MAMA AFRIKA

I remember Sartije Bartman, Olaudah Equiano and a tingling, burning sensation of anger journeys from the top of my head to the tips of my fingers and toes. I wonder how wicked humanity can be and the loss to Afrika that cannot be recanted, the years of torment and torture that cannot be erased. I then recall Miriam Makeba, Angelique Kidjo, Brenda Fassie, Mandela, Mongo Beti and a bubbling sensation of joy and pride travels through me, lightening up my face and heart with a smile. The bravery, pride, talent and intelligence of these pioneers has served as an inspiration to many, restored the pride of youths and exposed Afrika has experienced by Afrikans.

I then think about now, I think of African Americans and Black Britishs, of Africans who cannot be tainted with their culture or roots. I watch them jiggle their scantly clad bums on TV, I hear them being called hoes and bitches, I see them readily neglecting their legacy for the price of a red passport or green card inorder to be accepted.

I then ponder did our pioneers suffer in vain? Was there nothing gained? Will the oppressed oppress itself? Is Afrika fighting a war against itself? Building and destroying? Gathering and scattering?

Rise again Mama Afrika. Rise once and for all!!!!

Child Marriage; Nigeria's Next Step?

This might not be the most patriotic thing to say, but it is the truth. There is only little I am proud of in Nigeria. In fact I desperately hang on to these few positive sentimental factors, reminding myself she is a developing country. The major word being "developing", but now I am terribly scared this term might just be an illusion.

I recently heard about the vote in the House of Senate to legalize under age marriage and found it shamefully surprising as the outcry worldwide is to stop child marriage, and I wondered why a country like Nigeria who is struggling to feed its citizens and provide basic social amenities will add this atrocious, dehumanizing, shameful and patriarchal act to its list of ills.

Rides in the tubes, trains and buses in London, with poster of Say No to Child Marriage pasted in every carriage always left me disturbed and partly proud of my country as this is one problem we can or could - as the case may be now-  boast of not having. I thought the idea of “developing” is to cross out barbaric and medieval elements hindering the healthy living of human and not just a title!

To think that women in the house of senate, celebrities who will do anything to gain international recognition  and the first lady, a mother of daughters herself, who had in the past very embarrassingly aired her views and meddled in issues that were not her business has refused to stand up and speak out against this disturbing notion. Is the First lady willing to give her young daughters to dirty old men trying to fulfil sadistic and paedophilic fantasises? How is this vote going to solve the long list of problems already tormenting Nigerians? How is it going to advance our move from developing to developed countries?

Africa is very poplar for its many tribulations and this is even more so exaggerated in the western countries. Phrases like "Don’t waste food, there are kids suffering in Africa" or "Do they have cars or houses in Africa?" gets to me all the time, and I desperately hope for a Africa that stops receiving charity and caters accordingly for its own but gradually, news after news, laws after laws, this hope increasingly fades away.

Now I am torn between joining the large amount of Africans, clamouring for British or American citizenship and fulfilling the urge to rip the heads of these fools in power trying to promote very obvious adverse laws that benefits only those thinking with the member between their legs rather than ears.

A TRIP TO THE MARKET

The market was clustered with shops and make-shift stalls -basket trays laden with goods sitting on a stool- fitted into every available space. Stalls lining both sides of the street and shops filled with goods spilling through doors and neatly arranged by the entrance, only to be packed indoors at the end of the day and then out again the next day. This was a road and somewhat, still is. Just a narrower version of its initial width. Over the years, the market women gradually inched their stalls forward, closer to the road, making space for even more stalls. This raised concerns from the government and public, but once they gained an inch, no one could drive them back. Cars honked, slowing down to a crawling pace and sometimes waiting for a stall to be moved out of the way before driving past.

The market women are always at alert, looking left and right, smiling and stretching their hands, beckoning to customers. Like skilled hunters, they seek their customers, looking and judging; a young lady, an elderly woman. Voice raised high, shouting as loud as possible, making rhymes. A battle, a contest for the highest caller, the most creative.

