What core values?

"The Mothers Summit, the first of its kind to be held anywhere in world, is designed to create a platform for mothers to discuss and agree on ways by which traditional Nigerian values can be propagated and inculcated in the younger generation of Nigerians." This is a sentence taken from a press release by Niyi Ibietan, of the Ministry of Information and National Orientation. The ministry, with Frank Nweke Jnr (pictured) at its helm, has become the government's juggernaut, steamrolling opposition as the president's chief propagandist - a kind of rottweiler at the gates of Aso Rock. It is evidently a measure of how primitive Nigeria's democracy is that it needs to have a ministry of information. Sophisticated democracies don't have them because, information is part of the package of governance, i.e. it goes without saying. But that's a mere quibble.

My gripe is not with the president's rottweilers, but with the concept of "traditional Nigerian values". Here in the UK, especially since last July's London bombings, there's been talk of Britishness, and what it means. The prime minister that might never be, Gordon Brown, talked about what he saw as Britishness, and so did David Cameron, before he became Tory leader. Since the bomber's were British born and bred, there must have been a huge chink their sense of Britishness to do such a thing to their fellow citizens. Patriotic people don't just strap explosives onto the backpacks, detonate them while their compatriots read the Metro during rush hour. The great debate has been about how to marry Britishness with Islam, so that British muslims can fly the Union Flag alongside the Black Flag of Islam on their collective flagpoles.

President OBJ, attended the "Mothers Summit" imploring the women to "instill such core values as honesty and accountability, patriotism, community spirit, discipline, industry, exceptional sense of duty, and, above all, the fear of God into their children so they could be groomed effectively into future leadership." In the course of Gordon Brown's speech, he mentions community more that 20 times, and David Cameron more than five times. These three men, of starkly different political backgrounds - Gordon, the Labour son of a prebytarian minister; Dave, the blueblood Eton and Oxford educated royal relative; and OBJ, the soldier and farmer, raised four thousand miles away - all believe in a sense of community. OBJ's press office even precedes his speech with a press release claiming they are "traditional Nigerian values". Which means that Dave and Gordon have been stealing grand philosophical ideas about Britishness from former African military dictators.

Searching for national "values" is an exercise in futility, as there are no values that are truly unique to any country. The French Revolution motto of "liberté, égalité, fraternité" (liberty, equality, brotherhood) which might be seen as unique isn't necessarily so. The French and American Revolutions were fraternités aux armes, pulling on the same guillotine to decapitate their respective monarchs. Whenever the debate about national identity arises, most of the ideas are in reality, human, and therefore global. Is there a country that would reject a notion of fraternité, of brotherhood? Ah, my broda, how body? Even arch-theocracies would never say that women were lesser than men, hence all countries aspire to egalité. Liberté? Who would swap liberté for balls and chains?

In the past, I have said that I was proud to be British or proud to be Nigerian. On close examination, though, it is difficult to explain why. For a while now, I've decided that pride in one's country can be a very silly thing, a juvenile form of jingoism. After all, nobody has a choice as to where they're born. Why should I be proud to be a Nigerian or a Brit, especially since nobody asked me when I was being born? I might have chosen to be from Ghana instead of Nigeria (charley, they're peaceful people), or Spain instead of Britain (siesta was invented in Spain, not by despotic Nigerian parents).

What can be distinguished between many countries, is the foibles and idiosyncracies of the countries. Call them national stereotypes, call them anything, people can identify them easily. What it means to be British? People automatically queue, it's in the British DNA. Tea? Tea is the holy grail (can't stand the stuff). Someone died, half-time at the world cup, your 18 year-old daughter pregnant? Tea will solve everything. (It could be argued that the mochachino grande latté culture is killing tea... but nevertheless.) The British countryside, the rolling hills of England are not just the fantasy of Jerusalem-singing WI members.

Immigration officer: welcome to Nigeria, sir. Do you have any questions you want to ask?
Visitor: Is it true that Nigerians always answer a question with a question?
Immigration officer: Who told you so?

Nigeria will be Nigeria wherever in the world there are Nigerians. Little pockets of Nigerians in Peckham, in Thamesmead, in Hendon, at Heathrow Terminal 3. It is only when long lost Nigerian friends are greeting each other that other people ask, "is there a problem? Why are they fighting?"

These all seem like stereotypes, but they represent our individual identities better than bland words like "community" and "patriotism", which, in the grand scheme of things, mean absolutely zilch. The whole world would like to embrace these, so what makes them uniquely British, Nigerian, or even Icelandic? Core national values? They don't exist.

The wrong "Guy"

This has got to be one of the funniest clips ever on television. But it also shows the silliness of 24-hour news, and the constant need to get someone from the commentariat to pass judgement on any recent judgement, including, say, a judge's ruling on the price of bread in the market. The clip comes from the day of the Apple Corps (Beatles publishers) v. Apple Computer, when an unsuspecting francophone taxi driver is thrust in front of the live cameras to say if he was "surprised" by the verdict. Of course he was surprised, he was there to pick someone up, not talk to millions of viewers. Video courtesy of the Sun.

Just lifted the link to Guy Kewney's blog on the mishap from jojo's blog.

Genes and sprinting

On Friday, USA's Justin Gatlin broke the world record for the 100m sprint, shaving 0.01 seconds off Asafa Powell's 2005 record with a time 9.76 seconds. More noteworthy though, was the time of the man who came second, Nigeria's Olusoji Fasuba. He clocked in at 9.84 seconds, which equals the fastest ever second place, but which also puts him in the top 10 times of all time. At the time I posted this, the website hadn't been updated (waiting for ratification), but my calculation puts him at eighth fastest time. Lest we forget, Fasuba also came second behind Jamaica's Asafa Powell in the Commonwealth Games in Melbourne.

At +1.7 m/s, the wind in Doha was obviously more favourable than in Melbourne, when it was +0.9 ms/s. What's wonderful is that Fasuba is in the mix, coming second behind two sprinters who look set to play world record ping pong over the next few years. Sadly, he might end up like Frankie Fredericks, who has four silver olympic medals, but no gold medals. Something else to note from that race, was the presence of Uchenna Emedolu, and Francis Obikwelu (now running for Portugal), meaning that the race was made up Nigeria (three), USA (four), and the rest - one Canadian.

This reminded me of Jon Entine's book, Taboo (read extract), which caused a bit of a furore. Basically, he was saying that black people, in the form of sprinters, middle distance, and long distance runners, dominate athletics because of their genes. I think his research said that out of all the top 200 times were by black athletes, and possibly most, have been of West African origin. If you take the routes of the Trans-Atlantic slave trade, this makes sense, but could get a bit blurry when you include the fewer numbers taken from the central to southern African coasts. Personally, I can actually only think of Fredericks (Namibian) who is explicitly not from West Africa.

The argument of genes being responsible for athletic prowess worries me. Genetics have been used by eugenicists such as Hitler's human-experimenter-in-chief, Josef Mengele, to justify ethnic cleansing. Racist theories have used genes to proclaim that white people are more intelligent than white people, and some say that yellow skinned people (Chinese, Asian etc) are smarter than white people. The hypocrisy of these positions is that many black people are prepared to accept the argument about brawn, but not the other about brain. Many white people are prepared to accept the argument about brain, but sometimes also accept the brawn argument. Presumably, in a world where one can order their food on the internet instead of having to go out hunting for it, physical prowess counts for nothing. They are happy to relegate that attribute to some darker skinned people from the "dark continent".

It is impossible to accept one without the other, so I reject both. There might be specific instances where the physical make-up of a human body determines their athletic ability. But it is interesting to note that while blacks might sprint off in the the distance, whites also swim off in the distance. There have been black medal winners, but they are just as rare as white runners. And as with sprinting, nuture factors should be taken into account. Many more black people will see an athletics career as a way out of poverty, and will possibly make more of an effort in the sport. They will have more role models than they do in other spheres of life, and are likely to think that a career in track and field is a viable one. This is likely to be different with swimming, where financial security matters. Suburbia is filled with pools, and black people are more unlikely to live in suburbia. West Africans are also less likely to be swimming, unless in some obscure riverine village.

There are some rogue athletes breaking the mould. When USA's Jeremy Wariner won the the gold medal in Athens, he was the first white man to win the 400m Olympic final since Moscow '80. In the same Athens Olympics, China's Liu Xiang won the gold, equalling Colin Jackson's 11 year old record. If you think that was a drug induced fluke, he came second in last year's World Championships, but clocked the same time as the eventual winner, Ladji Doucoure. In Athens, Malia Metella won the silver medal in the 1,500 m freestyle, and at the Sydney Olympics, Anthony Ervin won gold in the 50m freestlye (a sprint of sorts). The point is that in both athletics and swimming, there are a few athletes running and swimming against the racial grain. In a perfect world where man would have to run and swim to establish physical prowess, it seems that blacks and whites would balance each other out.

