One Problem With Some Igbo People Of Nigeria

One evening, I was on a bus returning home from Lekki, and there was this man seated next to me. He was an Igbo man and I knew that from the way he spoke to the woman seated next to him and in the way he talked with someone on the phone.

 At first, we were discussing Nigerian politics and some problems of Nigeria and, we moved to some of the reasons why Lagos was too congested. He told me that since there are Ports in Calabar,  Port Harcourt and Warri, he thought that government should make those ports functional so that people can leave Lagos and carry their business transactions in other cities since a lot of people are in Lagos because of the seaport.  When I learnt that he was from my zone,  Abia state, I switched from English to the Igbo language to make our conversation more homely and enjoyable but he never replied in Igbo, rather he replied with the  English language. When I spoke Igbo to him again, he replied with English. Then I got tired of him replying with the English language then I stopped the conversation.

"In many parts of the world, languages are in danger of going extinct. It might be tempting to believe that English has become the lingua franca of global business and the Internet, but when languages die, the loss has repercussions far beyond simply the loss of a lexicon. Individuals lose out on the ability to contribute to the marketplace of ideas, businesses stand to lose a customer base, and an important connection to culture is lost." -Missi Smith.

Igbo people need to learn the act of being proud of their roots and appreciate their culture just as the Yoruba and the Hausa. If you are Ignorant and you are not proud of where you come from or the language, I think there is something wrong with you somewhere. I wonder why you would not be proud of where you come from.  You didn't choose your tribe yourself,  God did. This happens also when you find yourself in Alaba International market or Idumota market in Lagos to buy things, once you speak Igbo to a fellow Igbo man,  he won't reply with Igbo because he may likely think that once he does that, you will beat down the price of the commodity you intended buying.  Or rather, that he would not sell the goods the way he planned to sell it. And these men are full-fledged Igbo men who ought to be the one to uphold this language and culture that is going into extinction.

In my village Nkporo, once it is Christmas season and you happen to be in the village, you will assume that English and Yoruba language are the official languages there. Those Igbo children born in Ghana, Benin Republic and Lagos can't speak the Igbo language.  Even the majority of Children born in Lagos cannot speak Igbo Language but can speak Yoruba and English Language fluently. It hurts me a lot to see the parents of these young ones commending and appreciating them on how fluent they are in English and Yoruba language against their own language. Hence, we talk about unity amongst our people of Eastern Coast.  We talk about upholding our relationship with one another while those things that bring us together are no more of value to our people.

The most bitter part of this is that our parents also take part in this. I have seen an Igbo father communicating with his son in the Yoruba language while this so-called boy can not even say a word or speak Igbo but the father can,  then why is he communicating in a strange language with his son?. 

Although, there are many reasons why languages die. The reasons are often political, economic or cultural in nature. Speakers of a minority language may, for example, decide that it is better for their children’s future to teach them a language that is tied to economic success. But we shouldn't allow our to die.

I stopped going to my town meeting because of this. I won't be in a meeting where we are supposed to use the Igbo language to deliberate on our issues and someone is communicating with us in a strange language. It is disgusting! Shame on us!  Shame on those parents who prefer English to the Igbo Language?  Shame on you fathers whose children are all grown up but cannot speak Igbo!  I know it means nothing to you,  yes,  some people have said that to me. But I think it is necessary we tackle this issue now before it gets out of hand. It is very annoying, very annoying when you meet a brother speak Igbo to him and he behaves like you are speaking Chinese to him. And sometimes, he won't even reply. Remember, this language is our freedom. It is the only thing that can unite us as one body. A language that can keep us safe from our foes, would you allow this language to go into extinction? Would you not pass it to the next generation? Won't you keep this culture blossoming day in day out?  We now have modern Igbo language, a fusion of 80% of English language and 20% of Igbo language together.