“Buy pepper, cook for your husband”

“This yam is good, this yam is for food”

“This is fresh, come try and you won’t regret”

These catchy rhymes sometimes get stuck in my head after a visit to the market, and when I repeat them in jest, my mum will chide. "May that not be your portion! You will become a lawyer or a doctor."

I squeezed past the two pepper sellers with stalls so close together you could mistaken them as one, to get to my mum's shop. I often wondered how they manage to cohabit, selling the same goods, plying for the same customers. My mum had sometimes spoken about rifts among traders, jealousy about who got the most customers.

Since I had gone to the market directly from school, I had my uniform on and so I was careful not to get it sullied. I was going to wear it the next day. I always wear it twice before washing it.  The sun was high out and it burned the back of neck, my armpits felt moist and tingled the way they do when I sweat and pebbles of sweat gathered above my upper lip and nose.

"Good afternoon ma" I greeted my mum. She sat on a bench along the wall of her shop’s entrance, fanning herself with a cut cardboard paper.

"Hey how are you? How was school?"

"Fine." That was the answer I always gave, it didn't matter if it wasn't.  I dropped my bag, grabbed a cold sachet water from the stall next to her shop. Pure water we call it, as the label clearly advertised in bold letters, though tales have been told of the miserable condition some are manufactured in.

I took out a N5[i] from my pocket to pay, but Mama Risi rejects. "Omo ile iwe wa, bawo ni school?"[1]

“Mama Risi, I have told you to stop this! You rarely make any profit from what you sell. You shouldn't be giving it out free of charge!" My mum cried, when she realised Mama Risi didn’t let me pay.

“Shebi[2] it's your child? It's fine! We mustn't charge a student"

I pocketed the money and went to sit. I hate being caught in this I-care-about-you charade. This wasn't the first time. I was personally happy that I could save the N5, one would think my mum will be too.

“No no no no. Titi, give her the money.” Mum said

“Titi, don't worry.” Mama Risi said

 “Mama Risi, collect the money.” Mum said

“No, it’s fine.” She said with a smile, turning away to attend to another customer.

After a little while of back and forth, with a smile of amusement on my face watching the whole drama, my mum relented. I'll be here again tomorrow, I’ll take another pure water, and this whole friendly argument will ensue again.

This intrigues me about my culture. I do not have the wealth of words to explain it but, the togetherness and love though it could be skin deep at times and only for personal gain. Mama Risi, stays rent free on a spot that is part of my mum’s shop and so to constantly show her gratitude for my mum’s generosity, she gives me free pure water. My mum on the other hand, has done this goodness out of love and not for personal gain, hence, she insist Mama Risi lets me pay. What a dance!

I don't like the market, dirty kids running around half naked, neglected by very busy mothers, the smell of fish, the heat, flies perching on rotten food waste only to then perch on fresh beef chunks dripping with blood. “One doesn't call the hand that feeds one dirty!" My mum would rebuke, every time I complain about the market. I pushed Risi away as she rushed toward me with open arms. She was barefooted, mud clung to her feet and the stain of bean pudding or some other nasty food around her mouth. She was going to stain my uniform.

The earlier I get out of here the better, I thought. I had homework to do and also didn't want to miss the start of the new season of Papa Ajasco, but more importantly, MTV base. I took the bag of fish and pepper I had come to collect.

 "I am leaving."

“Wait. Now that you are here, look after the shop awhile. I need to go see Kunle’s dad concerning the Market Force monthly contribution money”.

Oh no! The last thing I know how to do is suck up to customers, a treatment these people crave. I dare not refuse though, a dance night at school was coming soon and I'll need to buy a new dress.

I dumped the bag of fish with a thump and slumped back on the bench, face scrunched up. “Ok.” I murmured

She re-ties her wrapper and walked out. "Keep an eye on the money bag”. She called over her shoulder.

I sat there, head bowed to keep from making eye contact with the milling crowd of people, hoping no customer will approach. I took out the book we had been asked to read at school, Tess of D’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy.

Wham! I flinched as a ball went couple of inches past my face, hitting the shop’s wall. I looked up to find an apologetic looking kid.