It has already been established that statistics used to claim that African Americans are less intelligent are skewed. The tests are invariably culturally biased, which renders them pointless. In the UK for example, one cannot say that black children perform badly in school, because the underperforming group has been narrowed down to boys of Caribbean origin. These Caribbean boys come from the same gene pool as Caribbean girls and other West Africans, but their performances are different. This makes the question one of nuture, rather than nature.

I can rabbit on about nature and nuture, and their balance, but it's a huge argument. Even the generous folk at blogger.com wouldn't give me the space needed to do the subject justice. Recommended reading: Race and Sport, and Steven Pinker's The Blank Slate, review in the Guardian, and the New Yorker.

Set Forth at Dawn

A review of Wole Soyinka's (pictured) new autobiography, You Must Set Forth at Dawn: A Memoir, appeared in last weekend's FT magazine. The reviewer, who is the FT's Africa editor, levels the same accusations at Wole Soyinka that very many people make - that he has a tendency to grandiloquence. I agree. I haven't read the complete works of Soyinka, but I've read enough of his articles to make have an informed opinion. He is obviously a man who has words aplenty beneath his statically charged hair, but only very few people and others employed by the OED have such a large vocabulary. Having a large vocabulary isn't even a problem, but Soyinka sometimes uses a scattergun approach when using words, very few bullets hit the target, and the audience can get lost.

Now, I'm a lover of words and their usage, but the context has to be right. And this definitely isn't some reverse snobbery against people who know more words than I do (okay, so what if it is?), but just an observation of Soyinka and his ability to kill a story with his use of words. The arts should invite people into a world, rather than exclude them. But perhaps he writes the way he does because his duty, as an author, is too explore the complexities of life, which invariably involves the use of complex language.

All this though, doesn't detract from the fact that he is a very fine writer, one of the finest ever from Africa. My love of the theatre really started when I played Chume in a school prodcution of The Trials of Brother Jero. Great writers are always prescient to the point of spookiness, and the Jero plays still apply to today's Nigeria. His Reith Lectures in 2004 sparkled with wit and candour, and if nothing else, is testament to his worldwide appeal. Even though I'm not the greatest fan of autobiographies (huge ego trips, David Beckham already has three at age 31), I will be reading Set Forth.

The Guardian's Maya Jaggi wrote a very good profile of Wole Soyinka in November 2002.

Damn good video

I've seen a wonderful Nigerian music video by rapper, eLDee. The beauty of the video is in its simplicity. It is basically a montage of pictures from the African continent, interspersed with eLDee's face, plain shot of him rapping, and shot of him in New York. The shots of his face are in greyish, and don't stray to any part of his body. The greys allow for artistic flair, but also hide any evidence of spots, blemishes, tribal marks, or bleaching for what can be a superficial audience. The shots in New York are also simple enough. His lyrics give much weight to the images and vice versa, so we have a hard-hitting song, with a correspondingly hard-hitting video. Nothing flashy, nothing likely to be very expensive, just a bit of inventiveness - and voila!

Thanks to Wunmi for the heads-up.

Be ye not afraid of the BNP

One the many highlights of the Thursday's local elections, was the election of 11 BNP councillors in the London borough of Barking & Dagenham. By the end of the night, the party had doubled its number of councillors countrywide, with multicultural, multiethnic, multireligious, multi-everything else Barking the source of many of the councillors. I lived in Barking for nearly a year after I left university. There wasn't an icicle's chance in hell of me moving back in with my aunt (bless her), especially after years of university independence where I came and went as the whim took me. So I kipped with my cousins in Barkers.

Given the 1960s style free love that flowed between the Nigerian guys and the white girls in Barking, one would never guess that there were any racial tensions. But such is the nature of these things. The election of the BNP and the reasons for their ascendance have thrown up some weird paradoxes. The BNP sometimes threatens to be succesful in all-white areas that have no immigration problems, with the locals citing "fears" as their reason for contemplating support for the racial nationalists. The BNP also tries its luck in diverse communities that have lived together for decades, picking at scabs that exist. Whether each racial grouping lives in its own bubble, without interaction with the other groups is another matter, but they would have lived in the same space for a long time. Areas in the north of England such as Burnley and Oldham have had Pakistani workers since the 50s and 60s, so immigratiomn is hardly a new issue.

Many people don't know what the BNP stand for. Before the election, some voters said they would vote for the BNP because, get this, they felt their jobs were threatened not by black Africans, but by Eastern Europeans - the so-called Polish builder. If the man had done his research he'd know that the BNP is in support of keeping Britain free of "non-European" immigration. He'd puts an X beside the BNP on his ballot paper thinking that he's voting against EU expansion to the east (or at least all immigration), but he's unwittingly voting in favour white pan-Europeanism, of which Polish plumbers are an integral part.

Of the 22,000 council seats the UK, the BNP now has 44 seats (controls no councils), a mere 0.2% of the total seats. This is not the performance of a political force to be reckoned with, or one that could find itself with a seat in parliament. If this is compared with Europe where there are BNP-esque parties in government and in oppostition - such as the Austria's ruling Freedom Party, the National Alliance in the Italian, or even the Front National garnering 5 million votes in the the French presidential elections of 2002 - the BNP has far to travel.

Whenever far-right parties seek power, they have to undergo several transformations, cosmetic or otherwise, to be voted in. The BNP has undertaken a massive rebranding programme, calling themselves nationalists, dropping several key tenets of their ideology. For example, they are against miscegenation (I detest that word), but Nick Griffin (bottom of picture) has said that even though he doesn't agree with it, it's a private matter which he has no desire to legislate against. As they carve their extremist ideology at the edges, they become more electable, but lose the original vitriol that characterised their political discourse. If they didn't do this, nobody would vote for them.

Even though power corrupts, power also tempers. Extremist parties would have been on the fringes for so long that they don't realise how complex the actual process of governance is. Even if all dark skinned people accepted the BNP's policy of "voluntary repatriation", such a measure would not improve transport, provide nurses, or even improve rubbish collection - the issues voters care about. The parties often can't carry out their proposed agenda because most countries have an opposition. And the opposition when an extremist party governs, is more primed for a fight than it would if a mainstream party was in power.

What tends to catch up with extremist parties is losing the faith of the very people who elected them. In Palestine, Hamas has shown this very trait. Over the weekend, police in Gaza staged violent protests against a government which has run of funds to pay their salaries. Such a failure registers in the minds of voters, and come next elections, they might well turf them out. Voters realise that these people are all talk and no trouser. Nick Cohen talks about the BNP in today's Observer, recounting how useless they actually were as councillors in Burnley and other cities. The beauty of democracy is that voters can chuck 'em out in a few of years, or if out of desperation - impeach them.

Barking has nothing to worry about. If anything, the voters (especially ethnic minorities) will realise that they cannot sit at home and watch Three Pints of Lager on election night. In the wards with BNP victories, the turnout was as high as 40%, way above average. As they say, people get the governments they deserve - and this rings true whether one votes or not.

Gullible Nigerians?

"88% of Nigerians trust their media", is the deduction from a recent worldwide survey. Oh, woe is we! How can the Nigerian media, which can be, at the worst of times, chiselling little crooks (to borrow from Red Ken), and at best, as pathologically honest as Pinocchio, be trusted so? All media should be consumed with healthy dollops of salt, and viewed with sufficient scepticism. The media is shady in the most honest of countries, how much more in Nigeria where corruption is as common as rice is in China? Hell, I'm a journalist, and even I don't believe everything I write!

Perhaps I'm exagerrating slightly, but the figures jumped out at me. More than anything, it illustrates the mistrust with which the Nigerian government is viewed. One only has to look at the Bellview 210 plane crash in late October when the government said the plane had crashed in Kishi in Oyo state. It transpired that the crash site was actually in Lissa in Ogun state, more than 200km off the mark. The government then shut down AIT (which found the crash site), claiming a breach of broadcasting codes of conduct.

I blogged about my experiences in Egypt, where some of the journalistic practices were somewhat iffy. A fair bit of the news in Nigeria is still government propaganda: today the minister of health opened a clinic (should he be opening grenade factories?), the governor's wife visited a motherless babies home (at least she isn't selling drugs á la Maryam Babangida), or get this, today was the commissioner's sister's granddaughter's christening. This is the claptrap that passes for news.

At university we had a Chevening Scholar from Nigeria who was researching the role of the media in ethnic conflict. He gave an example of a typical domestic dispute in a place like Ajegunle. A man takes the chicken of his neighbour, they fight, and as sometimes happens, someone dies. The next day, the headline will apparently read: MUSLIM KILLS CHRISTIAN IN CHICKEN FIGHT, or vice versa. Quite how the story goes from a simple chicken acquisition to the return of the Crusades, we will never know.