This is not common with the Yoruba people and Hausa people let alone the other minor tribes in Nigeria. In Yoruba land, the first language most Yoruba children learn from their parents is the Yoruba language. It is same as their culture but this is not what we see among those parents living abroad.  An Igbo mother in Lagos State prefers teaching her son how to speak English than the Igbo language. The other one in the USA prefers teaching her daughter the western culture to that of Igbo. It doesn't matter where the children were born or raised. Asa, one of the finest artists I have grown up to know was born in Paris and although she relocated with her parents and grew in her state, Ogun, she went back to France to kickstart her music career in the 2000s. Despite this, she is one of the best Yoruba singers. The likes of Brymo, Beautiful Nubia among others are doing great lifting their cultures home and abroad. Today,  Contemporary writers like Tomi Adeyemi, and the rest are writing adventurous stories with Yoruba myths serving as their materials. All over universities in the US and UK, Yoruba culture and Ifa mythology are being studied. I have once watched a video about eleven years ago of some Cuban guys living in Cuba who practised the Yoruba religion. It is that widespread because the Yoruba value their roots.

In Igbo land, we still prohibit our children from speaking Igbo in school, we say it is vernacular and these students graduate without learning how to speak or write the Igbo language. What will happen to this language in the next fifty years to come?  Some Igbo children born and bred in Port Harcourt cannot even speak Igbo how much more know anything about their roots. And the Igbos born and bred in Lagos have made the Yoruba language their language. Over 40% of Agbero in Lagos State are Igbos who have served and nationalized themselves as Yoruba.  Igbo people need to learn and be educated on how to preserve their language and culture from other tribes in Nigeria especially the Yoruba and Hausa People! I don't know why the Igbo language is not made compulsory for all the students in the Eastern zone!  I don't know why a young man who graduated from a college in Enugu, Onitsha, Aba, Ebonyi and Owerri cannot write the Igbo language! Why? Why? Please, can someone explain why? 

By John Chizoba Vincent

chizobavincent@gmail.com

T.Y. Bello's Song "Cold" : A Reflection Of What We Have Become.

I have always admired this particular woman not just because she is a singer, but because of the depth in all her songs. She is an accomplished photographer that sees through the eyes of a lens. She single-handedly changed the story of the bread seller, Olajumoke years ago.

I remember one of her songs which was a celebration of the late Octogenarian, Mama Ekundayo. She went on to showcase the beautiful aspect of motherhood, and how Mama Ekundayo raised hundreds of kids that were not even hers. You can rarely find such noble actions in this society that is fast becoming selfish.

That was the length T.Y. Bello would go to tell the world stories of happenings in our society. Her music and videos are backed up with research and when the lyrics are broken down into lines, you must definitely feel the impact and get lost when trying to find yourself.

From 'The Land Is Green', which took Nigerians by the storm to 'Ekundayo',  'Jesus Jesus' and now 'Cold'. I had downloaded the song 'Cold' months ago before I finished National Youth Service, but I just did not have time to listen to it. So today, while I was looking for a music to listen to that, will ignite my muse and make me write better, I stumbled on 'Cold' by T.Y. Bello. This particular song called on the sleeping Soldiers (not just the Soldiers, but the Citizens also) to wake up to their responsibilities. 

The song shares what is now fast trending in our society. Every man for himself. We are all trying to make money, jostle for power, have fun and make love here and there. So much so that we even forgot that there are wars going on in the North East, the Fulani Herdsmen killing in the Middle-Belt, while hundreds of Indigenous People Of Biafra, IPOB members have been killed and arrested by the Nigerian Army and the Nigerian Police. 

 "Give us heart and flesh O God, a true burning for men O God."

This line will touch anyone who still has a conscience left in him. It is a plea to God to give us heart and flesh to be able to see the sufferings of people around us. Nigeria and Nigerians are increasingly becoming selfish, as long as their immediate family is doing great, the rest can go to hell. How are we going to move forward with this kind of attitude?

Our Politicians grew up with this mentality, that is why I don't blame them. When they get into office, all they do is amass wealth and steal funds that even their unborn generations cannot finish spending.