“What do you think you are doing?” I demanded.

“Hope everything is fine.” Mama Risi called from the next stall.

“Yes ma. It is this idiot that kicked a ball into the shop.”

“Abeg, no vex. Na mistake.” He rushed in to pick the ball, lodged underneath my mum’s chair.

“Make sure he pays if he has broken anything.” Mama Risi called again.

“No, it is all fine.” I called back.

With a lopsided smile, he backed out of the shop. I went back to reading.

An hour later, my mum came back. I was sure it took her that long only because she must have stopped countless of times on her way back from Kunle’s dad’s stall, to talk to other market women. I picked up the bag of now dripping bag of fish as the ice was starting to melt off and left.

I walked, skirting muddles of water on the floor and walking on tip toes to prevent the black mud, littered with fish scales and pepper stalks from staining my socks. Calls of “sister”, “fine girl”, “sisi” surrounded me. "Come and buy", "I will give you a good price", "I will cut you a good bargain". It was a melody I didn’t care for.  Head down, I picked my way out of the market.

I busted out into the busy road with the noise of cars zooming past and bus conductors calling out for passengers. As I walked past a parked bus, the conductor pulled at my arm. "Fine geh!" I snatched my arm away and quickened my steps. "Heys" he shouted, making a calling noise with pursed lips. I played deaf.

“Mtcheww.” He hissed. "No be anoda man dey climb you?"

This is another reason I hate the market. Ugly, unruly area boys with their harassing words and conduct. As I boarded the cab home, I kept thinking of how wrong it was to be grabbed against my will, by hands soiled black with engine oil and of how painful it was that I could do nothing about it! How dare he say I am climbed by a man, am I a dog or a horse?! Anger welled inside of me. If I were strong enough, I would have beaten him to a pulp, I would have made him beg for mercy and teach him why it is wrong to speak to a woman like that! To think I'm just a school girl and he probably in his thirties. Plus, how could he possibly assume that I'll date him?! I’m a literate and he, a lousy illiterate. Even my boyfriend, one of the cutest guys in school, asked me for a whole month before I agreed! And he certainly doesn’t climb me! I looked down at the black smudge on the arm of my uniform and I knew I'll have to wash my shirt today after all! This is so unfair! A trip to the market leaves me so frustrated.

I will be so rich when I grow up, I won't have to deal with hoodlums like this. I’ll live in Victoria Garden City. I had spent the last holiday there with my cousins. The market there were tiled and called malls and shop attendants greeted politely with a smile.

The cab came to a sudden halt by the roadside to pick up more passengers, causing the car behind to swerve sharply just in time. The driver stuck his hand out of the window, cussing our driver and gesturing frantically.

We were already four in the cab; three seated on the backseat and a passenger beside him. When we complained, he said we could all get off if we wanted, his car fits six people. Of course we didn’t alight as we had paid, so we shifted reluctantly to accommodate the new passengers, while the woman beside me lectured him on how greedy he is and somehow managed to morph the lecture into how important it is for him to give his life to Christ as “He is the provider of all our needs”. She took out her Bible, taking up more room as she leafed through pages, searching for verses to back up her speech. The driver increased the volume of the song he was listening to and sang loudly along, smirking his teeth the whole time, a toothpick hanging loosely at the corner of his mouth. I lowered the window all the way and the blast of fresh air hit my face. I'll be home soon, away from all this! I'll be home.

***

Mum came home that evening bellowing my name. I knew I was in trouble. I racked my head for what it could be, nothing came to mind. I later learnt, it was the money! It got stolen while I was watching the shop, the boy who had mistakenly kicked the ball into the shop took it. To think he was only a boy, he didn’t look a day over 10 years. Stupid street urchin!

This was a major setback. We couldn’t afford the rent and the landlord was harsher on my mum as she had no crown. We would wake up to one of his rant as he banged on our door. “Pay me my money”, he’d yell “that is why every woman needs a husband! Treat your husbands well women! He is your crown.”

