tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7552267825899315482024-02-20T19:57:55.080+01:00TravellerJibrilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06489502675282327621noreply@blogger.comBlogger8125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-755226782589931548.post-89728048235313597972014-03-14T19:21:00.008+01:002023-04-02T22:59:53.075+01:00Journey to the peaks and plains of Koma <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Going to Koma is like going to the south-end of
the earth; scraps of information about Koma people tell you they are primitive. Based
on that I assume I am going to meet a race of people who would be no less different
from the voodoo-practicing characters that peopled Skull Island in the epic <b><i>King
Kong </i></b>movie. Going to Koma is not a luxury travel; the terrain dictates
how and when you arrive. Setting out from Kaduna at the break of dawn, I arrive
under a blanket of darkness by 8 p.m. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ3tWI6cvzk2Pv1b3lnG8CLpa5NJaLYdu2LpuEpkdEpjmElRAFtNr7aqjVItjBQFFwmsfmdm8_MXLuRUWIMFUNUPjzuTHavSKp1jZr41MtnVtWRDPWcbSiG7oH1lCFY6k8GezPtNSBXT1W/s1600/Morning+on+the+plane.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ3tWI6cvzk2Pv1b3lnG8CLpa5NJaLYdu2LpuEpkdEpjmElRAFtNr7aqjVItjBQFFwmsfmdm8_MXLuRUWIMFUNUPjzuTHavSKp1jZr41MtnVtWRDPWcbSiG7oH1lCFY6k8GezPtNSBXT1W/s640/Morning+on+the+plane.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></div>
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<a name='more'></a><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">So the mystery of Koma remains under wrap till
the next day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I wake up to see one of the finest countryside
vistas you could get in the Savanna or Sahel belt. Rolling hills in the far
distance and mesa and buttes,
backgrounding a vast place, where a rivers cut a gorged through the landscape. Framed by the square
opening of the window, the view before me looks like a nature drawing come to
life. In the distance, the hills wear wreaths of mist, giving an optical
illusion of a smoking hills; the crown of cloud continually shifting from one
hilltop to another just as the sun journeys across the horizon. The weather is
balmy and the sky is blue. Trails
slither over undulating plains, dried river beds and shallow chasm. The plain
of Mani at the foot of the Koma hills is a slice of Obudu Cattle Ranch, and a
bit of southern African veldt. The natural vegetation put man's best gardening
skill to shame.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Unfolding revelation reinforces some of my stereotype.
It dissolves a few too. The Koma people are still to a large extent
primitive. Whether on the plain or on
the hill, their homes are made up of mud
huts with thatched roofs; They are basically mountain-dwellers but some of them
have over the years came down from the hills and settled on the surrounding
plains. Since moving to the plain, the
Koma people have been privileged to interaction with the outside world. Their
market is frequented by Fulani nomad and Hausa merchants from Fufore Local
Government. They are also well acquainted with the increasing presence of
missionaries among them. What it amounts to is that there is modicum of
civilization in their grossly primitive ways. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEianUHQ1u7zGaXSKxbLnE_3wh6op9zhbcQVZ1Xbu-cW4yq8ppfNHQg2DVddzC7_x-heSbpNNCxaDBWqRCgW8jpWuUpRmOto6bjLCoya6XzYlIK3b1dKRovJM9fT5tdDrRsL7JbXZ49DTjwy/s1600/Finishing.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEianUHQ1u7zGaXSKxbLnE_3wh6op9zhbcQVZ1Xbu-cW4yq8ppfNHQg2DVddzC7_x-heSbpNNCxaDBWqRCgW8jpWuUpRmOto6bjLCoya6XzYlIK3b1dKRovJM9fT5tdDrRsL7JbXZ49DTjwy/s640/Finishing.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">"You can’t claim to have visited Koma if you
don't go up the hills; that is where you see the real Koma, raw and uncut"
Donald Chibueze Madueke, one of the missionary with the King's Call Ministry on
the plains of Mani informs me early the next morning. We set out by 7 am. The
journey up the hill is daunting. To
reach the nearer Sadaki Community is a grueling two-hour vertical climb up the
mountain. As you get to the top of one mountain range, it becomes the base of
another. "From Sadaki, Damti is yet another two hours climb away; from
Damti, Suli is 8 hours farther away," My guide reels out the fact of our
mission. Without being told the rest, I know to get to our destination requires
a mountaineering skill, a strong head
for heights and a 'full stomach.' Yet Komas climbed up and down the mountain
everyday, and regularly trekked the four-hour distance to connect with the
other far-flung settlements or to go to the markets.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">As we gain altitude, the plains of Koma lay
spread before us, gradually becoming a blot in our bird's eye view. The weather
became cooler. And the vegetation on the hill become more luxuriant, and in
some instance clump of entangled shrubs cling or hang to giant boulders in a
way that resembles the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. The scenery that unfurls before us as Sadaki
comes into view evokes an idyllic setting of the early man era. You'd think we
are a shooting crew on location for the
shooting of a <i>Prehistoric Man</i> movie.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">It takes us exactly two hours and thirty-seven
minutes to get to Sadaki. There we link up with Yohanna Sanda, deputy to the
village head, who offers to take us to Damti, two hours further up the hill. He
becomes our guide for this second lap of the journey. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Sanda has a large mind for history and as we
progress he outlines the history of the Koma people. The hill is like a museum
of sort, and he the curator. "Over there is where the communal
circumcision takes place," he points to a distance and then momentarily
disappears only to return with his hand full of what looks like wild berries. The
walnut-sized, pink-colored pomes have exotic taste that is a cocktail of lime,
tangerine and mango.</span><br />
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;">He shows us a large cave and reels out more
facts: "That is where the Koma people took refuge a hundred years ago, when
they fled up the mountains from Jihadists and slave merchants." The cave is screened by thick brush. "It
can take about 100 people," Sanda informs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Damti came into view some thirty six minutes
after noon. Save for the children who
ran into the gloom of the huts, the settlement is deserted. The adults gone to
their farms. The return journey downhill is less strenuous, but the energy
expended to get to Damti is already taking its toll. That slows our progress. We
arrive back at the plain of Mani at 8: 21 pm. I notice that Chibueze, my guide
from Kings Call is popular in Sadaki. When I ask why, he tells me this story:
"It is believed that if a stranger touches <b><i>dodo</i></b> (the skulls
of their dead grandmothers which they worship) he would die; when I first came
to the hill, I touched one <b><i>dodo </i></b>and they all shouted in alarm.
One elderly woman and others started wailing while others looked at me with
pity. They told me I’d be dead the next day. My pupils followed me about with
concern. The next day they all swarmed to my doorstep to confirm that I was
dead. They were surprised when I opened my door and came out alive. My pupils were overjoyed, but that incident
shattered their faith in dodo." </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Today, Chibueze is a demi-god on the hill of
Sadaki.</span></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The next day, my interest shifts to the human
element of Koma - who you meet, where and when in Koma - gives you different
impressions. The children on the plains are the good ambassadors of the Komas. Engage
a Koma kid in conversation and he would exceed your expectation; you would be
amazed at the depth of their understanding of the English language beyond the
"autoresponse" of "good morning" and “fine, thank you.” It
is said that their parents are surprised the children could speak English with
ease and as such they averred that the missionary used a charm in the form of
breeze on them attune their ears and mouth to the foreign tongue. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;">The Koma populace is not altogether homogenous,
in that they have various dialects namely Vomni, Damti, Beya and Vere. The
dialects are as distinct as to have different words and meaning in a way that
makes the Damti tongue obscured to a Vere-speaking Koma. While many of them
could speak some smattering of Hausa, a few others speak passable Fulani. But
during the occasion of the Dominion Academy inter-camp competition, the whole
place is swarming with children buzzing in English language.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The next place to meet the people is a social gathering
called Adaci, a meet where a group of people congregate under a tree in the evening
to have a good time. They wine and dine, as well as use the occasion to conduct
commercial activities. Traders bring their product, which ranges from roasted
meat to cereals, to sell at reduced price.
Kevin Bagode, one of the revelers asks me to make a modest contribution.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;">“What for?" I want to know. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">"We use it to host ourselves the next
day". He also adds. “Basically, the contribution is for burukutu." He
shows me the account book. According to
him, the highest contributor of the day becomes the host of the next gathering.
Incidentally, it turns out my modest N100 toll
is the highest; but they were disappointed that I would not be around to
host them, and even more disappointed
that I would not drink burukutu which they offered me; some of them are even
offended until I accept a cup of <b><i>Kunnu</i></b>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Half a kilometer away, another group also
gathers.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">The market place, gives a slightly different
picture. A Koma market is not entirely about buying and selling; it is more of
a communal gathering, a form of recreation, an a occasion for reunion. A large
chunk of the market-goers came to sample <b>burukutu</b>,
gossip a little and perhaps flirt a trifle. The market is their ultimate social
outing; the reason why the</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">hill dwellers travel over three or four hours to
get to the plains on market days. The crowd in the market sits on the ground,
boozing and buzzing. A calabash of burukutu sells for N10. Nearby, a drunk vigorously
pesters a woman, trying to embrace her, while he is sings some limericks in his
native Vere, and a group cheers him on.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Two women sit aloof; busy with what Laraba, (my
guide on this occasion) calls <b><i>tatengo</i></b> and <b><i>Tabu</i></b>:
pipe and tobacco. The first one put her pipe in her mouth and puffs away
without a care in the world. The second wraps a large roll, like a fat Cuban
cigar and carefully lit it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">"Women smoke more than men," Laraba
tells me." "Why?" I asked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">"Habits, that's all" she replies. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I learn about the polysemy of language in Koma. For
instance, <i>Mayan </i>and <i>Maya’an</i> sound the same way, but the first is
for "hello", the second simply mean sorry. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;">As I am waiting to leave Koma at the end of my
four-day sojourn, Chibueze jokingly tells me of a young boy who offers to give
him a baby gorilla for a gift. The boy's father is hunter besides being a
farmer.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">"What would you do with a baby gorilla?"