Do you know that your Politicians, after leaving office, retire with different packages which include; houses, cars, drivers, cooks and so on? Now I can confirm to you that it is true.

Have you ever asked yourself why your present Governors picked up their party tickets to run for the National Assembly? If they succeed, they will collect all the lifetime benefits listed above and they still collect many other benefits as a Senators even after their exit from the National Assembly.

 "Have mercy Lord, we are cold, we've turned away from the crying, we've turned away from the dying. So we run, run after money, we run, run, run after power."

Yes in the West here, and every other part of Nigeria that is free from attacks by these demon blood-sucking terrorists and killers. We have turned away from the sad realities of the inhabitants of those in these precarious situations. Indeed I have listened to many people saying that the Northerners are killing themselves to acquire Power. While this may be true, it may also be false.

What about the innocent ones who were massacred in a Catholic church in Benue?

What about those in the IDP camps scattered across different parts of Nigeria?

What about those kids who did not have the means to go to school in your own locality?

What about those kids that ordinarily should be in School and not in the streets hawking?

What have you done to help the situation?

What about those poor women who toil daily to make a living?

How about those boys and girls of tomorrow who don't know where their next meal will come from?

How about you lending a helping hand to that blind man that needs to cross to the other side of the road?

How about you check on your loved ones that you've never called in a year, months and in days?

How about you give a smile to that little employee working with you?

Nigeria is currently ranked the world capital of poverty, but automobiles fill our streets in droves. 

Have you ever visited big eateries like SHOPRITE, KFC, MR BIGGS and so on and see the population that throng their buildings every day?

Where do they get the money?

Are we truly poor as a Nation?

Now do not get me wrong, I am not saying that you should not spend your money, you earn it, so you should spend it. But at the same time, also remember the people in your environment who need help.

There are foreign men and women who would leave their comfort zone to Nigeria to help educate our youths, teach children, give them scholarships, help in cases of disasters. But it saddens my heart these days to see Nigerians who claim to be religious but in the true sense of the word, they are Godless. Some of these whites don't even believe in God, but they are ready to help, even to sell their house to make sure their neighbours, not just their neighbours are alive and well. But look at our very religious Nigerians, look at the Churches, Mosques Pastors and Imams, what do you see?

If we are going to build a sustainable economy, if we are going to have relative peace, we must start investing in the people. If we don't, these forgotten souls will one day raise an army of killers against us.

TY-Bello song 'Cold' is what we all need to listen to, and re-evaluate our lives, change our mindset about Money, about wealth and life in general.

By Adetayo Omotoyosi Adeolu
 omotoyorsiiadeolu@gmail.com

Adetayo Omotoyosi Adeolu is a Writer, Poet, Digital Marketer and a Laptop Specialist based in Lagos, Nigeria.

Writing is a Lifestyle

'We write to taste life twice, in a moment and in retrospect' -  Anais Nin. 

A lifestyle is the typical way of life of an individual, group, or culture.

Wikipedia defines lifestyle as the interests, opinions, behaviours, and behavioural orientations of an individual, group, or culture. 

The ability for you to create things that never existed is the same as you being a god. You give life to none existing things. Although sometimes you are not being paid for these things the passion leads you, the drive makes you want to write more and more without stopping even if your hands ache. People criticize you negatively; make a mockery of what you have written but you keep pushing on because you have made it part of you, a blossoming lifestyle. You don’t really care what they say about; you only want to pass a vital message through this lifestyle called writing. 

You the creator, you make non- living things come to life. You the maker; you establish things from its fragments and give those things hope. You never know the power you have within you. I don’t think you know yourself. You don't know you have the ability to give and take life, you never know you can kill and make alive. You don’t know your worth in the world and that is why you allow people to kick you around.  You never knew what tomorrow has in store for you. Have you forgotten you have a lifestyle to protect? In this pleasurable world, do you know you were made to change some certain things? To give opportunities to those who deserve it?