A little over a month later, we left the house. My mum woke up early on a Saturday morning and said “We are leaving.” Oh! The Crown? He left some years ago as he wanted a son which my mum couldn’t give. The doctors said she was lucky to be alive after she had me.  

I was ridden with guilt. I had to help in the market on weekends as we needed the money. Oh, how I hated it, but I couldn’t complain. That whole month was even harder as my boyfriend, Nosa, broke my heart. It turned out he had been asking a junior out. It was a month of guilt, loss and heartbreak. I settled into my new home and was still heartbroken, but something changed.

I became a market girl. As the months went by of helping in the market, I felt the joy of cajoling customers till they hand over their money in exchange for our goods, I became skilled at judging which customer to beckon and which was just window shopping, which to cut an unusual bargain for as they are a regular. In fact, mum let me setup a small stool in front of her shop to sell handmade beaded jewellery. I took Mama Risi’s spot.

Mama Risi, oh poor Mama Risi! As she ran across the street one cloudy evening, just before the market closed to get change for a hasty customer, she got ran over by a motorcycle. She laid askew on the road, a bone jutted out from her calf, dirt clung to her exposed thighs and a long open gash ran from the top of her head to her cheek. It was a horrid sight. My mum grabbed Risi and hurried into the shop, saving her from such an unpleasant spectacle. Since Mama Risi had no one in the city, Risi became my younger sister. That break, I refused to go to my cousin’s. I had a sister to look after and goods to sell.

Mum got comfortable with leaving me in her shop again. She even thought I had a special gift for sales. “Touch this money” she would say and then, she would put it in her sheepskin money bag, mixing it with the other notes and coins. “We will make a lot of sales today.” She would smile.

I packed in the goods by the entrance and locked the shop’s metal door. As I made my way to the bus stop that evening, I waved goodnight to the other market men and women packing up. “Good night Sisi Nike” they called. “Good night ma, good night sir.” I answered. A guy sidled up to me. “Heys, sister.” I raised my hand. “You dey craze?” He took a step back. With a smile I turned away. I was no longer bothered by this, they had the right to ask and I had the right to answer.  The thought of cold water caressing my skin, washing away the mud from my feet and the perspiration from my skin drew me home. I could just smell the bean pudding mum always made on Saturdays for dinner. I hastened my step.

---

[1] My student, how was school?

[2] Isn’t

---

[i]5 Naira (Nigerian currency)

A PLACE WHERE THE SUN SHINES

The worn green sofa groaned under her weight as she plunked herself down on it. She switches on the TV, lowered the volume, and dialled her mother’s number. It was answered on the second ring.

“Hello” her mother breathed into the receiver

“Hi Mum, I called as soon as I could”

“You were supposed to call half an hour ago”

“I know.” I exhaled heavily. “I just got back from work. I called immediately”

“You got a job already? Does it pay enough?”

“It is alright. It provides food and shelter, also enough to put him in day care.”

There was a long silence, then a shuffling. She sniffed, moved what I assumed is the small coffee table, and gave a half cough.

“I told you what to do. Give it away and save yourself this…this…”.Her voice trailed off. “You never listen to me”

“Maybe that is one thing I took from you Ma” I managed a stiff smile

It has been long I have smiled let alone laugh. The happiest times had been the times I spent with my brother. The long walk to and from school, the times we dressed up as musicians, just being silly. We had the luxury to be silly. When we felt the pangs of hunger, we would go pluck fruits from the trees scattered at the back of the house. We had no neighbours to share it with. It was a lone shack.

“You should find a church. You should serve the Lord”

“How…how can you even say that now? At this time.” I gasped

“You should. You need it”

“I probably do…I probably do”

I could hear the creak of the chair as she rocked back and forth in it. I could just see her draw an invisible circle with her index finger on her thigh. I knew that gesture like the back of my hand. That was how I saw her when the cat died, when he cheated on her with the milk lady, when the doctor diagnosed her with splenic and liver trauma. Several times I saw her rocking on that old creaky chair, with a black eye or a swollen joint. Rocking on that chair was how I found her, when she discovered that he got knocked down by a drunken trucker, the night he tried to run away. He always got hit more often. “Be a man!” He’d growl. We had always imagined running away to a place where the sun shone and the air was clean, but we never had the guts to try.