I ask him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;">"It is one of the best delicacies among these
people." He winks.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
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Jibrilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06489502675282327621noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-755226782589931548.post-11500366002890940712013-02-16T11:52:00.001+01:002023-05-11T20:46:37.527+01:00MAKOKO, Once Upon A Slum<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">If you have once walked through the maze
of streets on the lagoon-side shanty town or if you’d ever rode in a canoe
through the labyrinth of murky waterways that bisect the houses-on-lagoon
fishing enclave that stretches seamlessly along the coastal district of the
city, you’d have charming memories of the underside of this effervescence
community of Lagos. Tagged the “Venice of Lagos”, the Makoko community, which
stretched seamlessly along the coastal fringe of the Lagos lagoon from Yaba to
Bariga is one fairy tales of the city which is better experienced than being
told about.</span></h3>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond"; line-height: 115%;">The definitive features of the enclave
remain unchanged over the years: the swirling cloud of smoke, the rich tangy
smell of fish – smoked fish, dried fish, fresh fish; broods frolicking about in
canoes or perched some few meters above the brackish water of the lagoon; a
bevy of women with canoes full of wares, hawking on the waterways; domestic
animals, cats, goats, dogs, marooned on their homes-on-water watching the world
without interest; and of course, the never-ending scenery of men returning from
fishing expeditions – all and more of these activities, taking place right on
the brackish water of the lagoon.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Makoko’s rustic charm, accentuated by
the stark contrast of the surrounding surburbia and metropolis of Lagos, has
the kind of appeal that awakens primordial déjà vu. The last time I visited, I
sat in a canoe paddled by a 12 year old and watched a 50-year-old woman selling
victuals of rice, macaroni, beans and fresh-fish stew, paddled her canoe from
house to house, tending to children who were eagerly waiting for her arrival.
Behind her, another on-the-water foodseller came drifting, her long-nosed
canoe, a moving kitchen where she was busy frying bean cakes and selling them
hot and sizzling to school children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Coming from the high streets of the urban centers of Lagos such as
Surulere or from the highbrow areas of Ikoyi, Victoria Island and Lekki, where
the idea of eating out is known in terms of cosy eateries such as Mr. Biggs,
Chicken Republic or Sweet Sensation, or even the many roadside “bukateria”
dotting the high-density suburbs of Oshodi, Agege and the likes, Makoko’s
parallel world offers a nostalgic vista of a long-forgotten era. A living tapestry
that takes you back to the 18th Century, Makoko is an intercourse between the
past and the present.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">One of the allures of the Makoko
inhabitant is to be found in their somewhat exotic language. While most of the
inhabitants can speak fluently the everyday Yoruba language, they are people of
a distinct dialect, which could be tongue-twisting for a non-native. Yet they
are not aliens, but bona fide Nigerians. The fishing community consists of the
riverine tribes of Egun, Ilaje and Ijaw-speaking people. The Eguns, the
dominant tribe living there since 1890, migrated from the Badagry axis of Lagos
and other neighbouring towns in Ogun State such as Ilaro. The Ilajes are native
of Ondo States, while the Ijaws are of Niger delta origin.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6wXmuDOoyjz7irUAPsnIxbFcbiMVFWyUiwat6VnL7s9J4LdjbnSSwGpN-yZAWieNauqKbEQ1cisXgzVve7qGzyPoHpEdecygI-FfSzCeC6SxeNz1u8hT9ATnMdZ3ayrfrMKWkIp_AV845/s1600/5.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6wXmuDOoyjz7irUAPsnIxbFcbiMVFWyUiwat6VnL7s9J4LdjbnSSwGpN-yZAWieNauqKbEQ1cisXgzVve7qGzyPoHpEdecygI-FfSzCeC6SxeNz1u8hT9ATnMdZ3ayrfrMKWkIp_AV845/s400/5.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">I have visited Makoko on four occasions
in the course of journalistic assignment between 2008 and 2011. Hence, I have
come to know the terrain and have become acquainted with some of the
inhabitants. Last week Friday, when I visited again, a somber mood pervaded.
There was a lull in commercial hustling and an air of lethargy hung over the
community. Meetings were on-going at several points - the students, the council
of elders, the women. You don’t have to be gifted with an ESP to know that it
was not the best of time for the ever-bustling commune. Faced with the
uncertainty of forced relocation, with the community’s population already
decimated by the forceful demolition of some 3, 000 homes, which also recorded
one fatality, the future of this old-fashioned fishing slum hang in the
balance.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Though, hardly considered a tourist
attraction by the average Lagosians, Makoko attracts significant interest from
the outside world. It was visited in 2010 by Ben Affleck, American actor, film
director, writer, and producer, as part of his humanitarian campaigns across
Africa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Similarly, the community
has been subject of a series of BBC documentaries in the recent past.
Presently, an American missionary, 66-year-old Dr. Dave Douglass and his wife Paula
Jeane are on-and-off residents living among the people since 2009.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Although, some of their socio-economic
outlook might appear outdated, backward or anachronistic, however, to think or
view the life of Makoko inhabitant through the poverty telescope will only lead
to a distortion about the reality of their lives. The lower-crust populace of
the shanty community considered the lagoon their mainstay in all ramifications;
the lagoon is their livelihood, their <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">joie
de vivre</i> - joy of living. They have lived there even before the coming of
the colonialist, and today, many of the new generation have been raised with
the orientation and sophistication of a modern man. Yet they are proudly
fishermen and associating with their fishing community. What is regarded by
many a Lagosian as “wretched” is in fact a way of life treasured by the people
of Makoko.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">A walk through the terrestrial or the
over-the-water section of the enclave is enough to convince you that here is a
complete community. On the lagoon, there are eateries as there are other
needful service providers such as barber, tailors, pharmacists, boat repairers
and borehole owners. There are schools and churches. And of course, the
floating market of foodsellers and purveyors of other needful household
commodities.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">A visit to the home of the bereaved
family is a must for any journalist covering the unveiling Makoko story. The
grieving family’s home, an open-plan wooden edifice, has the atmosphere of an
undertaker palour. Framed photos of the the 50-year-old chief identified as
Timothy Azinkponon Hunkponyanwa hung on the wall and grief was thick in the
air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There, you hear a
heart-wrenching story. The late lamented left behind a family of three wives
and 14 children. His third wife, Celestinu and a 13-year-old daughter,
Delphine, were two of the few of the family members who were in sight and
surrounded with sympathizers who paid a condolence visit. The tragic
circumstance of the death of a man described by many as hardworking and
easy-going was narrated by an eye-witness.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">“We were on the canoe when a policeman
fired into the air twice. After the third gunshot, he suddenly shouted “I am
hit”. Lo and behold, his cloth was drenched with blood and his intestine was
protruding,” so narrated Chief Jejelaye Sodiq, who was standing right next to
him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">There were pictures showing the late
chief in the throes of death, as he was being rushed to the hospital. One of
the photos, taken with a mobile phone camera, depicts his viscera pushing out
of his belly. At the sight of the picture, his wife broke down again in a fit
of uncontrollable tears.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Other victims also have tales of
woes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The demolition left a
section of the sprawling slum devastated, as if a hurricane swept through the
enclave. Many homes lay in ruins and their hapless inhabitants can still be
seen picking up pieces of their belonging. Others camped in the open air, while
a few chose to pack their belonging inside spacious canoe and were just
drifting aimlessly about on the lagoon with their heavy-laden canoes. A few
others relocated to the nearby Third Mainland Bridge where they camped on the
foot of columns of the expansive bridge. These are the new pathetic realities
of the five-day demolition exercise carried out by a combined force of
policemen and KAI operatives under the order of the Lagos State Ministry of
Waterfront.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Now Makoko has to wake up to a new
reality: the resolve of the state government to clear out coastal shanty towns,
which spell doom for the dye-in-the-wool Makokoans. “We were born here. We are
fishermen and we can’t live far away from water” Chief Agbe declared. “we are
unlike other blighted communities, in the sense that our livelihood is
inextricably linked with water. To relocate us is akin to passing a death
sentence on us,” Steven Aji, the Baale of Egun reflected.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Douglass, the slum’s on-and-off white
resident once mused to this reporter in May 2011: “I think Lagos State has
reached the end of its tolerance with what it considers a slum.” The
well-travelled missionary from Waterboro, South Carolina, also observed that
the slum could be upgraded rather than relocating the inhabitants. He also
suggested that the state government could turn the enclave into a tourist
attraction just as it has been done in parts of Asia such as Thailand and by
that earned a World Heritage Site certification from Unesco.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Of his three forecasts, the worst is
currently happening. With the government’s zero tolerance for slums and shanty
town and the renewed vigour for demolitions, one can’t help but wonder: Is
Makoko about to go the way of Maroko and Magodo Shangishan? Is the fairy tale
of Makoko coming to an end? Another Lagos landscape is about to be blotted out.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Jibrilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06489502675282327621noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-755226782589931548.post-52991862791079730392013-02-16T11:45:00.001+01:002015-11-14T11:43:03.224+01:00OLUMO, The Rock That Gave Birth To A City<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: "garamond";">‘Olumo’, translated as ‘What God Made’, it is where the
story of Abeokuta began. The name is also an abridgement of 'Olufimo,' meaning <i>where God ends it</i>,
in reference to the inter-tribal war of 1830 t<span style="font-size: large;">o</span> 1833. Climb the rock. Take in
the energizing and soul-reviving fresh air. View the city below. Catch a
glimpse of the breath-taking scenery as nature and technology meet at the foot
of the rock.</span></b></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQdywJpsyzr-_ALJLz5r7HMJByws81NOZVL8bYCZDf8DwSDY_sfP2J20Juu3Lis8Y59inlWvUbyhZhYd_z6cXG496zrUPnFLvllOMTJBFE2BrN7KMSaWpZLrRocN30NGFVZ5CDelcV6-82/s1600/Olumo3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQdywJpsyzr-_ALJLz5r7HMJByws81NOZVL8bYCZDf8DwSDY_sfP2J20Juu3Lis8Y59inlWvUbyhZhYd_z6cXG496zrUPnFLvllOMTJBFE2BrN7KMSaWpZLrRocN30NGFVZ5CDelcV6-82/s640/Olumo3.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div>
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;">First, they go into ecstasies entranced by the lovely
panorama outlined below. Afterwards, the threesome, take turn snapping each
other's picture with the mega pixel camera of their mobile phones. Some of
their poses are picture-perfect; others are just absurd. It was a moment of
youthful insouciance. When she
receives a call on her mobile phone, she blurts out: "<u>Mo wa lori Olumo</u>."