Have you looked at yourself in the mirror and told yourself sweet words as a writer that tells the end from the beginning and the beginning from the end?  Do you know that this lifestyle chose you, you didn’t choose it? Do you know that many who criticize you want to be like you? Why do you fear?  You were afraid yesterday, you were conquered yesterday, you were abused yesterday, but you never gave up because you created this lifestyle to be a writer. Because you created another YOU from the previous ones they used to see. Why are you shattered? You were cheated, you were battered, but you never gave in yesterday. 

Why are you frustrated? Your works were rejected on several occasions but, you keep pushing on this lifestyle you carved for yourself. Writing is an endless lifestyle that stays on after you have gone into the abyss.  Because you have to write the books that need to be written. And if the book will be too difficult for adults, then you write it for children. I never knew you to be this weak, yes, I know writers are stronger than the foundation of this world. Be strong there!

If writers wrote as carelessly as some people talk, then life will be as careless as it is written.  Ernest Hemingway once wrote that all good books are alike in that they are truer than if they had really happened and after you are finished reading one you will feel that all that happened to you and afterwards it all belongs to you: the good and the bad, the ecstasy, the remorse and sorrow, the people and the places and how the weather was. If you can get so that you can give that to people, then you are a writer.  

And Albert Camus wrote that the purpose of a writer is to keep civilization from destroying itself. As a writer with a lifestyle and purpose, the more you leave out, the more you highlight what you live in. Never you judge but try to understand.

“Great writers are indecent people they live unfairly saving the best part for people. Good human beings of the world so that bastards like me can keep creating art, become immortal if you read this after I am dead it means I made it.” Charles Bukowski

“A good writer possesses not only his own spirit but also the spirit of his friends” Friedrich Nietzsche

“The good writers touch life often. The mediocre ones run a quick hand over her. The bad ones rape her and leave her for the flies” Ray Bradbury.

It’s never been a better time to be a writer or aspire to become one in a country like ours but those of us that have this lifestyle of writing chosen by us will keep pushing. If there is a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it. Create your space, a lifestyle that has never been created. Be deadly to find the right place to do that, either writing something worth reading or do something worth writing that is the lifestyle.
 

“No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader “Robert Frost.

Read, read, and read. Read everything--- trash, classic, good and bad, and see how they do it.  Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master. Read! You’ll absorb it. Then write. 

If it’s good, you’ll find out. If it is not, throw it out of the window “William Falkner.

How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live. You can shake off everything as you write, your pains, sorrow, agony, loss of loved ones, abuse; and disappointment and then, rebirth your courage and wit. Yes, that is what the lifestyle entails. 

Don’t get discouraged with how you live this lifestyle as people will always talk. Don’t look at the dumb side of it but the positive aspect of you living as an immortal after death welcomes you home.

Live your life to the fullest and write those things that needed to be written to satisfy the curiosity of those that will come after us.

Writing is a lifestyle and not a game of trial.

By John Chizoba Vincent

chizobavincent@gmail.com

Ruined

Dorcas was looking at the world from the window of her room. She sat quietly on the wooden bench, pondering over her life.  She was heartbroken. She watched as the world moved by. People walked up and down the street. Moving cars revved up and down too, the sound of the angry honking of horns, dead to her hearing. She feared that soon, hardship would yank life out of her. When she looked into the sea of pedestrians, she wondered if any of them had tasted her bitter experience called life. 

She turned her gaze into her room. Her eyes swept through the room. At one corner, was a  thin and worn out mattress laid on the cemented floor. Beside the mattress was a small wooden table. On top of the table was a pile of papers and a small mirror that leaned on the greasy wall. There was also a moulded pot of water in the other corner. She drank from it. The wooden centre table had lost a leg, to which she had used a stool to prod, to keep it from toppling. 

