When I saw the book “Of This Our Country” posted on RovingHeights’ Instagram page, I instantly knew I had to get it. Contrary to the popular adage, I shamefully judge books by their cover. Once I saw the under title “Acclaimed Nigerian writers on the home, identity and culture they know” on the cover, I knew I just had to have it and read it for myself.
So off I went to the store during my lunch break to pick it up, together with “Nearly All The Men in Lagos Are Mad” but I’ll save that for another post *hehe*. Reading essays from acclaimed writers from Chimamanda Adichie to Ayobami Adebayo to Lola Shoneyin to Abi Dare, my heart breaks a little for a country I never knew and may never know. I read memories of a country that worked, of three youth corpers of different backgrounds; ethnic and religious, forming a friendship and going on road trip adventures across the country. I read of muslims and christians growing up peacefully in the middle belt region before our differences were wielded against us by people of selfish ambitions and myopic views.
It breaks my heart that I may never experience a country that works, that I may never be able to drive cross country without fear of being accosted by corrupt officers or worse falling into the hands of kidnappers. And should one successfully manoeuvre their way around these two, then what about the deplorable state of our interstate roads? What’s worse is when I read books based from the late 1980s, I see a pattern, complaints of the same problems, which we still face in 2022. I find myself delving deeply into pages of books that try to tell the story of Nigeria, since our Government deemed it fit to remove history from the Nigerian curriculum. Bear in mind that I’m one of the lucky few who were taught History in secondary school but having grown and learnt so much about this country outside the four walls of a classroom, I’m more upset than happy to have been part of the lucky few. Because really what was banzan bakwai and Oduduwa supposed to teach me about the history of my country? I have instead found myself relying on books like “Nigerian Soldiers of Fortune”, “Formation: The Making of Nigeria From Jihad to Amalgamation” “What Britain Did to Nigeria” amongst others to learn about my country. With what I’ve learnt, I often wonder if I’m being foolish not making any japa plans.
The past few weeks have not been the kindest or easiest for Nigerians from the average Nigerian to entrepreneurs. It seems like everyone is hanging by a thread. Fuel scarcity to no electricity supply. Inflation to food insecurity. No one is taking responsibility and no one seems to want to do anything about it. Everyone is looking for a way out but even that poses its own challenges. I wonder, when will it ever end? When will it get better? When will we experience a functional country with an accountable government?
I’ll share an excerpt of this book from Abubakar Adam Ibrahim that summarises how I feel and the sad truth of what it is to be a Nigerian at this present moment.
So many things do not add up here like how a country of such brilliant minds is always often led by middling men.
So when we retreat to the bubbles of comfort we create to escape this reality, we go all out. We party hard, the better to flee from our nightmares. It is no surprise that humour is one of the biggest industries in this country. We make fun of our misery and laugh at ourselves. Gently with the greatest care in the world, we bury the bitter pills of our reality into the lush art we make so they are easier to swallow. With words, with art and music, we deconstruct our realities- the bizarre, the fantastical and magical, the tragic, the exhilarating and titillating- and cobble them back together in ways that would make it tolerable, beautiful even, sometimes even incandescent.
It takes courage to admit that loving this country is like being in love with an abusive partner, one who needs help but refuses to accept it, one who bites and punches, whom you wake up to find staring down at you with a look you can’t comprehend but one that frightens you, one who, when he or she reaches for you, you are never sure if they wanted to hug you or hit you.
Nothing hurts like loving what frightens you the most.