<i>I am at the top of Olumo.</i>
That single sentence by Adeleke Mayowa, an undergraduate of University
of Agriculture, Abeokuta, gives away the location. She also gushes: "Today
is my birthday." The twenty-something-year old lady who is in the company
of two others (identified as her sister and her friend) is still expecting more
of her friends. Her phone rings again. "Just hanging out with friends," she coos.
When the telephone conversation ends, she shouts to her companions with glee:
"He's coming to meet us." By midday, the hilltop begins to fill
up. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2">
<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;">Olumo
Rock, a popular tourist destination sits in the ancient city center of Abeokuta
– a name, which means “Under the rock.” Because the city of Abeokuta itself is
a hilly town full of rocks, (you see houses built on hill tops; some buildings
seemed sculpted out of rocks; others are crammed right under giant boulders),
Olumo Rock is a monument in its natural location. It is nature's hand-made
obelisks: giant boulders piled atop one another, slanting skyward, in a way
that at first awes, then bewitches you.
Taken over by the state government in 1976, it was the massive makeover
given to it to boost tourism that turned it into a scintillating sight. Now it
is a marriage of nature and technology. Three panoramic towers of elevator that
offers a scenic view of the city as you ascend the rock are coupled to the
rock. Stairways wrap itself round the rock right to its upper level, a trails
stalks by lamp posts. Connecting passages linking one giant boulder to another
and a covered verandah at the summit makes it the more tourist-friendly.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;"> Beyond the tourism
angle, the rock is of great significance to the people of Egbaland. Olumo Rock
is where the story of Abeokuta begun. Olumo translated is 'What God Made.' The
name is also an abridgement of
'Olufimo,' meaning <i>where God ends it</i> in reference to the
inter-tribal war of 1830 t<b>o</b> 1833. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;"> Abeokuta was
originally inhabited by the Egba people who took refuge at the Olumo Rock
during the inter-tribal wars of the 18th century. The rock providing sanctuary
to the people as well as a vantage point to monitor the enemy’s advance, was
instrumental to their eventual triumph in the war between them and the people
of Dahomey (now in the Republic of Benin). <i>Egba</i> is derived from an expression that either means
"help us" or "accepted." After the war, the Dahomeans
wondering why it was difficult to defeat the Egbas, asked them where they hid
during the war. When they were shown the Olumo rock, they exclaimed: "But
why did you people call yourself <i>Egba</i> when you are from <i>Abeokuta </i>(under
the rock)?" That is the root of the word ‘Abeokuta’. First coined by the
Dahomeans, it marked the origin of the city's name.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;"> Olumo Rock wears
its historic points round itself like <i>Sekere</i> bead-embellished gourd that
is a musical instrument. You discover this by using the stairs rather than the
elevator. As you move round its circumference, you stumble into one historic
point after another. My guide, Abolade Dada, a native of Abeokuta, says:
"The most important historical point is the Olumo Shrine." </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;"> Right after
climbing the first level, there it is, a wooden door on a cave, tightly locked,
however. According to him, the door is opened once a year on the occasion of
the festival held in veneration of the stone god which saved the lives of the
Egbas. Held on every August 5th, it is a great festive occasion that attracts
several other dignitaries from within and outside the town. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;"> However, only two
persons enter the cave: the ruler of Egbaland, Alake of Egba, and the chief priest. On the occasion, a big
black cow and other terrestrial animals are offered as sacrifice. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;"> Another interesting sight is the Egba War Time Hide Out that turns
out to be tiny natural caves. History records that the Egba warriors hid their
wives and children in these caves while they engaged their enemies in the
inter-tribal wars known as the Yoruba civil war. Six holes visible on the floor were said to have served as
useful kitchen devices, used for pounding yams, grinding pepper, tomatoes,
onions and other ingredients during the war. In all, the hideout used to be
five bedrooms and one big common room. Now interconnected, it is one big hollow
chamber that can hold an average of 20 people. At its entrance, a tomb stands guard. It's epitaph reads:
Sonni Ajimatokunje, the Osi of Itoko, who died in 1956. The first priest of the
rock, my guide informs.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;">Olumo Rock is a living museum of a mystic past. A 500-year
old Akoko tree which stands at a diminutive height of about five feet, wears
the ash complexion of the rock instead of the normal brown colour of a typical
Akoko tree. The rock is still home to deities such as Orisa Igun (god of
longevity), Orisa Obaluaye or <i>Sopona</i>, (god of Karma) and the priestess, aged women, still living on top of the rock. They
remind you of the priestesses at the temple of Athena in the Greek mythology. These
aged women are simply said to be of the “7th generation.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;"> Still on your way,
you encounter heroes of Egba folklore in relief sculpture form. The Legend of
Lisabi Agbongbo Akala is relived; the Lore of Shodeke, (the first king of the
Egbas), Adagba, (the hunter who discovered the rock) and the first <u>Iyalode</u>
also awaits you. Close by, is the
Ancient Route to the top of the mountain.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;"> Your arrival at the
peak will be capped by another yarn. "During the reign of Okukenu, the
first in the 18th century" my guide begins, as he points to a particular
spot on the rock with a long length of crack which completely splits the rock
into two, "some Europeans hoping to find gold invaded the rock and struck
out on this middle of the rock." But the spot rather, than yielding any
precious stone, wept pus and blood.
"For their impiety, they went blind and the oracle decreed that they be sacrificed, thus
making them the first human white man sacrifice." </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ_xrFpSqFNbfM_XLiuSLbHZuUpA_-ngPy8NNWjJddbmUbaL8TruBDO6O0bhd2V4ePbVvD872ToWwwHPDijZwhOdJIAVxx8HvpaGaU9AJ7724JDvvAjMK8ik9UD3S9I_JGBMEPQRZ6aKtr/s1600/olumo11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ_xrFpSqFNbfM_XLiuSLbHZuUpA_-ngPy8NNWjJddbmUbaL8TruBDO6O0bhd2V4ePbVvD872ToWwwHPDijZwhOdJIAVxx8HvpaGaU9AJ7724JDvvAjMK8ik9UD3S9I_JGBMEPQRZ6aKtr/s640/olumo11.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;">The summit is like a watchman’s post with an
omni-directional view. Its height is 137m above sea level. From ground level to
its peak, it is equivalent to a 17-storey building. Or a total of 412
steps. The calculation is arrived
at according to the calibration of the heights of the three towers. The first two are six storeys high,
while the third out-of-view is five storeys tall. The first tower's peak is the foot of the second; the third
starts where the second ends. Imagine looking down at a map of Abeokuta spread
on a table: that is the impression you get from the peak of the Olumo Rock. The
city's edifices are easily identifiable: St Peters Anglican Church, Ake, the
first church in Nigeria, founded by Henry Townsend in 1844. In the far
distance, the imposing transmitter mast of NTA 12 Abeokuta towers into the sky;
the Old Baptist Boys High School, famous for its several ivy league alumnus
that include the late politician MKO Abiola, former president, Olusegun
Obasanjo, Human Right activist Chief Gani Fawenhimi, Nobel Laureate Wole
Soyinka, prince Bola Ajibola (SAN) and Otunba Gbenga Daniel, the incumbent
governor of the state, sits squarely on a hill. My guide also points out a
plethora of other iconic buildings, reeling out their locations as well-the
late MKO Abiola's house,the Central Mosque and the Adire market among others.