However there is some good journalism happening in Nigeria right now, but not on a grand enough scale. Many of the EFCC investigations have been aided by investigative reporters trawling through the political underworld for potential dirt. In some unexplainable way, I've also been fascinated by some of the tabloid journalism. The Sun does a wonderful job of mimicking Rupert Murdoch's red top scandal sheets, the Sun and the Screws of the World. My mother's neighbours even featured once, after some man-leaves-wife-for-other-woman-then-goes-back-to-wife-then-other-woman-pours-acid-on-man, or was it wife? I'm no defender of tabloids, but I have to admit that they do their human interest stories well. Nothing riles a man like some injustice amplified by a tabloid.

The Nigerian government should be ashamed at the figures, and should take steps to rebuild public trust. The Nigerian media should also realise the amount of power it has, and wield the pen with brutal abandon (you could argue that given the rubbish writing, they already do that, although more reckless than brutal). They should lop off the heads of the kleptocracy, instigate mass but constructive hysteria, offer no succour to citizens involved in any dodgy dealing. Attack, attack, attack. Yeah, and also, act responsibly-ish.

All politics is local

Today is local election day, and at least we can be sure that Tony Blair wishes all politics was local. After last week's triple whammy of national calamities, he'll be hoping that the electorate base their decision on local issues. Many borough councils are up for elections, including all of London's - a key battleground for all the parties. Seminal Labour councils like Camden are under threat, Hammersmith & Fulham (after apparent Labour aided gentrification) could fall to the Conservatives.

I live in the New Cross ward of Lewisham borough. Lewisham has red Labour rosettes running through its veins. All MPs are Labour, 41 out of 54 councillors are Labour; it's one of those boroughs where even if a monkey was put up for election, the people would vote for it - so long as it was a Labour monkey. But they also have a few dissident voters, such as those who voted in the Socialist Alliance and Green Party. When I vote this morning, I won't be basing my decision on Prescott's bedroom calisthenics, Hewitt's economy of truth, or even Clarke's dereliction of duty. These are local elections, so I'm keeping it real. Real local.

For the few things I rely on my borough for, it provides a good service. Rubbish and recycled rubbish are picked up every Wednesday, the streets are swept every day, there are no ASBOs waiting to happen, all in all, I'm a satisfied voter. But that doesn't mean that I'll be voting Labour. The Labour party and the independents are the only people who actually campaigned in my area. The Labour man assumed that everyone would vote for him, and just said, "yeah, these are the people to vote for." And that was his pitch - vote for these people. The independents, on the other hand, talked to me about what they perceived to be the issues to be addressed. Even though I'm pleased with the services I use, the differing approaches of the candidates, might well play a part in how I decide to vote. Or, I might resort to tactical voting.

My kid's a novelist

Uzodinma Iweala (pictured) has won the LA Times Art Seidenbaum Award for First Fiction for Beasts of No Nation, and has also been shortlisted for a James Tait Black Memorial Prize. Saturday by Ian McEwan is also in the shortlist. I finished reading it a few weeks ago, hoping to find out what the fuss was about this McEwan fella. What McEwan does is make extraordinary events appear like an everyday happenings. Plane crashes, anti-war protests, car accidents, hostage taking, are all made to seem as normal as popping out for a pint of milk. Where other authors would have sensationalised these rather sensational events, the main character, Henry Perowne's laissez-faire-ness is expressed through these abnormal events. Highly recommended.

Why's the post called my kid's a novelist? I must admit that when I first heard about Uzodinma Iweala's book, a sneer broke across my face. He is of course the son of Nigeria's finance minister, Ngozi Okonji-Iweala (good Guardian interview). I reckoned, probably wrongly, that he had gotten his deal by dint of his mother's status. She's the finance minister of a corrupt African country, how much of of a box office draw is she? Hardly, if at all. So it's probably just a case of my inner green-eyed monster forcing himself into visibility. The man's 23 and he already has a critical hit on his hands, and I (at the grand old age of...) have, erm, a critical post about his critical hit.

It reminded me of Cecelia Ahern, the daughter of the Irish Taoiseach (pronounced "tee-sha") who aged 22 got $1 million for her first book. Her father's status had nothing to do with it? Incidentally, her sister Georgina Ahern is married to a former Westlifer.

My beef isn't that they're young, successful, and by default, sexy, but that they're products of dynasties. People who end up in the public eye and already have parents in the public eye, have to work doubly hard to prove their worth. It's unfortunate, but with cynics like me out here, they'll have to keep proving themselves. It could be argued that their parents are prominent in different fields, but there's no doubt that there are connections to be utilised in daddy and mummy's contacts book. The parents might not be the direct links to success, but definitely give the children an unfair leg-up. How can we create a level playing-field for all aspiring authors? So long as some are more famous that others, we can't. Such is life.

I do have it on good authority though, that Uzodinma Iweala is a stand-up guy, and that Beasts is a brilliant book (will read it soon). So I should probably poison my inner green Mr Hyde and pat the fella on the back. I will. Soon.

Amanece - ¿lo véis a la luz de la aurora?

This is the first line of the Spanish language version of the US national anthem, Star Spangled Banner. The little ditty, Nuestro Himno, has caused a bit of stir in the US with George the Younger declaring, "I think the national anthem ought to be sung in English", which (though I disagree) is fair enough. But without seeing any irony whatsoever, he goes on to say, "and I think people who want to be a citizen of this country ought to learn English and they ought to learn to sing the national anthem in English." Even the statement is grammatically incorrect (no points for spotting it). Heaven knows that he - who declared with confidence that, "more and more of our imports are coming from abroad" - would be precluded on his own basis of proficiency in English.

I have a bias to declare here, which is that I do not believe in borders. Anybody in the world should be free to go wherever their feet, via way of land, sea, and air, can carry them. So if Mexico wants to invade America, I suggest that a few million Mexicans just stroll across the border. The US Army at just under three million couldn't stop 20 million determined Mexicans from crossing the Rio Grande. After all, a few million college students have invaded Cancun over the years, without restriction.

So what is wrong with singing the Star Spangled Banner in a "foreign language"? Nothing. To be honest, I can't understand the fuss over the insistence on speaking English. The most widely spoken languages in the US are, Spanish, American, with English a distant third. Nope, "conversate" is not English by any stretch of the OED. And who is to dictate how the people express themselves? Even though the Spanish version is slightly modified to address the current immigration laws being passed, it is fairly true to the original. This is not the first time the US anthem has been given funky treatment, including Jimi Hendrix's famour Woodstock rendition, and all the various mutilations by popstars at Super Bowl tournaments. There have been Yiddish, German, and even an original Spanish language version translated in 1919, available on the US Government website!

If George Dubya sat down and thought for a second about what the immigrants were doing, he'd realise that they're actually being patriotic. They show their allegiance to Uncle Sam by translating the national song into a language that's theirs, claiming the sentiment for themselves. But short-sighted critics don't see it, they only see lowly brown skinned border hopping nannies, cooks, cleaners, and drivers, desecrating the Star Spangled Banner en una otra lengua.

Secretary of State, Condoleeza Rice, however, doesn't mind the anthem being sung in Spanish (and I hope not just because her name sounds like a Mexican dish, "would you like chicken or beef with your condoleeza, sir?") Good on you Condi, I might even support you Republican nomination for 2008.

Wyclef Jean (who btw is a genius), one of the greatest champions of world music, is involved in the Nuestro Himno project. After his Welcome to Haiti project, which had a song with TuFace Idibia on it, I'll be procuring Nuestro Himno, and I hope it tops the Billboard charts.

"Flush with Cash"

As you do your numbers one and two, spare a thought a German pensioner who flushed money down the toilet. The poor man sent down £10,400 worth of Deutschmarks, believing they were no longer legal tender because of they now use Euros. Luckily some of it (which had blocked the sewage system) was recovered, and he exchanged it in at the bank. The recurring remark in all the news reports has been – you guessed it – “it wasn’t clear if he laundered the money before handing it in.” The pun writers had a field day with that one.

I once lost a large amount of money too - £160. You may scoff, but to me, that money could have been my pension, pocket money, emergency savings, and trust fund rolled into one.

The money arrived as £200 via the international banking network otherwise known as friends and family in transit. As a jobless nearly graduate £40 went to essentials, such as transport, food, and Ladbrokes. The importance of the money was never far from my mind, it would go towards paying off a university debt (probably library fines) so that I could graduate. It was always in a white envelope on the study desk in the living room. After a bit of procrastination, I would pay it into the university’s account.