On a night when the moon was out, he had crawled into my room from the sitting room, where he normally slept, on the dingy couch. Though I had a strange feeling that night, I didn’t know why. He told me the story of the boy who travelled around the world in search of a healing flower for his sick mother, it was my favourite story. He sat on the edge of the bed, he combed my hair and he tucked me in. He was still there when my heavy eyelids gave up, and that was the last time I saw him.

“Last Sunday, the pastor spoke about-”

I sighed heavily, “I can’t do this anymore Ma”, I yelled. Or I thought I did, it happened I had just whispered.

“What was that?” The rocking stopped

“I ca-can’t…” I could barely get the words past my suddenly croaky throat. The last time I spoke back, I couldn’t sleep on my back for days. I had to wear loose dresses.

Years of my childhood flashed past me. The uncertainty of tomorrow, or of even the next hour.  The denial, the pretence. Sometimes, I am happy he died, if only he did peacefully in his sleep.  The town gave us nothing and took the little we had. The dreary house, the gritty smell of smoke and beer. Light barely came in, immersing the rooms in gloom. I’d curl up on my bed at night, and stare hard at the door, wishing it would stay close, not daring to take my eyes off lest it flew open, crashing against the wall in a drunken rage.

A cat shrieked in the hall way. It jeered me back from my reverie.

“I can’t do this anymore!” I shouted, louder than I intended.

“You put yourself up for this. Lay in the bed you made. If only you didn’t sleep around like you did.”

The phone shook in my hand, and I felt blood run through to my arms and legs. I thought I’d burst open.

“You know I didn’t! You know what happened!! You know what he did!!!”

“I have to go now. Remember, call me on Fridays, at 6 in the evening. Not later, not earlier.”

“What are you hiding from?! I have got nothing to hide.” My voice shook. “Why won’t you just open your eyes and see?! Why won’t you stop denying?! He did it!”

“I need to go prepare dinner.” She ignored the question. “He has been out all day to earn a living.”

The baby gave a whimper in the basket by the wall where he slept, in the one room we lived in. I walked to him, and the amazing semblance dawned on me. The memories of the laughter I had with my brother came rushing back, and I realized why I couldn’t let him go even considering the circumstances in which he came to birth. He is what I have left of my brother. What I have left of the pleasant memories, how very few they were. He clutched my thumb in his finger and a smile spread all over my face.  I looked at the shabby room, the cracked and peeling wall paint, the worn chairs, the rotten cupboard, and most of all, the sun shone through the rusty windows.

“I’ll never call again,” I said, tears streaming down my face. “I’ll never visit. You’ll never see me again”

“I need to make dinner.” She said again.

I heard a sob, but it was too late for pity. I spent my whole childhood doing that, trying so hard to understand why. Now I’ll only love myself, my life… what is left of it.

“Bye.”  

IN MY HEAD (SHORT STORY)

I have always wondered how if I got on the wrong bus no one  will be able to warn me against it or after getting on the right bus if I got off at the wrong stop, no will know. No one knows where I'm going. I could change my mind entirely, get off this bus, cross the street and get on a totally different bus and just go anywhere. I remember a friend of mine who would buy a day's pass, get on any bus and go anywhere the bus takes him. Some people are just adventurous! I look around, the vacant stare on people's face amuses me. That was the only thing they all had in common maybe not the only thing but that was what they were letting on. The woman looks like she was in her mid-30s, the buggy in front her was filled with shopping and had a crying baby in it. She looks everywhere but at the baby. The man with the receding hairline folds the newspaper he is reading, he gives me a smile when his gaze met mine like he really cares. If only he knew, if only.  I get off two stops early and walk the rest of the way. Exercise is paramount! I have said that to myself countless of times but rarely took it seriously. The man in the TV yesterday had said “what the mind can conceive, the body can do”. I walk past the market, it smells fishy. The fruit lady gives me a hopeful glance, I look away.
 