The palace of Alake of Egbaland, full of historical antiquities, is also
visible. The Ogun River from which the state itself derives its name can also
be sighted. The River Ogun, which cuts across Lagos, Oyo, Osun and Ondo drains
into the Atlantic in the Republic of Benin. "Ogun means a lot of thing, depending on the
intonation," Dada informs: It's the name of the Yoruba god of Iron; it’s
also the word for war. It is what you call medicine, as it also means
inheritance and the figure 20. Other meanings include perspiration, the verb <i>finished</i>
and <i>to climb</i>. The vista from the hilltop, in a single panoramic view is
"Abeokuta in a nutshell."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;">Sometimes you travel to a city or town to see just a
single site; other times you take the opportunity to visit a city to see its
offerings of tourism; the two apply in the case of Abeokuta. You may choose to
visit Abeokuta exclusively because of Olumo Rock, (as in my own case), or you
would because you are in Abeokuta, seize the opportunity to see the 'much
vaunted' rock, as is the case of Sunday Akingbola, a contractor who came from
Ibadan to Abeokuta on a assignment but decided to see the famous Olumo rock.
Either way, Olumo Rock is a must-see. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;"> The complex surrounding the rock gives a good impression. A matrix
of interlocked stones, marble glass and aluminum alloy defines the man-made
structure. Red roofs, cream painted walls, green lawn, and burst of green
vegetation form a kaleidoscope of colour. The complex, which is fenced and
gated, boasts of an eatery, an event hall, and a toilet for public convenience.
A museum and a photography room are yet to be completed. There is also a big
dream waiting to be actualized. According to Major Tunde Sawyerr (rtd), the
executive director of the tourist complex, "chalets for visitors'
accommodation is in the offing; so also a mini swimming pool and a Children's
Garden." </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: large;"> He is also working
to put the site on the global tourist map. Brimming with optimism, he enthuses
"turn-out has been growing and people are coming from other
countries." Under the management of Resort Support Limited, a private
enterprise, the complex is slowly becoming a cash cow. A sightseeing visit
draws good tariffs of N100 gate fee, but to use the stairway requires a fee of
N400, while a ride in the elevators in the three towers attract N1000. A tour
guide comes at a price of N200, while registration of cameras and camcorders
draw N100 and N1000 respectively. Beside this standard arrangement, there is
provision for group bookings, and special tariffs for children. A standby
generator powers the complex round-the-clock from morning till it closes shop
at 7:00 p.m. everyday. Talking of good tourism, Olumo Rock ticks all the boxes.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
Jibrilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06489502675282327621noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-755226782589931548.post-56455996286707814082013-02-16T11:04:00.001+01:002022-01-09T10:07:19.353+01:00WELCOME TO TAKUM<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "symbol"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"></span></span></span><b><span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 18.0pt;">Town where day breaks at 5:45 am, and sun sets at
6:15 pm</span></b></h3>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-left: 36pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt; text-indent: -18pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 18.0pt;">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMlletNpJHI4Jw60UGQ3B8XBraH-wlvJ560HTnzQn2NVYw7LtuCUJDkNb0KoX3ht7IAHcPPBHunxIGsvRY-tcBFgEI1Vvq9asvGBJ1CaAaSS-Ep6W366HwhLa4i8VKnR7pDi68S0Fyu1vC/s1600/takum.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="420" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMlletNpJHI4Jw60UGQ3B8XBraH-wlvJ560HTnzQn2NVYw7LtuCUJDkNb0KoX3ht7IAHcPPBHunxIGsvRY-tcBFgEI1Vvq9asvGBJ1CaAaSS-Ep6W366HwhLa4i8VKnR7pDi68S0Fyu1vC/s640/takum.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">You will find my town interesting, says a long time
friend of mine when I ran into her and informed her that I was heading that
way. But I arrived the town in a foul mood, dogged by foul weather. The
journey to the town is long and laborious. Eight hours long from Abuja. It
leaves me sore and sombre. I arrived tired and tetchy by 5 p.m., under the
threat of an overcast frantically, searching for accommodation. The
unfolding landscape dismayed me. Sprawling old buildings, un-tarred, brown
ochre roads made muddy by rainfall and chaotic circus of motorcycles traffic.
Rustic.</span></span></div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">My senses soak in the scenery.
The details register. No eateries (<i>ala</i> Mr. Biggs or Tantalizer), neither
an <i>Haute</i> <i>Couture</i> store nor a gilded beauty salon. There is no <i>deluxe</i>
hotel in sight either. Not even a signpost to say, “Welcome to Takum.” </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">Sows and piglets plough through
dumps and drains; middle-aged women clutching hen and vegetables struggle to
cross the street, while a set of urchins push a sugar cane-filled barrow across
the street without deference to the speeding motorcycles crisscrossing the
streets. Journey-weary cars, long-distance trucks and trailers arrive in the
evening. I found the lay of the land antiquated and some of the ways of life
around me anachronistic. This first impression leaves me with a sinking feeling
of disillusionment. I quickly prejudge that Takum is not a place to excite a
stranger’s senses, neither is it a town to exceed a visitor’s expectation. With
my background as a city-dweller from the glittery metropolis of Lagos, I feel
like a time traveller, trapped in some thirty years time warp. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">My opinion turns out
premature. By the time I ‘dig in’
beyond the ‘face value,’ this
out-of-the-way corner of the country, close to the Cameroon border has its peculiar
attraction and a unique flavour borne out of the people’s simple way of life.
Within one week, my biases fizzle, replaced by fascination.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">The streets’ plain layout gives a false
impression that Takum is a small town. Indeed, it is a big town, with an
approximate population of 135,349 by the 2006 census. The roads branching off
the main arteries lead to the nooks and crannies of the town, which covers a
total area of 2,503 Km. Embedded in the drab and dusty outlook of the town are
DNA of a metropolis: satellite Prison, immigration office, 93 Battalion
Nigerian Army Barrack, a police barrack, PHCN office, local water board, Area
Courts, NTA channels 31, UBA and Zenith banks (located at polar points of the
town.) Over an eight-kilometre stretch, there are 18 petrol filling stations.
Underneath the rural facade, Takum has all the elements of a full, functional
town. Letters to the town are post-coded 671. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">Names in Takum’s mosaic population (predominantly
Jukun, Chamba and Kuteb) are as simple as John, Mary and Derek; pronouncing
some of the native names, however, are difficult and jaw-breaking efforts.
Churches and chapels have an overwhelming presence, predominant Reformed Church of
Christ in Nigeria (RCCN), which spreads all the way through to the neighbouring
villages. Bible-holding youths, choir boys and girls, returning home from
church, and women groups going back home after church service common around
Donga and Yola Road; while <i>hijab-</i>wearing Hausa women and children
traffics around Ahmadu Street. Takum’s religious palette also includes
adherents of African Traditional Religion. Takum is grossly <i>Gemeinschaft.</i> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">The town worms its way into my heart by its
robust weather. Day breaks at 5:45 am, and the sun drowns on the western
horizon by 6:15 pm, and within the continuum is an extreme but agreeable
tropical weather: mist-shrouded dawn, a sun-drenched afternoon, and a
rain-flogged evening. With temperatures high at over 33<sup>O</sup>C, the sound
of the rain pelting on the roof after a sweltering day is a blessed relief. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">If you have an eye for nature, you will develop a
fondness for the town. The environment is relatively untainted. My routine
morning stroll through the town is an opportunity to have my fill of rare
sights while going about my assignment. Mist-covered mountains and luxuriant
foliage enfolds the town. Takum has more to offer especially if you venture
into the surrounding villages. Then you will have an eyeful of the wild;
original, primeval Africa. You will see swampy rice fields, and ancient bridges
that bestride free-flowing unpolluted rivers; a roadside <i>cannabis</i> farm,
vast mountain range and ridges, will not escape your eyes. The dynamics of food
chain between Birds of preys and nimble reptiles, and snakes sleeping in the
sun are some of the observations that will come your way as you walk through
primitive Tiv’s settlement of thatched mud huts settlements that, in my town
dweller perception, are reminiscent of the Shire in Middle-Earth <i>Lord of the Ring</i>. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">I acclimatize. In time, I learn the habits of the
town, and discover the locals to be visitor-friendly. The people of Takum do
not bother you with their problems. Each person you meet, you want to know him
or her better; they are people who are ready to go the extra mile for you.
Their down-to-earth dispositions make them the easiest persons to strike a
friendship with.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">In this town, whereas my guide informs me, “everyone knows every other person,” familiarity comes largely from active daily
get-togethers under terrace trees, at the Yola Road/Ussa Roundabout, which
serves as the town’s “open-air pub.” Refreshment consists of beer, palm wine,
and fried chicken, <i>jollof</i> rice, pounded yam, served with <i>Egusi</i>,
or Okra soup with ‘bush meat.’ Customers trickle in and then, later as the day
wears out, they come in groups, until a crowd builds up, buzzing and boozing.