However, my cousin inadvertently had other plans for the money. This was a council flat in glamorous Barking, east London, and he had to keep up appearances. So he did something never ever done by bachelors this side of the Thames, he tidied up. And in the throes of killing all known germs dead, and attacking evil dust particles with Flash, he chucked my mother’s hard earned 160 quid in the bin.

This tidying up took place while I was in church asking God for financial manna from heaven. I was hoping that my miracle would be on its way. Alas. The nest morning, I noticed the envelope had disappeared. “Oh, that white envelope? I chucked it in the bin yesterday,” said he. And the bin? Down the rubbish chute, 13 floors down.

I found the building caretaker (I never knew it had one) and convinced him to open the bin room at the back of the building. After giving me the spiel about health and safety, and authorisation, an offer of backshish did the trick. He opened the bin room. And something hit me, the smell. I smelled the bags before I even saw them, it appears that smell was travelling faster than light. I rolled up my sleeves, and dug in, a red ribbon bound BSc. Hons paper was at stake. The task was slightly easier than it could have been, since we were searching for a bag with a pizza carton bulge.

Still holding my nose with one hand, while looking for an angular bulge from any the bags, the caretaker made small talk. “Good thing they took the bins this morning, it could have been worse.” What? My bin wouldn’t even be among these ones. The local council had done a rare thing indeed, and picked up the bins on time. I left the rubbish, went upstairs, sulked for a bit, then went to the Ladbrokes. There’s got to be a winner at the 3.25 at Newmarket.

The moral of the story? Don’t live with a tidiness freak cousin in a borough council where the bin-men are efficient. I did graduate happily ever after.

I ain't scared of no ghost!

I had a real chuckle when I heard this story on the radio yesterday, and even now when I think about it, I smile. It's Barnsley in South Yorkshire, where Roger Froggat and his missus, Kathryn, are having a kip in t' bedroom, nae bother, when they hear summat. The Froggats live above the pub they run, (Low Valley Arms), so Mrs Froggat sends him to investigate (what a brave man), and perhaps swing a cricket bat if he can muster the courage. He gets to the pub, only to find that there are no balaclava'd men in dark tights and plimsols filling their bag of swag with reassuringly expensive Stella Artois bottles and Golden Wonder crisps.

Instead, what he saw alarmed him somewhat - all the television screens were on. Of course this is no reason to be alarmed, after all we don't all have satelite television. And with new episodes of Grey's Anatomy showing on Living TV, and Desperate Housewives showing on E4, I can see how one can break into a pub to watch cable. Why all the tellies? Surround sound, you should try it sometime.

But it didn't end there, what Roger saw next scared the freckles off his face. He went to the toilets, only to see a ghost of a woman in a flowing white gown - and get this - with half her face missing! So he did what any self-respecting man would do (regardless of even if he had to impress a wife waiting upstairs for a progress report), he called the police.

Operator: Hello, 999 emergency, ambulance, fire, or police?

Mr Froggat: Well, me heart is now in me mouth, so I need an ambulance. The fire service could probably trap her with that foam jobby, like in Ghostbusters, and a copper could arrest her for scaring me.

Operator: Calm down sir, what exactly happened.

Mr Froggat: I saw a ruddy ghost, with half her face missing, is what happened.

Operator: Sir, I hope you haven't wasted our time and possibly endangered the lives of people in genuine distress trying to get through to the emergencies services. This is 999, we don't do exorcisms. Call your parish priest for that. Sir.

Mr Froggat: I'm right scared, I am. Honest.

Operator: Okay, out of the goodness Her Majesty's constabulary, we'll send a squad car round.

So the policemen arrive at the pub and go to the toilets to seek out Barnsley's very own Carlotta Valdes. And lo, what do they see? Pub toilets flushing of their own accord. Nobody tugging at the flush chains, no lager louts (on the odd occasion that they remember to flush) kicking the cubicle in frustration, just pub toilets peaceably flushing. That in itself is worth ten apparitions. The coppers were obviously scared, but didn't see any immediate threat, and didn't call for back-up. Independently flushing toilets? They'd never live it down back at the nick.

I'm sure the story was actually reported because there were upstanding members of the community to witness the dodgy happenings. If the pub landlord had mentioned it to any of his regulars, he would have been laughed out of his own pub, or even sectioned for being one G&T short of a distillery. But there were witnesses, and these ones were credible witnesses. I know what you're thinking, coppers fiddle evidence all the time. But even a copper as bent as a coat hanger wouldn't make this story up.

It's all rather confusing. I'm thinking, on the one hand, of course ghosts exists you silly bottoms. What do you think we Africans have been saying for centuries? Serves you right for not listening to us. On the other hand, I don't believe in ghosts, so it's just very funny for its silliness. Très amusant.

Carmen with clicks

The South African film industry has another critical hit on its hands with U-Carmen eKhayelitsha. Hot on heels of Oscar winning Tsotsi, U-Carmen is a Xhosa language film based on Bizet's opera Carmen, and it won the Golden Bear Award at the Berlin Film Festival last year. I heard a sample on the radio, and was blown away. The clicks (which are synonymous with the Xhosa language), in a rather strange way, sounds beautiful over Bizet's score. Looking at the trailer (below), you can see that the film is well shot. It has a red City of God dustiness, the ordre du jour for modern depictions of poverty stricken inner cities. The music also sounds glorious, borrowing from the deep well of SA choral singing talent.

What amazes me is how vibrant the SA film industry is. Tsotsi and U-Carmen have been praised no end in the international media, and Mark Dornford-May (director of U-Carmen) appears to have permanently set up camp there. Hotel Rwanda was also shot in SA. Apparently, SA used to be a popular destination for the filming of advertisements, and I can imagine that the old Land Rover Freelander adverts were shot there. And possibly the popular Guiness Man adverts.

But the rand strengthened and it became too expensive to shoot them there, so the industry reverted to making homegrown films for homegrown audiences. This way, it could sustain itself and if a film did well abroad, recoup some money. But the important thing is making the films for local consumption with local identities, but with universal appeal. That is the attaraction of the Tsotsis and U-Carmens of this world. Both local and international at once.

The SA government also deserves credit for funding filmmaking. I'm sure no other Anglophone African government does that. The Francophone countries make very good films, and the film festival Fespaco (which is for all of Africa) is consistently dominated by Francophone films. This is probably because of the exchange of ideas which has remained between France and her former colonies since independence. France has never really let go, and constant cultural exchange has taken place for decades. Which is why people such as filmmaker Ousmane Sembène and singer Youssou N'dour are legends in France, but relative unknowns in the English speaking world.

The main difference between Nollywood and SA is that SA has genuine expertise, rather Nollywood's one man band running around with a camcorder filming his friends putting on ridiculous American accents, and making up the script as they go along. Genuine filmmaking knowledge would mean that international film houses can come to Nigeria to shoot films. Nigeria has a vast and varied landscape, from desert in the north to equatorial savannah in the south - who wouldn't want to film there? However, it seems Nigeria's all land and no knowledge with which to use the land. Nollywood, watch and learn.

The blasted thing refuses to embed, but here's the link to the trailer:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JGNmxQJd3AI

I am not my hair

"I am not my hair" is the title of the new single by India Arie, featuring Akon. In the video, she's seen with a variety of hairstyles, while Akon sings about how his couldn't get a job until he cut his hair. Anyone who knows me knows that this is a topic close to my heart. I decided to grow my hair a few years ago, mainly because I was tired of cutting it, which I felt was a boring option. Ever since then, my friends have made noise about my hair. "When are you going to cut your hair?", "what are you trying to do with your hair?", or more commonly, "are you trying to be Gizmo Man (pictured) from the Harlem Globetrotters cartoon?" The answer to those questions are: no, I'm not cutting my hair anytime soon; I'm not particularly trying to do anything with my hair; and yes, I am trying to be Gizmo Man, who rescued his fellow Globetrotters by pulling out any and everything from his afro. If I had such superhero powers I would take out some ripe plantains, sunflower oil, free range chicken eggs, chrome finish Tefal deep fat fryer, and corned beef from an Aberdeen Angus cow, so that I can defeat that evil baddie called "Feelingus Peckishus."

I love hair. I just love hair. All you need to do is look at the floor in my room to see what I mean (I'm not molting, honest. Just little daily discharge). There have even been times when I've told friends, "oh my goodness, you should have seen the hair on this girl!" E.g. the picture on the right. Naturally, my love is for natural hair, and the inventiveness that goes with manipulating nappy African hair without having to douse it with whatever chemicals are used to tame the poor follicles. It is understandable if black women feel they have to tame the naps with weave-on, extensions or whatever. White people might have invented the phrase "bad hair day", but do they really know what it means? And if black women didn't go to work with tamed hair, there might civil unrest in the workplace.

