue are we joining,” I asked my wife as if she could produce the answer.  “Welcome to Nigeria,” she said.  Since then, whenever I see crazy things, of which they’re many, I say, “welcome to Nigeria.”  It may not be much, but it serves as a reminder that one should lower his expectations because you’re now in a land where even decent human beings behave like animals.
As we were queuing, I saw a friend who works with NAHCO and called his attention.  “What are you doing here,” I asked.  “Did you know I was coming back?” I usually tell him about my arrival but this time I didn’t because he was preparing for his marriage – one of the reasons for my choice of dates for arrival. He said he was there to receive the entourage of one of the north eastern governors.  “Receive” here means helping them through immigration and customs and helping collect their luggage, which I find quite strange because I don’t see anybody needing help with immigration or the customs officials – you’re either committing an offence or you’re not. The standard procedure demands that everybody passes through their counters. 
And as for luggage collection, before I knew what was happening my friend had already rented two trolleys for my family’s luggage – it’s N400 each trolley but he paid N1000 for two.  You see, my friend is a good man with a good heart, but besides paying for the trolleys, he allowed two healthy and strong men to “help” me hurl the luggage unto the trolleys – this service, I later had to pay for.  If my friend had consulted me, I would have told him to let me exercise my limbs because I’ve lived for the last six years, you don’t need any lazy giant to con you of your hard earned money pretending to help you with your luggage.
In Malaysia we didn’t pay for trolleys, in Nigeria, I didn’t mind paying.  But I frown at strong men who could do something better with their time, offering a service that’s not needed.
Yet, this is an apt analogy of Nigeria: a giant and overgrown tissue of uselessness.