The London weather has made a fool out of me again. I take my jacket off, and sling it over my bag. It made it heavier. Like other days, I feel frantic, only today is worse. I had woken up angry. I remember I had kicked the cat so hard it whimpered.

I walk into the train station glancing at the corner where the guy always sets up his keyboard. I normally see him on my way to the therapist in the afternoon and on my way back late in the evening, singing his heart out, hopeful for donations. How determined! I had hoped he wouldn’t be here today. I can't be reminded of my failure again. I walk up to check the balance on my oyster card, there is a queue. I stay in line. After what seem like forever- no not forever, it isn't that bad actually. Remember, positive thinking! - After what seem like an hour! - Well that is what it seems like to me! I bet my therapist is not always patient himself! - I topped up my oyster. The guy behind me shifted his weight from one foot to the other, a worried frown on his face. Well, calm down!

As I walk past the store, the lady gives me a half smile. I stop dead in my tracks. She looks quite pretty. This is a genuine smile, unlike the fake one I had gotten on the bus. Someone is interested. I have got to go back, and speak to her. But, what if she was only being nice? It doesn’t matter anyways. It’s too late for that now.

I walk up to the platform, and look up to check the time board. The next train arrives in 2 minutes. I look around at the unsuspecting look on people’s face. A minute pass, I count down the seconds 32…31…, and then I hear the screech of the metal track as the train approaches. I feel the gust of hot wind. I take a deep breath, ready. As I start to lurch forward, I see her again! The girl with the smile from the shop! She smiles again. In that split second I change my mind, I regain my balance in time. Sweat pours out from every pore in my skin. I hear the frantic loud thud of my heart.

The heat in the station, and the flock of people made it worse. I look around. These people don't know what they have just missed. I have just saved them from witnessing a suicide! Ungratefully, they push me out of the way as they scramble to get on the already packed train. They could have gone home with a horrific image, a story to share at the dinner table, or in the pub over a glass of beer with friends. How oblivious the world is. I wish I could know what everyone will be doing tonight.

I walk up to my heroine, the lady who saved my life. My fingers are shaking so hard I think they might fall off. I hope she realises that I have just preserved my life for her. She sees me walking towards her, and a look of apprehension crosses her face. She better not ignore me! The stupid bitch smiled at me, enticed me, she better not say no now. My feet feel heavy, I dragged them on.

“Can I help you?”
I keep on looking at her. I don’t know how to go about it. I don’t know what to say
“You like me, don't you?”
“Excuse me?” A worried frown creeps up her face.
“I...I don't know, but I think you like me.”
“Well, I thought we might have some things in common”. She looks down at her sneakers.
I uncurl my fingers from a fist, my palm is sweaty. “Yes, we might. Can I have your number? We could go to the cinema.”
She swings gently from side to side. "Ok"

I type in the number on my phone. “I'll call you.” With a smile, I walk off proudly.

See?! Not so bad! This is what ‘believe in yourself’ is all about, right? Blood rush to my fingertips. I look back to find her smiling as she watch me leave. She looks away. It feels like I am walking on springs.

This could be a scene in a film. I have always thought films were over exaggerated, with guys who always knew what to do and girls who were very willing, but maybe not. Life appears to be meaningful. See how much faster life goes with a little bit of decisiveness and courage? I decide to call my therapist immediately, I have decided on what to do with my life. I won’t sulk and wallow in self-pity, or mourn my days of fame. I’ll take acting classes and maybe teach, teach people how to get what they want out of life. Or I could be a motivational speaker! I have decided on what exactly I want. I dial the number, there was no network. Well, I have got to remember to make that call.

I suddenly feel hungry. I had spent all my coins, thinking I won’t be needing any of it again. I’ll go back but I don’t want the lady to see me again, I don’t want to ruin my earlier grand exit, or make her think I’m a maniac stalking her. I didn't even ask for her name! She must think I'm mysterious, the mysterious stranger. She probably doesn't meet guys who confidently walk up to her, asserting their feelings for her every day. I am of a rarer breed now. Life suddenly looks brighter! 