She stood up and made for a ‘Ghana must go’ bag. The bag sat closer to the pot. She tugged out of it; a yellow gown which had seen better days. She was getting ready to move out. Every day was just another she would go hunting for two things –a menial job and John. She would go out with high hopes, that one day, she would find any of the two. She had prayed and fasted. Her first prayer point had been to see John again. John was the man who crawled into her life like a snail. The man who shook his head in pity when he learnt that she was an orphan. The man who had promised to fight by her side. The man who had promised to love her, come rain, come shine. The man who was a wolf in sheep's clothing. She should have known that he was a bag full of lies. She should have known that he was a gold digger, who had come to fleece her and make away with all her life savings. But she thought she had found an undying love in John. 

She would never forget the particular day the manager of the Five Star Hotel she had worked for, called her to his office. She stood a few meters away from the gigantic desk. Her hands clasped loosely just above her knees. The manager scowled at her,  

“Here is your termination letter." 

He stretched his sturdy hand to offer her the white envelop. She froze at the spot as she felt her heart slam against her chest and her legs dissolve under her. Her mouth dropped, but had no words to speak. She knew what to say, but her lips had lost the ability to move. She knew her offenses, even though she had lost count of the times she repeated them.  She remembered those times she was absent from work. John had fallen sick and needed her care. She remembered borrowing money from the hotel which she requested be deducted from her salary when she was due for payment. She felt clearing John’s debt would bring back his charming smiles. The company had had enough. She had to be relieved of her duties. After all, no one was irreplaceable. The company would always find a person as hardworking as Dorcas but not as nonchalant as she was.  

She came back home that day in a somber mood. She met another white envelop on the table. It contained a letter and the content tore what was left of her broken heart. John had written it. Dorcas dropped the letter when she had gained the knowledge that the rent of the two-room apartment had expired and that their relationship was over. 

From that day, Dorcas would roam up and down the small town, walking in and out of restaurants, applying for the post of a waitress, in her yellow gown, without any luck. When the day turned into night, she would crawl back to the dingy apartment with cracked windows. She had harbored and nurtured curses that she would like to rain down on John. She wanted to hurl the curses while he stood and looked into her eyes. That way it would be more effective, so she thought. 

And it came that day. It was a stretchy day. The clouds had parted and the sun had decided to make its appearance. The scorching heat was ripping Dorcas' back as she ambled out of this restaurant. As usual, her request had been turned down. The creases on her face had burrowed into a frown as her flip-flops tapped away on the coal tar. She was about hitting into the street when she stopped on her track as she heard what the manager of the restaurant had said. 

“Who would like to patronize me if I employ an old woman of 35yrs as the waitress?”

Some part of her wanted to go back and tell the manager that she was only but 25yrs. But when she saw her reflection on the glassy window, she stifled the urge. She saw the wrinkles hardship had left on her face. It was enough to have added 10yrs to her age.  

She turned and made a few strides away before she stopped. She struggled to steer clear of the trailing prado SUV, which pulled to a stop some feet behind her. The man that came down seemed to recognize her. He fixed his gaze on her face as he walked up to her, followed closely by a pregnant lady who came down from the passenger's side of the car. Dorcas jaw dropped as she finally recognized the face. She stood transfixed for some seconda. Her heart melted into her stomach and in no time, her eyes filled up with tears. She shook her head and tears flowed profusely coursing her cheeks. Now was the perfect time to rain the curses on him. But her eyes kept sweeping from John to the pregnant woman and back to John. She shook her head again and more sobbed silently.

John raised his dropped head to glance at her face. His hands reached to grab Dorcas’ hands. But she recoiled in disgust and retracted her hands. She ran blindly into the road to make a cross, in a bid to get as far away from Johnas possible. There was an oncoming vehicle. It was too late by the time she saw it. A sharp scream pierced the air. It took some split seconds for Dorcas to realize the cream was coming from the pregnant woman. John’s hand rose to cover his dropped jaw. The oncoming vehicle, in its full velocity, decked Dorcas, sending her flying into the air, and she came crashing onto the jagged edges of the gutter with her head first, bursting like a watermelon. Her brain registered in a faint blur, the image of John rushing towards her, shortly before her eyes closed and her life slowly fizzled out.