But. The way we black people look at our hair is based on presumptions of what people expect of us. In school in Africa, we were made to comb out hair everyday with regimental discipline. Several boys even had combs in their pockets. However, as soon I moved to school in England, I could afford to not comb my hair. Four afro-haired boys (five at its peak) in a sea of over a thousand blond, brown and red haired white boys meant that teachers had little experience of afro hair, and didn't have any idea as to what was combed, and what was uncombed. So I stopped combing my hair everyday. Because just like cavemen discovered that striking two rocks together could give them flames, I discovered that when I didn't comb my hair, nobody said owt*. The black boys could also cut all their hair off i.e. go bald (which was banned) without anyone batting an eyelid. Of course there the little jibes such as, "your hair doesn't move", and "microphone head, testing, testing". Luckily, there was no baa baa black sheep, cos I might have decapitated some white boy.

As an adult though, there has been some unexplainable antipathy to me braiding my hair. Apparenty, it's "gangsta", a responsible man such as myself should not have corn rows, and, oh, it's un-African. Who ever said I was responsible, who says all gangstas use the same hairdresser, and what on earth does unAfrican** mean? The last time I went to Nigeria, I had this conversation with my mum, in the car on the way to church:

Mama: Nkemakonam, won't you comb your hair? This hair that you've refused cut.

Moi: (taking out my lock and hold gel) I'm not combing it today, Mama. I'm going to try something else.

Mama: We're going to church, this is not the time to try something else.

Moi: It's just twists, it's no big deal.

Mama: You boys in England, hmm? That's how I heard how D pierced his ears, nose, eyelids, and-

Moi: Mum, he only pierced his left ear, and like I said, this is just twists. It's perfectly reversible, no need to panic.

So I get the gel, put it in my hair, performed all the rituals. At this point, I was willing to deal with any objections she might have. It's just hair for crying out loud. When we got to church she said this to me:

Mama: (smiling) You look a little bit handsome, you know.

Moi: (smiling back) Do you think it's the hair?

Mama: (now grinning like schoolgirl) I'm not saying anything.

I got a similar reponse when I went the extra mile into parental disowning territory when I had corn rows for a family wedding. I sent the pictures to my mum through an aunt. A few days later I got a call from my mum, "I hear you've plaited your hair. I haven't seen the pictures yet, but apparently you look oddly handsome in them." People, especially parents, need to open their minds and let their kids be. I'm at the age where people expect me to go to work in a suit and tie (read noose), with closely cropped hair, shiny shoes, clean fingernails, braces, bowler hat, umbrella, and pocket watch attached to my lapel. Erm, I think not. Luckily I don't work in an industry that requires me to look "presentable". Actually, I don't work at all.

So, the people I'm hoping to liberate, are the ones stuck in corporate environments, where "dressing down" means being allowed to wear Homer Simpson socks. Do corn rows one weekend and take it in to work, I would bet my house if I owned one, that your performance won't deteriorate. Take out the extensions and let the hair breathe. Your boss sure as hell can't fire you for airing your hair.

*owt - Northern term meaning anything
** A friend of mine found a book about hairstyles across pre-20th centuryAfrica pre. And guess what, African men braided their hair. UnAfrican my bottom.

ps Pandagon has an interesting blog on the politics of hair.

Food, bombs, and debts

The day started with a flurry of Nigerian news. Again. On the radio, there was a recap of the army barracks bombing. A worrying development because of what it means: 1) the militants have the expertise and training, 2)they have the funding, 3)they have the strength of belly. Then in the business section, they talked about Nigeria for a few minutes. "It's not everyday one talks about Nigeria and fiscal discipline in the same breath", said the silly woman. Nigeria is going to pay off its debts to the exploitative Paris Club money-lenders. If only they knew how much their citizens owed to Mr M Card and Ms A Express, they wouldn't have been so quick to give the Nigerian government those favourable payback conditions.

The assault continued as I opened the newspaper to see an article featuring London's finest, Obalende Suya. They even called it a restaurant, imagine that! All in all fairly positive stories. If this keeps happening, I might even have to excavate that green passport...

Little Derek

Hip-hop gets a bad rap at the best of times, and gets absolutely pummelled at the worst of times. Last year, French politicians apparently called for rappers to be prosecuted over the riots which set Parisian suburbs ablaze for weeks. I haven't followed the developments, but if they succeed it'll set an interesting precedent over the responsibility of artists for their music. Legally, it'll be in the same vein as journalists who were jailed for inciting genocide in Rwanda.

UK hip-hop doesn't get enough airplay or exposure, which is why selling a mere 20,000 copies of an album is considered successful. Shame that, because there are some very good artists out there, and Derek "Sway" Safo is one of the very best. He won a MOBO last year, and was one of several Africans (he's Ghanaian) who did well in an awards show traditionally dominated by winners of Caribbean origin. Taken from the album This is my Demo, "Little Derek" is a song I listen to whenever I need to keep my head up. Just look at the way things are around you and think, actually, "Little 'insert name' is doign okay..." Lyrics courtesy of top-lyrics and video from solly4life. "Little Rachael" doesn't make it onto the video, but she's on the single, and I've included her lyrics if you're interested.

Lyrics
Little Derek's doing okay(yeah)
Little Derek's doing fine (fine)
Little Derek's doing cool (cool)
You know how we do

Stepped out my house I'm feelin fresh and brand new
Olu did the trimmery and I done the hairdo
And everything I wear's new
Maharishi Jacket, Puma top,
Box-fresh jeans and nike cam boots
Sprayed a little versace dream around me too
So every girl I pass is like oo-oooh
Police don't pull us over like woo-woo
Cuz their kids watch MTV and channel U

But life ain't always been fine like baby blue
Cuz when u do UK rap you're number two
Cuz the USA ain't giving us space to break through
So I'm on the grind trying to pioneer a breakthrough
Gotta keep the punters happy, to tango it takes two
And it seems like I'm the rapper the people take to
I've never had alot, with what I've got I've made do
And now I'm blowin up in this bitch like move-move-move

[Chorus x2]
Little Derek's okay(yeah)
Little Derek's doing fine (fine)
Little Derek's doing cool (cool)
You know how we do

Step out the ride I'm feeling nice and quite fly
I'm trying to reach the top I see the top is quite high
Steady on my grind, tryin to get my face up in the source
So I keep by faith up in the boss
Up in the bright white sky

Getting calls from these record label bosses like hi
Head up in inside their offices
And listen to their promises
But no-one's made me offers yet that I could not deny

And I been making profits of this my mix tapes raw
Life ain't always been pretty like nah
On the north side of the city where its gritty like pie
We did what we had to done to get by
Hoping not get caught up in no silly drive-by
Little derek wrote lyrics while the others got high
And he ended up in HMV instead of HMP
Cuz street life could only end one way
Your friend crying on the scene like why, why, why?

[Chorus x2]
Little Derek's okay(yeah)
Little Derek's doing fine (fine)
Little Derek's doing cool (cool)
You know how we do

(Baby Blue)
Knowin real fame
That's what I used to dream about
That everyone would know my name
And they would scream it out
Knowing my song words and sing along too
And I would walk down the street and hear blue, blue, blue

My video's rotating
So I got these execs debating
About whether I'm taking
And these RnB guys is asking the same thing
Calling up my phone, wondering whether I'm dating

I turn my passion to career how could I lose out?
Quit my nine to five so I don't have to sell shoes now
My CDs are moving
That's the route that I'm choosing
So I got to make it through, through, through
Little Rachael used to look up to the sky too
Analyse the planets and wonder if I could shine too
So now they ask how I'm doing I say
Little Rachael's doing okay

(Sway)
(Okay)

[Chorus x2]
(Yeah)
Little Derek's okay(yeah)
Little Derek's doing fine (fine)
Little Derek's doing cool (cool)
You know how we do

Not-so-little African Shirts is doing okay...

Jesucristo el Radical

In a spirit of Easter resurrection cheer, and in a rebuff to those who think I'm a heretical blasphemous anti-Christian propangandist, I dedicate this blog to the philosophy and politics of Jesucristo. Oh, and also pure pragmatism, as I'd like to have as many "favourable documents" as possible to show Saint Peter when I reach the Pearly Gates. "What do you mean you won't let me in? But I said He was a radical, surely that episode got me some Brownie points. No? You wait while I fetch my posse..."

The most common complaint that people make about Jesucristo is that He is irrelevant to modern times. They didn't have the internet in ancient Judea, nor did they have gas guzzling SUVs. WWJD - what would Jesus drive? Donkey, duh... However, good philosophy stays the distance and can be relevant to any epoch, ancient or modern. And as the Christian faith is being attacked from all angles by Da Vinci Code conspiracy theories, and Judas gospel (the scoundrel!) fantasists, all good men must stand up for the teachings of Jesucristo.