The balance on my account is £602.56. I want it to be a round figure. Everything has to be perfect today. I took the long way to the shop, avoiding the girl. I take a bottle of water, and a pack of crisp. Now I'll have £600 in my account. I walk back to the platform. I am a little late for my session, but it doesn’t matter. It was time spent well.

I hear the heavy thumping of hurried feet behind me, I turn around. A boy was on the run, he looks in his early teens. His red Adidas bag hinders him from moving as fast as he wants, away from the three boys on his heels. One of them has a knife. He runs past me and I turn to make way for the other three approaching boys, but it was too late. I feel a push. I lose my balance. I feel with my feet for the stability of the solid ground. There was nothingness, I reach out to grab the first thing I see, a buggy, and that too was out of reach. Unfortunately, the next train approaches just in time. I hear people scream.

A CRUMBLING HOUSE PAINTED OVER

Nigeria is changing, but will you agree with me if I say it is changing in the wrong places?

We have got "musicians" trying their possible best to get signed to a foreign record label, tripping over each other, beefing,  breaking up and coming together just to get famous and further enrich their pocket. Getting featured on intentional TV channels like BET, MTV...

On air, TV personalities clawing at each other, trying their best to be the most prominent. Long expensive wigs, perfect make ups, designer clothings, dating fellow top notch socialite in their circle. What an attractive way of life!

Actors and actresses who play the same roles all the time, in fact roles that fit their lifestyle, so maybe not acting just living their life out on TV,  handsome and beautiful people flaunting expensive dressing and living in style.

On the flip side, we have a Nigeria ridden in poverty and getting poorer by the day, a Nigeria lacking in basic social amenities, a country ridden with inflation, crime, corruption, incompetence... fill up the list.

Lest I forget, we also have people like the leader of Ugbo Kingdom in Ondo state who is the first black to own the newest Bentley, a 2014 model. People like Oba Akinruntan, another ruler in Ondo state who owns a personalised Rolls Royce similar to the Queen's.

In a poor and developing country, the rich and flamboyant are made the focal point and quite naturally, the envy of youths. So youngsters think of ways to fit in, ways to jump on the band wagon of  'let's get rich and famous' craze.

Like the smell of a delicious cooking meal that is out of reach and may never be tasted....

I read about Abiola's daughter's appearance on Dragon's Den, a  discovery show for young  entrepreneurs on BBC. She came out confidently with a smile and spoke with clarity. As I watched her, I felt a pang of admiration mixed with jealousy and maybe anger.

While I was happy for her and the success she was garnering overseas, I wondered if it was so at the expense of ordinary Nigerians.

Almost all Nigerians have heard of Abiola Kashimawo, his death was a shock and the masses mourned his loss. He was a rich entrepreneur/ politician and was liked by many. He sponsored many egalitarian projects and was an active supporter of Democracy. His story inspired me when I was little about how he grew up poor and his first taste of boiled egg was at his first wife's house. That was how poor he was.

Anyway, his daughter studied in a secondary school in the UK and went to Oxford University. When asked about her father by one of the investors, she said he was her inspiration and her drive, she painted him as a hero.
I definitely wasn't tuned with politics when Abiola was alive, I was too young, but I know he wasn't a saint.

The point of all this is, how many Nigerians have the level of education and enlightenment Dupesy Abiola showed and how many can exude as much skill?

While the majority suffer in poverty and want, our leaders embezzle public funds, substantial enough to foster theirs and their children's life even after their demise. A recent case is the corrupt ex-governor Ibori whose son was reported in to be living a luxurious life.

And that was why when I saw her exhibiting such intelligent charm after benefiting from a top notch education in UK something most of us can't afford, I couldn't help the rise of anger and jealous mingled with admiration.

When it comes down to it, irrespective of what the world has given, with enough passion and determination, one can achieve anything. Though it wouldn't hurt to have a well deserved head start especially if the lack of it is due to the few who are lavished with it at the expense of others.