By Chukwuebuka Harrison 

Shackles

Kate hated the idea of marriage. She had seen marriage for what she thought it was; hell. For her, marriage was synonymous with ceramic plates. They get shattered into shreds when they fall from a height. She also knew this about marriage – it always started like a sweet gentle breeze, but in no time, grow bitter like a lemon.

As she sat on the cemented floor, her heart filled with sadness, she knew that the hull of her marriage had hit an iceberg. In her muffled cries, she could still feel the draft, slipping through the windows. She paid little or no attention to the cold since it couldn't be helped. With her hands and legs tied, she couldn't possibly have done anything. She thought of ways to escape, but in the end, her mind sank into despair; stark empty as the room itself, with a musky scent of abandonment. 

A shuffle in the hallway broke the long silence. Her pupils dilated, as she struggled furiously her screams muffled by the thick gag around her mouth. She felt a pang of fear rising in her heart and her ribs rose and fell in quick successions. She knew it was about to happen. Death was just some centimetres away from the door.

She knew how it would all end. Her husband would march in with men dressed in red robes. On his order, they would carry her to an unknown location. They would slit her throat on their secret altar. After that, they would heave a sigh of relief because the eyes that have seen and the tongue that would have exposed their secret would be no more. She would cease to be a threat to them.

Kate cringed at this thought. She regretted the fateful night –when she had unknowingly let out a terrified scream upon discovering the dark secret. It was indeed a night she would never forget. It was the night she was scrubbing the room he forbade her to enter. That night, she saw a lifeless woman in the wardrobe. The woman stood erect like an effigy. She was dressed in a white robe and red, blood streaks coursed the insides of the wardrobe. The dead woman's hollow eyes stared blankly at Kate and the skin on her cheek sunk deep into the bones. Kate had screamed some more and her had husband appeared.  

A chubby man whose upper lips bore a dense moustache. His head nearly went bald, save for the thin line of hair that spanned the edges. 

She shook her head with the intention to stifle the thought, but it was only replaced with another. Her mother's voice came alive to her ears. It broke through the deathly silence that reigned in the room.  

“A man like that is every woman's dream,” her mother’s voice rang, “God forbid. You will not bring shame to this family,” she continued, a designer lace fabric Kate’s suitor had bought for her swung across her left shoulder. 

Kate sneered as she sprang from the small wooden bench to stand akimbo. 

Her mother’s hand rose to face her, brandishing a fat black key. “Just to ask your hand in marriage and we own a Prado SUV already,” she paused a bit as if she was choosing her words “you have rejected a good number of suitors and that's enough. I will not allow it this time,” an edge of anger in her voice.  

What started as a shuffle birthed tons of thumping steps. They knocked Kate off her thoughts. The louder the thumping steps, the clearer Kate could picture her death. She was married off to a ritualist. It would have been better if she was married to a wife batterer. Her parent's house would have beckoned and she would have answered. More tears rolled down her cheeks.  

She gazed at the greasy walls with a frown. How she wished the walls had a mouth to swallow her and at least hide her from the impending doom. Her fear grew once again. She sought invisibility. She wished for nothing, but to stay alive. She could feel the cold hands of death. Her transition to the other side of life was just a stone throw. 

With the jangling of keys and the fitting of one into its hole, the door creaked open. She felt her heart jump into her stomach. With what her eyes met, a crease of confusion formed on her face. The men that trooped in were not on red robes but a khaki uniform. She recognized the man that appeared to be apprehended as her husband. Lines of blood trickled from his head into his black pants. His bare chest displayed dense hair which had been forced to lay down by the caked blood.  

Her eyes swelled with hope as her hands and legs got loosened. 

A huge man offered a hand and she rose to her feet. She was going to say thank you, but heard her tongue asked, “Please, how did you find me?” 

Her question was met with silence, but a gentle smile appeared on her face on seeing Ikay; the gateman. He was smiling sheepishly in the green T-shirt Kate had bought for him some days back. The small device in his hand had triggered Kate’s smile. It was a voice recorder Kate had once gifted him.

By Chukwuebuka Harrison