Now, I've spent a lot of time thinking about this, so I cannot be wrong. Do not even attempt to contradict me, lest I strike thee down with the Lord's staff of wrath. Thank you for your submission, sorry, cooperation.

1. European Working Time Directive, which seeks to restrict the working hours of employees all over Europe, so that they can live healthy lives, work-life balance, and all that good stuff. Would Jesucristo support it? Yes. He was all about chilling and relaxing. In fact I'd go as far as to say that he saw himself as a walking health spa. "Come unto me, all ye who labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest" - Matthew 11:28
2. Jesucristo was in full support of women's rights, since after all, His father hadn't married His mother when she fell preggars, and people in Judea must have thought evil of his mother, "you dirty *insert expletives*". Also, the fact that He allowed that reformed slapper Mary Magdalene at His feet while He was on the cross. - Mark 15:40
3. Jesucristo would have opposed "tescoisation/walmartisation" of the Christian faith. He would have railed against the BOGOF (buy one get one free) gospel, the half price on miracles this weekend, and the teachings of the Gospel according to Greenback. Otherwise, why would have kicked out the men in suits, ringing tills and holding calculators in the temple? - Matthew 21
4. Alcohol. One of the more contentious of Christian doctrine. The popular argument in favour of copious consumption of alcohol is the fact that one of Jesucristo most popular miracles was turning water into wine in John 2. Even atheists would have such a man at their dinner party in a heartbeat. There's also Jesucristo, in Luke 22, giving his disciples wine at the Last Supper (even though the word "wine" isn't stated explicitly in the King James Version, but traditionally they would have had wine at the Passover). But the clincher is Mark 2:22 when He talks expertly about wine storage, "And no man putteth new wine into old bottles: else the new wine doth burst the bottles, and the wine is spilled, and the bottles will be marred: but new wine must be put into new bottles." If I didn't know any better, I'd have said Jesucristo was a wine distiller by trade and not a carpenter. Did he have a cellar full of 59BC Pinot Noirs? Sounds like it.
5. Sex. What would Jesucristo have made of sex in today's highly sexualised world? I dunno, this is not sermon. Go somewhere else for that.
6. The UN World Food Programme. With 8 million people in East Africa facing starvation, the WFP could do with Jesucristo's fish and bread multiplying skills right now, or just some money from the donors. In Matthew 14, his disciples said that they had only five loaves of bread and two fishes, but He fed five thousand people with that, and still had left-overs. Wastrels! Sad thing is, such a miracle done today would have been decried by the anti-GM lobby. Instant fish and bread, just add water!
7. Global warming. Jesucristo would say it was our fault the world was heating up (which frankly I have no problem with, you should be here in winter). Why? Because we, as human beings, have control over the fate of our planet. If not, in Mark 4:35-41, He would not have told them to deal with the storm themselves. Back then he told them to rebuke the winds and command it to stop. This is obviously an indication of how much things have deteriorated. Back then, one could just talk to the weather and tell the silly thing to calm down. But now, one has to armed to the teeth with portable fans, umbrellas, arctic winter jackets, and blind faith in the weatherman's guesses.
8. Vegetarians. Ah. Would Jesucristo have approved of vegetarianism? I fear he may have, and this is where me and the great man part ways . In Luke 7:28, Jesucristo said of John the Baptist, "Among those that are born of women there is not a greater prophet than John the Baptist". And this of a man who, in Matthew 3:4, ate locusts and wild honey. Heaven forfend!

And there concludes the lesson on the philosophy of Jesús, hijo de Dios (son of God). I hope I have succeeded in painting him as a sandal wearing, lentil eating, Guardian reading, left-wing, feminist, eco-warrior, antiestablishment, anti-globalisation, flower child, radical. Peace be upon thee, dude.

"The people have spoken...

...but it will take a while to determine exactly what they said." Thus said Bill Clinton about the 2000 US elections when hanging and pregnant chads were determining who'd move their furniture into the White House. And in a way, the same thing has happened in Italy, where the cruise ship crooner, SilvioBerlusconi, and the professor, Romano Prodi are having a staring contest. Whoever dares to blink will lose the elections.

George Bush is apparently one of the few important leaders not have called Prodi to congratulate him. Most news reports put this down to Bush and Berlusconi love-in, leftist Prodi (and his merry band of communists) would be antithetical to any Bush doctrine. Bush is in tow with Big Business, while Berlusconi, as the 25th richest man in the world is Big Business. Bush went to Iraq, Berlusconi followed. I reckon the more realistic reason is pure pragmatism. Bush knows that it only needs a judge in a state governed by your brother to win an election, so he might be waiting for some of Italy's infamously corrupt judges to keep his friend in power.

Yesterday I spoke to a couple of Italian citizens in London; Italians abroad now vote in as many as 12 MPs, and six senators. My first question to them was: who did you vote for? I dispensed with the niceties of "how are you... I know it's terribly rude to ask one how they voted, but if you'd kindly indulge me..." Straight for the jugular. The first guy said he didn't vote because he liked neither of them. He said they were both "shitty". In hindsight, did he mean the adverb "shitty" or was it his Italian accent where he added "y" to the end of every word, in which case he meant the adjectival form? Hardly makes a difference, but clarity matters, ya dig? The second guy, Vincenzo (can one get a more typically Italian name than that?) said he voted for Berlusconi. So I grabbed him by the neck and headbutted him, before sticking his head in the toilet bowl and pushing the flush lever. Okay, I only did the grabbing by the neck bit, but in that restrained way when you want to strangle someone you love. Prodi, he reminded me, had presided over a faltering economy in his previous tenure as PM, and - his main beef - Prodi's union was filled with communists, practising and fallen. At which point I should have reminded him (I forgot) that Berlusconi's party is filled with fascists, practising and fallen, most famously, Il Duce's granddaughter, Alessandra Mussolini (pictured above, in her Playboy days).

It seems that for a lot of elections and politics these days, it is a choice between the lesser of two evils. Since politics is "showbiz for ugly people", why not just make it a proper beauty contest. That way people can ignore political parties and policies, and vote for who they really like. Look at the pecks on that Tony Blair, phwoarh!

More media stuff

There's a funny scene in an episode of Series 2 of BBC's con artist programme Hustle. Con man Danny has so many different mobile phones, each one used for a different persona. It obviously helps, if one is running several cons simultaneously, to use a different individual persona for each con. He has labels on the back of each phone, so when it rang, he would look at the label, answer and say, "How are you, love? I have a haemorrhoidectomy to perform" - he's definitely a surgeon. Or he might say, "Sorry I haven't returned your calls, positively busy around here, old chap. I've been shooting peasants. Forgive me, did I say peasants? I meant pheasants. Don't get me wrong, we do shoot peasants as well, but only in winter when they try to steal grain from the silo"- landed gentry, methinks.

Meanwhile, back on earth... Listen to this on PM, fast forward to 50 minutes into the programme. You can tell that 1) he had just woken up and was trying to figure out which of his numerous scams the call was about, and 2) he is so blatantly Nigerian.

In today's Guardian, philosopher Julian Baggini attempts to understand NFA secretary general Fanny Amun's (picture) endorsement of bribes. This reminds me of the first time I realised how much work had to be done to make Nigeria a "normal" country. The man sitting beside me in the plane was a software engineer, trained at a top Jesuit college in Bibleland, Texas, or was it Bibleopia, Virginia? I forget. He schooled me on the ethics of Nigerian day-to-day life. According to him, there was nothing wrong with accepting bribes. A bribe is - and these were his words - "an incentive" for one to do their job. Imagine that, an incentive to do something you're already paid to do. I know what you're thinking. Do they actually make people like this? Apparently so.

Tony Allen, Jude Dibia

Some Nigerians on the radio today, and not for a "I am the spawn of Abacha, and I have dodgy loot to remove from the country" type letter. These Nigerians are doing good things. Fela's former drummer, Tony Allen, was featured on Radio 4's flagship Today programme, with Brian Eno (music theorist par excellence) calling him, "probably the greatest drummer that ever lived". Praise indeed. Listen here.

On the BBC World Service, there was Jude Dibia (pictured) talking about his book Walking with Shadows - Nigeria's first gay novel. The obvious question: is he gay? I've done a teensy bit of research, and there's nothing to indicate that he is. If he is though, he'd be Nigeria's first gay public figure, at least as his stock rises. But even if he isn't gay, he should be applauded for writing about a taboo subject. Nigeria is the kind of place where someone will place a fatwa on his head for writing such. I look forward to reading the book when it comes out over here. I just hope it is simply a good book, and not one being hyped because Jolomi and Eze are doing the dirty in the boys' quarters. Nigeria's Sun has a small profile of him.