Such engagement as I later observe is a daily therapeutic time-out. Even on
this last Sunday of October, a group of four men and five women came straight
from a church wedding. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">There is no distinguishing the sterner from the
fairer sex. Both sexes indulge when it comes to the business of beer drinking;
a matter of ‘what a man can do, a woman can do, too.’ 22-year-old Mary wowed me
with her drinking habits when she downed three bottles of Star Beer diluted
with palm wine within one hour and still kept her head up. “I want something to
pepper my tongue,” she announces hours later and goes in search of <i>Umzu,</i>
a local delicacy of spiced wood larvae. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">In this convivial company, charged with an
infectious feeling of comradeship, they buy one another rounds of drinks, beer
or wine. ‘Palm wining’ is one of the best ways to spend the evening here.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">There are other reasons for patronizing the
joint. It also serves as the information mall, where the locals can pick useful
information on diverse subjects, from local politics to weddings. Like tuning a
shortwave radio, conversations drift from different directions, competing for
your attention. Wedding notices, in form of small posters, laminated and nailed
to tree trunks, serve as the town’s <i>Acta Diurna</i> of “about to be married”
couples. Each poster details names of the couple, their wedding dates and the
venues. They carry such messages as “Be Our Guest” and “Consider This An
Invitation.” Explaining the logic behind such practice, an acquaintance,
informs: “We intermarry a lot among ourselves. So it is important to know who
is finally marrying who, and in case anyone misses out on the invitation,
these public posters will notify them.” </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">Nearby, another group of four youths argues about
soccer and an old man’s uncanny wizardry at precise prediction.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">“The
old man may not know Beckham or Ronaldinho, he may not even know offside from
free kicks, but his predictions about football have always been precise” one of
the youth argues hotly. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">“What
are your proofs?” another challenges. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">“Ok.
When I told him Ghana would be playing Brazil in the U-21 final, he predicted a
Ghana victory. He was even specific to the point that the victory will come via
penalty kicks.” </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">“Perhaps,
it was just an intelligent guess,” someone counters.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">“No
way. When Nigeria played Tunisia in Abuja, that morning he told me, the match
would end in a draw” he defends. But now he told me Nigeria will be in South
Africa for the World Cup,” he drops another bombshell.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">“We
shall see” one of them mutters.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">Another
conversation drifts to my hearing, </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">“I
see the girl last night o.” </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">“She
don die. She go abort belle”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">“Why
she no go die? How person go abort pregnancy wey don pass 6 months?”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">“How
you take know the month<u>?</u>”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">“Na
the guy wey get the <i>belle</i> tell me. Na soldier guy.”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">They
talk about life and death, marriage and divorce, good and bad news, arcane and
trivial issues. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">An
evening strolls through the town will leave you with captivating memories,
particularly if you are blessed with the ‘gift of observation.’ There are about
2,000 odd motorcycles in Takum. Motorcycles are as personalized as mobile
phones. They afford a quick means of moving around. For N30, you get anywhere
within the town, N50 will take you from one end of the town to the other end.
Men and women, young and old alike, all ride <i>Machine</i>. Again, the women
compete with their menfolk. They ride and own <i>machine </i>like their men
do. Surprisingly, owners of motorcycles do not bother themselves with getting
number plates. At a rough count, only three out of 28 motorcycles have number
plates. Such protocol has long been forgotten in the town. Traffic wardens are
like ringmasters at the circus of motorcycles. Twice before my very eyes,
motorcycles overturned, trapping their riders. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">I
depart the town after one week with a tinge of nostalgia, a subtle sense of
loss, a feeling that I am leaving behind something precious. In Takum, I
relearn the power of human interaction. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-left: 36pt; text-indent: -18pt;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Jibrilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06489502675282327621noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-755226782589931548.post-13568277208768030292013-02-16T09:26:00.002+01:002015-11-14T11:45:08.515+01:00IDANRE, Hills of Nine Wonders<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: large;">In the small hours of the morning, when a few cock-a-doodle<span style="font-size: large;">s</span> announce the break of dawn and a grey blanket of mist impairs visibility, the hills give off the “Tower of Babel” effect, leading into the heavens. As the sunrise above the broad rim of hills, and the first ray of light fight its way over the horizon, the veil of mists evaporates revealing an imposing hill formation that encircles the town. I gape at the intimidating backdrop in every direction. Having arrived the town at twilight, my perception is quickly reversed in the light of the new revelations. The town is dwarfed by domineering hills against which it nestled. Neither small by population nor by settlement size, the town of Idanre stands a Lilliputian at the feet of exalted hills. Long before the Idanre Hills made the tentative list of UNESCO’s World Heritage sites in October 2007, it had attained fame and attraction as one of Nigeria’s tourist centres. Today, the hills, 3,000 feet tall lunging after the skies, are jaw-dropping wonders.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyBjlR_uUE_-rm_rE2OVoTJxent2qj5dFyYggKInufsDj437IDwV2X3KrwX9C0wupZZuQ4PSl37ZsuY0zhAatNeQ6p8WHJh-H2B9NcAFxozADqhvFxtCukhal_NLRoOdgeL7UE6ZFAZgDb/s1600/idanre+59.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyBjlR_uUE_-rm_rE2OVoTJxent2qj5dFyYggKInufsDj437IDwV2X3KrwX9C0wupZZuQ4PSl37ZsuY0zhAatNeQ6p8WHJh-H2B9NcAFxozADqhvFxtCukhal_NLRoOdgeL7UE6ZFAZgDb/s640/idanre+59.jpg" uea="true" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify;">
</div>
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</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: large;">At the foot of the hills, officials of the Ondo State Tourism Board hand out N100 tickets and they provide local guides for tourists. Whether your guide is the ageing ticket officer, whose nickname is “Old Soldier” (his other alias is Eddie Murphy) or one of the litters of urchins loitering at the foot of the hills, they come well schooled in the lore and legends of the hills, as they also know the trails and the terrains. If your objective is to catch an eyeful of the ancient settlement on the hills, you are expected to part with a token. “No more than <i>drink</i> <i>money</i>,” Old Soldier emphasizes with a grin. However, to “go the whole hog” to the far-flung parts of the hills, you pay a “princely price.” Assigned to me is an 18-year-old guide. Baptist High School student, dark-skinned and gangly Dare Odere, who continually hums “Good Morning Jesus” tune is a Snoop Dog look-alike. He wastes no time before he takes charge. “If you intend to go far on the hills, it’s advisable to leave unnecessary baggage at the foot of the hills,” he tells me. “And go with plenty of water,” Old Soldier, the ticket official, cuts in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: large;">As we proceed on our climb, my guide ruffles into the local repertoires of myths and mysteries of the hills. The history of Idanre is the stuff the romantics are made of. Once upon a time, a progeny of <i>Oduduwa</i> (the ancestor of the Yoruba race), who decided to leave <i>Ile-Ife</i> (the Yoruba’s ancestral home) with his band of followers, stole an item of inestimable value, a magic crown called “Ade Omo Oduduwa”–the crown of the Oduduwa son-for which he incurred the wrath of his kinsmen. The people of Ife pursued them deep into uncharted jungles, forcing the fleeing band to migrate farther from civilization. They kept a nomadic existence for many years until at last they came upon a range of hills, which held them in awe and bewilderment. In consternation, they exclaimed: “<i>Idanree</i>!” (This is wonder). The hills became their refuge, a strategic protection against their warring kinsmen and invading marauders. There they settled and lived for over 800 years until they migrated downhill in the year 1923. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: large;">There are “Nine Wonders” on the hills. And it begins with “The Great Steps” (Ibi Akasu) that lead up into the hills: 660 steps with five resting points, set at least 100 metres apart. A climb on the hills requires a regimen against fatigue and vertigo. With a rich and robust ecosystem, the hilltop is a mid-way world between the sky and the ground, consisting of great heights and yawning gorges, frightening chasms and suicidal slopes. At the pinnacle of the hills, nature is unrestrainedly benevolent: a balmy weather, clear, sunless azure sky, and a quasi-Jurassic jungle. The hills’ flora is a matrix of tropical rainforest and savannah biomes. The vegetation, luxurious and densely variegated vegetation include tall Obeche and leafy Afara and Acacia intertwined with shrubs; contrasting morphs of cacti, cashew, and coconuts palms sprouts here and there. Bananas grow among bamboos under big baobabs. Sporadic cassava cultivation indicates an agrarian occupation. The hills have a fauna of snakes. “An elephant was killed last year,” my guide informs me. He also enumerates other species of the ‘animal kingdom’ on the hill which including antelopes, apes and birds of prey. The hills also yield bumper harvests of giant snails, which the locals pick in the dead of night. There are series of streams, crystal-clear pools that tempt you for a swim. The world on the hills, in brief, is a slice of Garden of Eden. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: large;">Great stories match the great sights of the hills. The legend of the Idanre Hills is a mosaic of myths and magic, woven around <i>Agboogun</i>, a great hunter with supernatural ability. A popular account asserts that the great hunter asked three of his sidekicks to accompany him on a journey. On their way, he paused to inscribe hieroglyphically on a hillside, and the cryptic inscription became known as the “Unreadable Signs.” A little further, he etched on another hill, this time, broad crisscrossed strokes. This is dubbed the “Wonderful Mat.” Then he climbed the steep Aghagha Hill. At the foot of the hill, Agboogun struck his foot on the rock, leaving an imprint on its surface. The foot shaped-depression is now known as “<i>Ese</i> <i>Agboogun</i>” (Agboogun’s Footprint). He left an instruction: “Any person(s) accused of witchcraft should be made to try it for a size; it fits any foot size except those of the malevolent.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: large;">There is also the legend of “<i>Omi Aopara</i>” (Thunder Water). According to local explanation, in the days of yore, it was prerequisite for warriors to gather for a drink at the stream before embarking on any war campaign. At whoever’s turn the thunder rumbled, such individuals was doomed to die at the war front, and were consequently left out of the campaign. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: large;">The ancient settlement on the hills where they lived until 1932 holds the relics of their past. There is a complete set of antique homes and huts and the remains of the <i>Igbo</i> <i>Ore</i> Primary School on the hills. The Ancient Palace, a low-roofed mud building, with an inner square supported by carved pillars, harbours a number of artifacts such as an assortment of animal skulls. Odere offers a clarification: “Every December, when <i>Kabiyesi</i>, Owa of Idanre, wears the ‘<i>Ade Omo Oduduwa’</i> crown he ascends the hill with a cow for sacrifice. The skulls, (collected in a corner of the palace) are symbolic of the total number of years a king has spent on the throne.” Thirty-three skulls, translates to 33 years<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span>- the number of years the reigning monarch, Arubiefin I</span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: large;">V, has sit on the throne. Every turn on the trail on the hill brings you to another breathtaking sight. A giant boulder per</span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: large;"> already spent of the throne. Spectacular but spooky is the defining aura around the historic royal abod</span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;">es precariously on a hill above a hut. The Wonderful Rock is what the natives called it. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: large;">Then the mystical: A dilapidated building, a blackened slate with written words that reads in part: <i>Off your shirt before you enter this house</i>. “Don’t step on that!” my guide warns. It belongs to Chief Lorin (pronounced law.rin), one of the chieftains who could well be described as the <i>de facto</i> kingmaker. “Though a chieftain, he doesn’t wear any clothes save for a barest essential one-piece fabric,” he adds in a grave voice. Behind this abominable abode is a low-walled house with a mesh and roof. It served as prison for felons in those forgotten era. A little distance away is the court, a mud house recently renovated. Behind the court, is a clearing where the king wears the crown every year. That spot has a yarn attached too: Ile-Ife, still hell-bent on regaining its magic crown, sent a fearless hunter who succeeded in stealing the crown. <i>Agboogun</i>, hot on the bandit’s heels, struck the ground with a magic wand and the hunter became transfixed. When he caught up with him, he beheaded him, and retrieved the crown. On that very spot, where his was blood spilled, there, Idanre kings wear the magic crown every year. And after that annual celebration, the king must not catch a glimpse of that place through that year again; perhaps, because the mausoleum, (the final resting place for every Idanre king and “fetish chief”) is in broad view. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;">One particular sight that is difficult to overlook is a smoking hill in the far distance: The Orosun Hill, covered in smoky haze, from morning till night. According to a myth, Orosun was a woman warrior, a sort of fertility deity, who protected the Idanre people. She was said to have simply walked into the wild and disappeared at the foot of the hills, where her shrine is now located. From under the Orosun Hill flows Arun River, reputed to have healing power. The Orosun festival is the most celebrated fiesta of Idanre. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: large;">Idanre is a town of classic festivals. The New Yam festival (Odun Ijesu) is another great festive occasion. But none of the fiestas compares to the epic Ogun festival, celebrated annually in honour of the Yoruba god of Iron. Wole Soyinka’s 1967 poem, <i>Idanre</i>, brings to mind his depiction of Ogun as a cantankerous god who wrought destruction on his own people in a moment of drunkenness. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: large;">Soyinka did visit Idanre in 1962. Is there a connection between Ogun and Idanre? Yes. In Idanre town, “Lord of all witches, divine hunter” Ogun is a revered deity. Whether a reigning king of the town is a Christian or not, Ogun must have his way. There are as many as 201 daily sacrifices to be performed by the king from January 1 to December 31. Ogun is celebrated with pomp in October. During the carnival, all the high chiefs dance with their troupes, leaving the king at the end of the procession to take the last dance on the way to the hill. Like Ogun, its patron deity, the fiesta is faintly macabre, as the festive dance could become a ‘ dance of death’ for any of the chiefs overtaken by the king. Such unfortunate chieftain is condemned to a woeful year and eventual death. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;">From the summit of the hills, you are privy to an eagle-eyed view of the town and its surrounding: beautiful scenery contrasts sharply with the awesome perspectives. In sum, up or down the hills, Idanre offers a panoply of picturesque panorama-red, rusty rooftops; mixed architecture, angular viewpoints-all make the sprawling settlement looks like a primitive Legoland. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: large;">It is a location that can tick the boxes on the National Geographic Channel. It can compete as location for surrealistic movies. Some Yoruba filmmakers have exploited it as choice location in the past. The movie <i>Opa Agemo</i> was shot in Idanre.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: large;">Though not a day to catch a glimpse of white visitors, tourists come in droves, especially students and pupils on excursion. Two busloads of a Red Cross detachment from the University of Ibadan arrive just as another squad of youths is descending the hill. Ukasoanya Uche, a 500-level Agric/Environmental Engineering student who had visited the hills before, says: “People come from far places, but lack of proper logistics and adequate boarding facilities force them to leave the same day.” That is an obvious drawback.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: large;">While the town may well lack the DNA of a great city, but the Idanre Hills' Wow Factor has tourists coming back to the modest town every year. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: large;">“Are you coming back?” Thrice I was asked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: large;">If only to see that part of the hills the locals called ‘<i>The Ark of Noah</i>, “Yes, I will be back,” I acknowledge. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Jibrilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06489502675282327621noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-755226782589931548.post-20056200650204795532013-02-16T08:57:00.003+01:002023-05-11T20:49:00.391+01:00COCONUT PARADISE of Badagry<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>I have a fixed idea of a pretty picture of a coconut paradise. It starts with a sun-soaked beach with a Caribbean character; a place where the ocean rages and roils, where waves race and rise against the pebbled sands of the beach, tall coconut trees form a bewitching backdrop and the sun, a coppery ball, sinks on the edge of the horizon at a point where water and sky meet giving off a colorful contrast of blue against orange. There a bevy of beachgoers frolic about in seductive swimsuits. Their chatter and laughter rend the air; an orgy of uninhibited fun, tempered with élan and exuberance–a depiction of youthful innocence that reminds you that life is worth living. Such a hedonistic haven is not a figment of imagination; it exists somewhere in the sprawling swathe of the Badagry coastland.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />Badagry’s coastal towns offer a refreshing retreat from Lagos’ untamed chaos of man and machine. Mowo or Magbon, Ajido or Aradagun, Ilado or Ibereko –anywhere along the Badagry axis, away from the polluted civilization of the suburbia, is a good deal.<br /><br />Going to Badagry was my idea of a quiet but interesting New Year’s celebration. The trip this year did not fall short of my expectation, from beginning to end. The downside of journeying to Badagry used to be the vexing gridlock along the Iyana-Iba-LASU section of the expressway. The traffic jam could at times trap commuters for as long as three hours. This year, I was spared the travail and the tedium. The Lagos traffic of January 1 was grossly emaciated due to the yuletide exodus of Lagosians to their native homelands in the hinterland. Ergo, the journey to the Badagry town of Aradagun was hassle-free, concluded in a record time of 30 minutes at the speed of 120 Km per hour.<br /><br />The big idea of going to Badagry is the beach. When I visited in the evening of January 2, the beach was under siege. A vehicle-lined expressway gave a foretaste of the chaos on the beach. Over a two-mile stretch of the beach was crawling with revelers. The beach was choked, and the crowd crushing. They danced and swam with amazing zest. As disheartening as the congestion was, it offered eyeful of other attractions. If the dancing orgy (a scenery reminiscent of the tail-end footage of Ricky Martins’ La Bomba video) did not arrest your attention, then the live dramas of eccentricities and emotions would blip on your radar.<br />Opening act. A Yokozuna-size young man haggled with a gawky urchin over sales of boxer shorts, which the younger male was peddling at the rate of N100.<br />Biggy asked: “Do you have a boxer my size?”<br />Boy replied him: “Yes, I have one that will fit you, but it will cost you N400.”<br />“Why?” Biggy wanted to know.<br />“Because you are ‘extra-big.’” The boy pointed at his huge torso. And Biggy took offence. The poor boy scampered to safety. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">A swish pan to the left, and a boy-and-a-girl scene filled the frame. The girl was engrossed with a bowl of rice. The boy came wet from a swim. Still dripping with water, he sat beside her. She offered him the bowl. Instead of a few spoonfuls, he wolfed down everything in double-quick time. The girl did not hide her displeasure. “But, I thought you gave me everything?” the boy protested. She broke down in tears. He spent the next few minutes begging her. Funny.<br />A little distance to the front, a man with a Hitlerian mustache wore a woman’s swimming suit. He strutted about the beach. His gangling form in the absurd bathing suit was the butt of jokes. But he didn’t care in the least.<br /><br />A couple and their friend came into focus. After emptying a bottle of wine, the male in the pack strolled off, leaving the two females alone. Then he strayed away to sit beside a fair-complexioned, baby-faced bimbo. The women he left behind watched him keenly and they gossiped. One whispered to the other. “Well, I am not perturbed, even if he likes he can disappear inside one of those huts with her, all I know is I am the one he would be going back home with.”<br /><br />“You don’t care about what he does behind your back?”<br />“Men will always be men, the important thing is for him to find his way home after his ‘cheap’ flings outside.”<br />“I can t live with that, o.”<br />The lothario came back and a melodrama ensued. The fiancée (who earlier claimed not to be the jealous type) flew into tantrums. “What were you discussing with that lady?” They argued forth and back. They spat all types of profanities, including uncomplimentary F-words. The male walked away in exaggerated annoyance. “But I thought you said you wouldn’t be bothered?” her friend reminded her. Instead of an answer, she wiped tears from her eyes.<br /><br />A little to the left, another couple sat, engrossed with the usual goings-on that often happen when boy meets girl and they both fancy each other. They played the romantic chess. The male tried to convince the female; the woman played hard to get. He muttered in her ears. She giggled. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Te dijo te amo?