Tourist Attraction?

After reading Jackie Kay's nightmare account of meeting her father, I wished for some good news about Nigeria. And hey presto! I found one. Now, don't take Francis Gilbert's words seriously, he's a dodgy bloke. I heard him on Radio 4's Start the Week flogging his new book, during which he slagged off the Nigerian media. The man said our media was "underdeveloped" (listen to the clip from 40mins). The phrase comes to mind: he might be a sonofabitch, but he's our sonofabitch. Okay, he has a point, but what gives him the right to diss our sonofabitch? Anyhoo, rant over. He actually recommends Nigeria as a tourist destination. Pah! To quote Norman Kember, "foolhardy or rational", you'd have to be foolhardy to take his advice. Going by his account of watch Nigeria vs Gabon in Port Harcourt, he was in Nigeria in March 2005.

Hotel Abuja

The Review supplement in Saturday's Guardian is a must-read for anyone interested in the arts. It looks at the arts through the prism of the written word - literature, essays, reviews etc. Nigerians have featured a fair bit in past editions, with people like Helon Habila, Helen Oyeyemi, and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie popping up now and again. Imagine my excitement when I picked it up yesterday, and saw that the main article was about writer Jackie Kay's Abuja hotel reunion with her Nigerian father. My excitement was shortlived. As I read through the story, I cringed, and cowered. It was futile to hope that some thunder bolt would strike the paper before my eyes, to stop me reading it. I didn't want to continue reading it, but I had to. After all she was relaying a story about one of my kin, compatriot in nation and companion in spirit. Car crash reading.

Jackie, if you're reading this, I apologise. I'm not sure if I'm apologising for your father's Nigerianness or his Christianity. It seems you met with the very worst of both, and the combination is a very potent mix indeed. It's typically Nigerian to say, "You obviously have my genes. None of my children are dullards. Not one of them." And it is also overzealous self-regarding Christianity to make such a statement, "But if people were to know about you, they would lose their faith in God." What a load of claptrap. Jonathan has a high opinion of himself and the effect of his actions, thinking he's the arbiter of people's faith. I hope your experience hasn't put you off Nigeria forever. It is a (insert jingoistic adjective) country, and there are some sane Nigerians, and some sane Christians living in the country and elsehwhere. Honest. I'll introduce them to you - when I meeet them.

China invents

China isn't satisfied with just being the world's next economic superpower, it wants to dominate in everything else. At the Atlanta Olympics in '96, China won the fourth highest number of medals behind USA, Russia, and Germany, by Athens in '04, it came second behind USA. I'm going to put £100 on China winning more gold medals than USA in Beijing 2008. Normally, the Chinese never figured in track and field, but people like Liu Xiang and Xing Huina changed that.

But forget about athletics, inventions is where its at. A while ago the Chinese said they invented pasta. Pasta? That most Italian of dishes wasn't invented in the land of Michelangelo, but in the far east. As if inventing pasta wasn't enough, they've now said they invented golf! What next will they say they invented? The wheel? Colin Montgomerie must be choking on his haggis and scotch. What amazes me about the Chinese is that they always appear to have evidence to back their claims.

That can't be said for Nigerians. Nigerians never claim to have invented anything, but always claim public figures. Nia Long is apparently Nigerian, Nike Alonge being her real name. She once acted in a film where she had to have a Nigerian accent, that of course must mean she's Nigerian. Rapper Nas is apparently Nigerian. His real name is Nasir Jones, and his father's name is Oludara. But the clincher is the Nasir, which must have been Nasiru, but dropped the "u" to yankify the name. Michael Jackson is apparenly Nigerian as well. Just look at the nose. Not the new nose that's falling off, or the one before that, or the one before that one, but the very first. That looked like a Benin nose to me.

What Nigerians need is a Nigerianness Verification Authority (NVA) who steal samples of suspected Nigerians' DNA. After acquiring the DNA sample, they test it for Nigerianness. They'd need things like saliva from Nasiru's mic after a performance, hair from Nike's brush in the make-up room of film set. Getting something from Michael Jackson's body that is authentic might be a bit difficult. The skin isn't his, the hair is implanted from India, the toenails are probably from a polar bear. The only way to get something authentic from him would be to engage in some shenanigans after drinking "Jesus juice". I wouldn't want to be the NVA officer to do that.

Rinsing off HIV

Former South African vice-president Jacob Zuma, has said the most ignorant thing ever said in relation to HIV. Jacob Zuma, said during his trial for rape, that he took a shower after having unprotected sex with a woman who was HIV-positive. He reckoned that showering would prevent him from contracting the virus. What dumbassness! A friend of Alayescoro quipped, "he probably ate it and then brushed his teeth, that would be alright." He also said that there were no condoms available, but he had to have sex with her - because when he was growing up, he was taught that it is wrong to arouse a woman and then leave her splayed on the bed without finishing the job. Spoken like a true man, "but she was aroused, honey. It would've have been a sin not to!"

On a more serious note, it is this kind of ignorance which perpetuates the spread of HIV. People raping infants in SA, because of local lore that sex with a virgin cures HIV. Or even some belief among men that they're immune from the virus. The Catholic Church preventing the use of contraception doesn't help either. The spread of HIV should not be as fast as it is today. If you look at figures from AVERT, one in five South African's are HIV-positive, five percent of Nigerians have the virus - that's over six million people. In Western Europe and North America on the other hand, HIV is more or less relegated to drug users sharing needles. The imbalance is too great, and public figure like Zuma spouting such nonsense doesn't help. What sub-Saharan Africa needs is a massive education campaign. Billboards in cities aren't enough, the message should be preached in churches, dramatised on radio and television, dissected in newspapers, permeated through the ether.

Wardrobe malfunction in Mumbai

There's been a huge furore in India over Carol Gracias's wardrobe malfunction, which has seen the police coming in to investigate. In addition to more nudity in films, the malfunction supposedly demonstrates a trend of India becoming more Westernised (for worse), such public nudity being antithetical in Indian culture. I don't know about India, but it always baffles me when people bemoan "nudity" in Nigeria - people commenting on the way women dres, etcetera.

One could talk about women being topless in villages, the ease with which "commot their bobby" to breastfeed in public, or even some of the racier traditional dances we have. But I'm more interested the way some women get naked when they're fighting. The gele comes off the head and is tied round the waist, ready to do battle. I saw a few of these in my manor, Ebute Metta, yet nobody ever complained about the immorality of their nudity. "Un-Indian, "un-Nigerian", or even "un-African", is the silliest excuse anyone could give for opposing something.

His Big White Self

The South African white supremacist, Eugene Terreblanche, is one of the most repulsive people on earth. On Monday evening, More4 showed a repeat of Nick Broomfield's His Big White Self. I first came across Terreblanche in one of Louis Theroux's Weird Weekend documentaries. HBWS is about Broomfield's return to the subjects of an earlier documentary he made in 1991. I've put up a clip from HBWS which is just astonishing. It shows JP, who used to be Terreblanche's driver, and his new wife. After watching this little section, it was difficult to say how I felt. It wasn't outrage, or even sadness. I'm still not sure what it was. I know I felt pity for JP's wife. How can someone hold such abhorrent views so strongly? The clip needs no context, but if you want context, then get the DVD when it's released. Not for the weak of heart.

Nigeria - Monrovia - Freetown

Charles Taylor's next flight route, he's just been arrested while trying to cross the border into Cameroon. Perhaps Africa is learning to deal with its murderous leaders, with many leaders during the Rwandan genocide arrested and convicted. Note Nigeria's point of principle though, not to send him to Sierra Leone where he is being charged, but to his home country Liberia. If he had any sense, he would have repented and become a born again Christian, Prince Yormie Johnson style. Johnson cut of president Samuel Doe's ear on film, in a tape that made the rounds in West Africa. He subsequently fled to Nigeria where he became an ordained minister, and all was forgiven. Nigeria loves a good convert.

ps. The BBC's Alex Last must be the hardest working correspondent outside Baghdad. Since he started late last year, there have been huge stories of global significance: cartoon killings, Niger Delta kidnappings, oil pipeline explosions, bird flu, census (global because of counting Africa's largest country), and now Charles Taylor. I hope he's being paid in accordance.

Little Bush

During the first walkover phase of the Iraq war, Comical Ali lit up screens around the world. He would outdo Alistair Campbell and Karl Rove combined in the spin stakes. As a mark of disrespect he called George W Bush, Little Bush. The context was unclear, but Little Bush makes sense if you compare Dubya's behaviour to childishness. The White House's threat not to see OBJ because of Charles Taylor is petulant. Do they really think Taylor would have left Liberia if he going to face war crimes charges later on? Look at the picture (right) of when Taylor arrived in Nigeria. Taylor is hugging OBJ and has just gotten off the plane with Ghanaian president, John Kufuor (on the left, white collar, patch of grey hair) . That is not the kind of reception presidents give a wanted war criminal. The US knew the terms of his exile, and I can bet my bottom sterling they didn't include arrest and trial. No doubt Nigeria probably looked the other way while Taylor escaped, or they might even be keeping him. After all they wouldn't let the US backed mercenaries take himby force in 2003, but surely they'd budge to a legitimate court? I'm no Taylor apologist, but the US is being hypocritical by penalising Nigeria for Taylor's disappearance.

Falling Sky

Does anyone remember Goscinny and Uderzo's comic book characters, lil' Asterix, and the rotund Obelix? They were the magic potion addled Gauls, valiant warriors, protecting their village against Julius Caesar and his marauding Roman army. These Gauls were fearless, but only two things were guaranteed to grind them into submission. First was the singing of Cacofonix the bard. You can tell from his name that his voice grated the ears of the longsuffering villagers. The solution was simple. Tie him up and gag him at any public gathering. Harsh right? But don't you wish you could do the same to that aunty, or that uncle, without being arrested? The second threat though, was just pure superstition - they were scared of the sky falling on their heads.

Looking at the Nigerian government's reponse today's solar eclipse, one can see that superstition of fictional proportions is part of the Nigerian fabric. I came across the eclipse last year after missing (I think I slept through it) Britain's annular solar eclipse. I was going to traipse to some nether region of the world so that I could get my eclipse fix and a holiday. As soon as I saw that Nigeria would be covered by the eclipse, I despaired. There was no way a country were people attach socks to their penises was going to survive an eclipse. People might think that the sky had fallen because they hadn't sacrificed their grandmother's big toes on the eighth hour of the sixth month, of the ninth year, under an iroko tree. They might burn their twins at the stake, or worse still, think that this was the rapture, and await Jesus Christ astride a white horse to take them to paradise, hell, or possibly even worse, Butlins in Bognor.

In case you're wondering, here goes the penis and sock story. There were rumours in Lagos that people were stealing penises and using them in ritual sacrifice. Some men and boys with big egos felt their penises were too valuable, that their harems would suffer if their manhood disappeared in a puff of smoke to appease Sango. In this modern era, the humble colonial sock was to be the tool for safeguarding man's manhood. Attach the sock to the penis, and if someone brushes past you in Tejuosho market, don't bat an eyelid. But if the the sock falls, it means it has been detached, and the "bits" are no more. If this happens, you have three options. 1) Consult your own juju priest who'll give you the tools to steal one of your own. 2) Go to your nearest church. The pastor will either tell you that God has "ordained" celibacy for you, or one will be magicked into being for you again. Beware though, you will forever be sitting in the "cured ailments" section of the church holding a placard saying "regrow pennis" (sic). 3) Go to Modupe Ozolua's clinic for a John Wayne Bobbitt job.

The stories of superstition in Nigeria are legion. In my secondary school a whole family were ostracised because someone deemed them grandmasters in an evil coven of witches. When Arthur Miller wrote the Crucible in 1952, he'd never have thought that real witch hunts would still be taking place forty years later. Ella* is eating garri, groundnuts, and sugar. A friend, Stella*, asks to have some. Stella takes a spoonful, and as she is about to put it her mouth, there's a power cut. Amidst the chaos of darkness, the spoon and bowl of garium sulphate, are knocked down. The power comes back on immediately, and everyone gathers round the spilled food with open mouths. There isn't just garri and groundnuts on the floor, but a dead bird, feathers, beak and all. The group's conclusion? One was trying to bewitch the other. If Ella can convince the group that she's no witch, but a victim, Stella becomes the witch. If Stella has the greater force of character, Ella is the witch, and she is the almost bewitched. Positions are then set in dormitory concrete, labels stick, superstitions abound, childhoods are ruined.

There was also a time when some madman in the Far East supposedly predicted the exact date that the world would end. We were young and foolish, so we believed. It wasn't so much the Far Eastern madman we believed but the local Christians recruiting for God's army. If I smoked, I'd have given it up my nicotine fixes. If I drank, I'd have given up the evil liqour. If womanised, I'd have given up my many concubines, and sewed my monastic cloth. But I was eleven, and barely had any vices. I still didn't want to end up hell, so I read my Bible, and prayed everyday. Surely heaven would accept me now.

On The Day The World Is Going To End, I get ready for school as normal, confident that everything will soon be no more. First lesson ends, nothing. Bell rings for lunch, usual scrum. I'm tempted to say "pah! you fight over scraps, I'll be tucking into a heavenly buffet later today." However, they serve egusi, which I love. Figure I can eat that and still have room for a heavenly feast. Go back to classes, nothing. Final bell of the day, still nothing. Look, stop rushing God, He has until midnight to put an end to this misery. Next up, games. Hmph. This might be a convenient time to be taken into the sky, Elijah style. I'm ready for Mr Moody's laps round the 400m track. Thirty minutes later, I'm lying down in the middle the track, half dead. Ah I geddit, God doesn't want to do all the work, I should contribute something to my ascent into paradise. Since I'm half dead, He'll meet me halfway. I'm close. I lie on the track as Mr Moody shouts at me, threatening to cane me. Moody's still 50m away, I'll ascend before he gets here. Damn, he's now 5m away. Better run. Tired to death. I've done most of God's work for him, where the hell is He? Take a bath, lie on my bed. 2359hrs. Nothing. 0000hrs. You know what? I'm going to the pub, and then a rendezvous with my dealer, and then pulling over on the street corner. Okay, I was eleven, but you catch my drift. Haven't looked back since....

The eclipse should be used as way to enthuse school children, to make them fall in love with sciences. Nigeria wants a space programme, but yet its citizens cower when the sun retreats for a few minutes. Eclipse in Nigeria? Heaven helps us.

*made up names

Taylor vanishes

Former Liberian rebel leader and president Charles Taylor has disappeared. Quite frankly, this comes as no surprise. Taylor is a powerful man, and was said to be interfering in Liberian affairs even while in exile in Nigeria. And one can also understand Nigeria's reluctance to give him up. The conditions of his exile were for Liberia to make a fresh start. He wouldn't have agreed to go into exile if he knew he'd be charged for alleged war crimes, and Nigeria would not have wanted to be the country known for arresting suspected African war criminals. A real muddle.

This way up

The most endearing feauture of the Melbourne Commonwealth Games was the closing ceremony. It wasn't the usual line-up of clichés about "even though we wiped out the indigenous community, we're now amicably multicultural" that caught my attention. Nor was it grating cat squeals masquerading as "the best of Aussie music" that pricked my ears. Rather, it was the upside down globe of the world displayed, with Australia at the top, and Europe and North America at the bottom. It reminded me that I still want one these maps on my wall.

I first came across the concept of the upside-down map in 2003, when reading an article by world renowned arch-atheist humanist to the point of religiosity, Richard Dawkins. He was quoting a science-fiction novel where one of the voyaging astronauts said, "Just to think, it's springtime back on Earth!" This, he posited, was a parochial arrogance about one's part of the world being not just the centre of the universe, but the universe itself. Of course it wouldn't be spring for people who lived in a different hemisphere. The term would even be an alien concept for people who lived in the Tropics where there are only wet and and dry seasons.

In the distant unforeseeable future when I have little sprogs gnawing at my ankles and being sick on my expensive Savile Row tailored suit, I'll put up one of these maps in their rooms. Hopefully, they'll grow up with an inquisitive mind, not soaking in orthodoxies like a rancid sponge. An upside-down map lets the world know that not everything is absolute, but that many things are constructs of man. And these constructs become conventions, which in turn become gospel. We accept things as they are and ask no questions.

For as long as European explorers have "discovered" other parts of the planet, Europe has been atop the map of the world. These explorers had gone "south" to the dark continent, and the East Indies via the Cape of Good Hope. As far as the were concerned, they were going to the bottom of the world. These conventions have stuck, and we now all have to abide by them. If you fly planes for a living, or captain trawlers, it might be a good idea not to rebel against the status quo just yet. I doubt your passengers will accept "challenging orthodoxies" as a valid excuse for flying them to Andes, instead of the Rockies. But be aware, be very aware.

ps People in Britain should watch Dispatches on Channel 4 this evening. Sorious Samura becomes an "illegal alien" in Living with Illegals. Guaranteed to be harrowing viewing.

Nollywood in the Guardian

There's a huge feature on Nollywood in today's Guardian. Read it here. And before you get upset at the stereotyping (but let's be honest, they're rather hideous), read the whole thing.