</i><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">A coconut palm-inspired déjà vu took me back in time to another beach experience on Gberefu Island in 2009. Gberefu is a tropical rainforest island covered with coconut trees, separated from the Badagry Peninsula by a lagoon, and populated by a pocket of natives. Its natural ecosystem is untainted by modernity, its strip of beach, very exclusive. Two years ago, we camped on the beach for a three-day retreat. After we were ferried across the lagoon by canoes, we fox-trotted through verdant vegetation and villages, until we stood at the edge of the Atlantic, where the beach was clean, calm and vacant. Strips of golden sand stretched endlessly. No beach bums, no urchins. The natives went about their fishing activities without as much as pay us any attention. Our party was a complete set, with a DJ, a video cameraman and adequate provisions for mixed odds of 19 campers. We set up our dome tents on the beach facing the Atlantic Ocean.<br /><br />First a big bonfire was kindled. Then a dancing revelry followed. We dined al fresco by the fireside. The next day began with a physical fitness drill. Afterwards, we played beach soccer and volleyball. Others chased crabs.<br />That morning, we relished the exotic taste of fresh coconut water. The tender coconut flesh, roasted in open fire (the scent was alluring), a fish kebab (made out of fish bought from the native fishermen as their canoes berthed on the beach) served as our between-meals snacks. Local berries, picked from thorny plants, served as dessert. The lemon-size berries, which tasted like tomato and were endowed with the aroma of mangoes, were aboriginal to the island. Later, the group broke up. The splinters drifted apart in twos for a cosy “two-aside”. In the evening, we had a proper football contest against the natives (a ritual they demand of us any time we visit the beach) and they got the better of us by two unreplied goals. The outing was a classic beach experience; one that we recreate from time to time. This year’s retreat at Gberefu has been tentatively fixed for February 11.<br /><br />Later as we departed the Badagry Beach at dusk, I was pricked by a pang of anxiety. Will this paradise still exist this time next year? There are reasons for my fears. The 10-lane super highway from Iganmu to the border town of Seme is racing rapidly and the next 12 months will see a lot of progress. This traffic spine will change Badagry. Once completed, it will put paid to the nuisance gridlock bedeviling the Badagry Expressway for good. Seme would be as far as a 30-minute drive from Iganmu, whether by bus or rail.<br />On the flip side, there will be a population shift from the over-congested metropolis to the swathe of land in the Badagry Peninsula. The ravage of urbanity will set in; pristine forests will disappear and concrete buildings will be erected in their place to meet man’s rapacious shelter need. Also, Marlon Jackson’s proposed $3.4bn Slave Resort and Lagos State government’s Film City Project have been designated to be built in Badagry, particularly on Gberefu Island.<br /><br />The reason I have a soft spot for a trip to the Badagry Peninsula? Peaceful solitude, fresh air, quasi-Eden tranquility, homes (hut or hovel) surrounded by palms and Palmettos, ferns and banana trees. The environment portrays an idyll defined by rural nature and nostalgia, a place where you can walk barefooted on beach-white sand. Indeed, the beach of Badagry is a model for Madonna’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Isla Bonita</i> (The Beautiful Island) <br /><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“…tropical the island blew, all of nature wild and free…”</i>For the love of fresh coconut juice, I yearn to visit again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Jibrilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06489502675282327621noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-755226782589931548.post-90436815710706588032013-02-15T16:26:00.001+01:002023-03-25T10:03:04.827+01:00ITAGUNMODI: Poor, Gold Town <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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A community, rich in gold, talcum and topaz, but chained to a destiny of poverty and underdevelopment...<o:p></o:p></h3>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">In the commercial city of Ilesha, a prominent town in Osun State, one community’s reputation resonates as a gold-mining town. A little enquiry reinforces the fact.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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“Can you direct us to any gold mining location around here?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“There are many; which one do you prefer?” a middle-aged man asks.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>The nearest, the most accessible or the largest </i>- One camp fits the bill.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“That is Itagunmodi,” he says without hesitation, and adds in a thickly accented Ijesha dialect: “It is the most popular.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Getting to the community is easy. A N100 fare and a 16-minute ride in a five-passenger jalopy to a destination that is almost equidistant from Ile-Ife and Ilesha. The road tunnels through a verdant forest dotted with roadside hamlets. With a conviction that I am on my way to a modern-day<i> El Dorado</i>, I look forward to see bustling scenery, reminiscent of gold mining camps in Ghana or South Africa. I hope to see a swarm of men entombed in pen pits, heaving pickaxes, digging away at the earth’s bowel or panning in shallow streams for the precious metal.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As soon as we arrive in the town, my quixotic expectation dissolves into shards of disappointment. Nothing glitters in the sight that greets us. The town of Itagunmodi wears an Old World aura; drab and dust-coated. Its wretched-of-the-earth ambiance is an eloquent indication of a town ‘playing catch up’ with time; the people’s outlook, coated with dross of lethargy - <i>a lack of gold rush mentality in the community; and obvious absence of treasure hunters digging and panning for gold -</i> the sight, the sound, the smell, mesh in to a lackluster scenery. In place of dynamism, the town was dormant. I feel like a man who set out for Calcutta but suddenly finds himself in the middle of the Kalahari.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Where is the gold?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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That Itagunmodi is a gold-mining town is not a mere myth. While the picture that meets the eye portrays a dismal depiction, gold prospecting and mining over a two-century time span is a strong testament of the town’s rich deposit of gold ore. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Located in Atakunmosa West Local Government of Osun State, Itagunmodi town (formerly known as Igbo Nla) is dwarfed by an imposing background of a vast Ora Mountain. <o:p></o:p></div>
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On this day, a tangerine sun is three-quarter across the sky. Its tropical heat harshly bakes the hard, red-earth ground, just as the rusty roofs of the community chafe under the intense heat. Collapsed mud buildings here and there distort the pastoral perspective. Bells toll in a by-the-roadside Anglican Church. Goats walk about aimlessly. An off-colour blue beat-up cab roasts under the sun, the driver, taking refuge under a shade, shouts in to the wind to attract passengers. Few men laze under the shade; some youth speed-race with motorcycles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Generally, the landscape is uninspiring. <i>It is like stepping in to a dusty page of a D.O. Fagunwa’s book.</i> On this Sunday afternoon, half the community is engaged in ‘God’s business’ – Christians observing the Sabbath in churches, Moslems hurrying inside a mosque by the roadside in response to the muezzin’s call to the <i>Zuhr</i> prayer. Nobody pays us any attention, even though we look ‘out of place’. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Yet, this community<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>has a gilded reputation as ‘a gold haven.’ We seek the local authority for insights.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<i>Kabiyesi </i>(king) has gone to church, come in and wait for him,” a woman informs at the royal abode.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Few minutes later, the king welcomes the two-man team of news hounds. He introduces himself comprehensively: “My name is, His Royal Majesty, Oba Famadewa-Kosile Michael Olalekan Oshunkolujo II, the <i>Alagunmodi of Itagunmodi</i>”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The man entrusted with the leadership of the town since the last 16 years, did not fail to affirm that he is “not just a Christian, but a minister of God” even as he clarifies further: “I am a member of Redeemed Christian Church”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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His Royal Highness will not brook any form of description he considered belittling to his community.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“When we arrived at the village-” I begin.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Town”, he corrects firmly, though mirthful. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Discussing the ‘gold status’ of his town, his conversation simmers with a “more-pains-no-gain” sentiment. The discovery of gold, rather than foster prosperity, foists a Pandora Box on the community. In more ways than one, gold has become an albatross rather than a blessing. Gold prospecting and mining started in the 18th Century, when a Bristol who came to the town discovered the valuable mineral. Century later, today, the community is none the better for it. The wretched condition of the community is a testimony. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Over time, a deluge of treasure hunters who flock to the community shattered the tranquility of the community. Nowadays, locals watch impotently as rapacious gold miners repeatedly plunder their land.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Every weekend, jolly companies of <i>gold diggers</i> from the city, stop at the outskirts of the town, burrow their ways via cobweb of beaten paths into the forest, where they camp and engaged in illicit gold mining unobstructed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Nowadays, they come in four or five buses” the monarch affirms. <o:p></o:p></div>
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These illicit mining, Oba Oshunkolujo avows, imperil the community. “The consequence is that we now have deep ravines and dangerous pits all around our community. During raining season, these pits become breeding grounds for mosquitoes, thereby subjecting us to perennial malaria epidemic.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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To lend credence to his narratives, the king, (together with the town’s chief imam and a youth) volunteers to take us on a fact-finding tour. A few kilometers north of the town, we follow a beaten path in to the heart of a tropical rainforest. As we cut through a thick curtain of vegetation, we plough down a slope at almost 90-degree, surrounded by a soundtrack that is an amalgam of water crashing through the thick undergrowth, chirps of crickets and forest birds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sunshine hardly penetrates through the leafy canopy of titanic trees. We found countless traces of gold mining activities in varying degrees.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The ubiquity not withstanding, gold prospecting remains largely a small-scale affair in the community. Though a few licensed private companies hover about the community, they are known for half-hearted epileptic operations – <i>at the discovery of a few nuggets of gold, they take a vacation.</i> At the moment, there is no active licensed prospector in the community.<o:p></o:p></div>
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If the outside world is scrambling for a share of this free-for-all fortune, it is expected that the people whose good fortune it is to be the son-of-the-soil of the community should be more visceral in the gold rush. However, the reverse is the case in Itagunmodi. The community’s apathy to gold is writ large, not only in the pervading lukewarm attitude, but also in the town’s dwindling population, occasioned by its younger populace migrating to nearby urban areas such as Ilesha and Ile-Ife.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The King again offers an insight. “Part of why our young men are moving to the city is that they are disenchanted; they believe this place should have developed better than as it is now; those who came here to exploit gold don’t give anything back to this community,” the man saddled with the administration of the community explains soberly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He further heaps the fault on licensed prospectors, whom he says are culpable for their cavalier and spineless approach to gold mining in the community. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“They lack the right equipment,” he avers. He articulates further: “What they are prospecting is largely alluvial or surface gold. Prospectors who have been coming around relies on the employment of manual labour and by that approach, they will not get anything substantial, because the heavy-carat gold lays deeper underground”. <o:p></o:p></div>
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He is not any far from the truth. Gold, nowadays, is produced in large open-pit and deep underground mines – a capital intensive, operation that requires sophisticated equipment that is beyond what a ragtag of individuals or groups without mega fund can pull off.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Also, the Alagunmodi vents his spleen on the private prospectors for the inhumane treatment they meted out to the indigenes. His people, the monarch insists, are frequently subjects of ‘raw deals’. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Alleging “They treat us like slaves,” he avers, “They cheat our people by not paying them their wages, as and when due; that is why our people are no longer interested in working for them.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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Even as farmers of cocoa and plantains, the economic ecology of the community is now made more precarious by gold-mining activities, as marauding opportunist gold miners overrun farmlands. The hopelessness of the circumstance is what is making the younger and adventurous members of the community to desert their hometown for the glittery life of the city, where they seek alternative means of livelihood. In their absence, strangers now throng their land turning the landscape in to pits and gorges.<o:p></o:p></div>
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While voicing the community’s appreciation for the modest development that has taken place there so far (such as a recent renovation of schools) the <i>Oba</i> amplifies the greatest yearning of his people. “We want industry here; we need government to come down here and exploit the gold deposit here to help the community grow; there are abundance deposit here to last for many decades, and if properly managed, it will provide employment for the youth of this community, as well as bolster national revenue.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The town of Itagunmodi has another big attraction: a magical stream called <i>Eleyinju</i>, whose lore runs parallel to the Biblical story of Namman, the Syrian occupation army commander who on the instruction of the Israelite prophet, Elisha, went to bathe in River Jordan and got healed of his leprosy. People come from far places to this magic stream, immerse their bodies and get cured of varieties of skin afflictions, particularly, guinea worm infections. For those without serious skin afflictions, routine immersion in the stream helps them to slough old skins. The stream, the monarch informs is credited with power to cure barrenness.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Part of the river’s mystic aura is derived from the fact that “fish caught from the river will never cook, even if boiled for eternity,” the Oba asserts. On the other hand, there is hardly a mystery about the healing quality of the stream. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“The soil of Itagunmodi is rich in talc”, the Oshunkolujo explains. Preliminary exploration, again by opportunist prospectors, in areas around the stream indicates that talcum powder exists in commercial quantity in most places in the community. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In spite of the prevailing bleak outlook, the Alagunmodi is optimistic about the community’s future. The community, he says, has been “elevated by God.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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On account of gold and talc?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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There is an additional ace. He confides: “We have topaz, too; it has been mined on a few occasion”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Like a behemoth chained to the vast Ora Mountain, the town of Itagunmodi is slowly falling to ruins - a community that has within its reach the resource to transform itself, yet it continued to languish in ‘fate of Tantalus.’ A big irony.</div>
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Jibrilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06489502675282327621noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-755226782589931548.post-42489039963608787822013-01-14T18:55:00.000+01:002015-11-14T11:49:26.203+01:00KUBWA, A Town Where Every Car Owner Is A Transporter<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSKHB_-nD3teLG8KXESpaWI-A0ijWttRfXlZBQgtu0BBt8yuvCzskczvrwSl7s6pOcpRvxMlCBUOQYFqU4sLQ6Cu3PdU21l26aUsv1KIoOZ-Bmp39G5Mv79lBua1RnZOE-CICnSXJnL5TD/s1600/Kubwa.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSKHB_-nD3teLG8KXESpaWI-A0ijWttRfXlZBQgtu0BBt8yuvCzskczvrwSl7s6pOcpRvxMlCBUOQYFqU4sLQ6Cu3PdU21l26aUsv1KIoOZ-Bmp39G5Mv79lBua1RnZOE-CICnSXJnL5TD/s640/Kubwa.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 18.0pt;">First darkness and then light. That is the best way to
savour the beauty of a town: to arrive in the thick of night and wake up the
next morning to capture the scenery; like photography, where negative prints
slowly turns to sharp-coloured photos, sights and sounds etch on your senses,
filtered through mellowed rays of light from the rising sun. That way, the
novelty lingers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 18.0pt;">The
dynamics applies to Kubwa, a satellite town located 13 kilometres from the
Federal Capital City of Abuja when I found my way into the town less than an
hour before midnight like a man groping his way in the dark. I wake up the next
morning to behold the town’s rugged beauty; ringed on all sides by rolling
hills, dotted by urban salons and shops, churches and chapels, and small, paint-smartened
houses in subtly green environment. The roads dip and rise over rocky terrain
in a fashion that offers sneaky vistas miles away. Riots of red and rusty
roofs, a splash of green and blue rooftops thrusts into your view. And a
febrile traffic that weaves with verve and vitality. It is well known that
satellite towns around the city of Abuja are rowdy and over-congested; Kubwa,
however, is different from the pack.</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 18.0pt;">Kubwa is a town of many parts. And there is a subtext to
the names of every location. ‘Kubwa village’ is not the abode of the natives or
some primitive group of people; it is the place where the poor live. </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 18.0pt;">Close by is the sprawling market and the adjoining
neighbourhood where the ‘not-well-to-do’ lives. There you will find the
red-light district whose proper name is Dogon-Daji Street, but people prefer to
call it ‘Woman Boku,’ meaning “Women come a dime a dozen.” Kareem considers it
a waste of euphemism calling it anything else but “Prostitutes’ Headquarters.”
In that neighbourhood, low-price prostitutes offer escapes for dark desires in
dingy brothels and dilapidated shacks. As you drift uptown, the face of the
town improves. Federal Housing is the town’s Highbrow area where civil
servants, and well-to-do, self-employed businessmen live. The aggregate of the
town’s populace is neither lower crust in outlook, nor upper class, but a
tapestry of dirt poor and mild affluence.</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 18.0pt;">Being close to Abuja is taking its toll on Kubwa by way
of traffic congestion. To escape this stranglehold, residents working in Abuja
who wants to resume in their office promptly by 8 a.m., or earlier, leaves as
early as 5:30 am to avoid being trapped in the traffic jam for which the Kubwa
expressway is fast becoming notorious for. Commuters stuck in the traffic deal
with this little frustration in silence. The traffic situation in this
particular axis stretches up to five kilometers or more, aggravated by on-going
expansion works on the expressway. The traffic jam sometimes last till noon.
Car owners with ‘money minds’ are quick to spot the ‘goldmine’ in the Kubwa
expressway rush hours.</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 18.0pt;">The teeming crowds that parade along the road frantically
wave down private cars in effort to thumb down a lift as the crawl-and-cruise
traffic creeps past them. “Everyone who owns a car is a transporter,” Kareem
jokes on a morning he forgets his wallet at home, all in haste to reach Wuse
within the shortest time possible. To refuel his car, the host of commuters on
the roadside provides a stopgap. “This is what an average car owner living in
Kubwa would do if he finds himself in an awkward position.” Kareem stops a
distance away and picks four passengers, workers who are already getting late
to their office in the city.” “Your money na N100,” he informs them.</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 18.0pt;">On other occasion, such an act of benevolence. He recalls:
“many years ago, one man gave me and couple of friends a ride on one raining
day. As we attempted to pay him our fare he told all of us, “use your money to
pay your tithes this Sunday and if you are not a Christian, give it as alms to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">almajiris</i>.”</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 18.0pt;">That incident, he says, pricks his conscience each time
he charges passengers the standard N100 fare. While we are stalled in the
hold-up around Berger junction, still another drama adds a different angle to
the situation. A sleek Mercedes slids to a halt near a group of youths waiting
by the kerb. The driver, an elderly man, with a crown of grey, pokes his head
out of his car and makes his choice of passengers. The car slips away with
three ladies, leaving four young men standing on the kerb.</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 18.0pt;">However, inside the town of Kubwa, transportation is the
least worry. White-striped, green colour cars and buses of the FCT cruise up
and down the major streets, plying Kubwa and neigbouring towns.
Motorcycles banished from Abuja metropolis also work the streets for as cheap
as N30 to N50 to get people to anywhere within Kubwa. First-time visitors need
not be bothered with an address book to get to their destinations. All that is
required is the name of the neighbourhood/street and an exact stop point. For
instance, Say ‘NYSC by mango tree’ or ‘2:2 by Cupid’ to any motorcyclist and
they will stop you right on the spot.</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 18.0pt;">Even though there are motels to accommodate travelers to
the town, there is wisdom in arriving the town early enough. The town sleeps by
midnight, and by then it is difficult to get motorcycles. Late arrivals may
have to contend with the discomfort of spending the night like a bird without a
branch to perch on. The town of Kubwa observes its sleeping schedule and its
people sleep with their two eyes closed.</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"></span></div>
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Jibrilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06489502675282327621noreply@blogger.com0