It’s the first day of the new year. Fireworks rent the skies. A cacophony of goodwill messages is splattered around. Families, friends, and enemies are embraced in hugs. Everyone is jolly and happy to see the new year in good health, not in the mortuary, hospital, or prison like the pastor mentioned earlier, and I can’t help but be grateful for where I am compared to where I was this time last year (I mean, a 2022 hopelessly single me is attending crossover with the love of his life…who would have thought?). Even the feelings triggered by my surroundings were a testimony to how far I had come in 2023. Just like many other Nigerians, it felt taboo to spend crossover in a place other than church, particularly in a Nigerian church.

Having spent 11 months attending a non-Nigerian church, the ‘enemies die by fire’ prayers, the gbedu drums, the uncoordinated vehicular movements of stern-faced church workers, the Azul-looking dresses of the choir (their dresses were beautiful, by the way), their numerous soprano-filled special numbers, mouth-gaping testimonies, and countless Thanksgiving offerings felt strange. Although I grew up in such a church, I am now used to the calmness, hymns, and organised atmosphere of my current church in Dublin. This, in itself, reinforced my gratitude to God, particularly the fact that I survived Nigeria, or in contemporary Nigerian parlance, japaed.

Entering 2023, my future seemed uncertain. I had not gotten my study visa and was in a state of limbo where I felt very alone, craving a community of my own. This led to the publication of my previous article, ‘Alone Not’. It’s been one year and two months since I wrote ‘Alone Not', and looking back, that feeling of loneliness feels like a lifetime ago. 2023 started on a low, became one of my most challenging years, but ended up becoming one of my best years yet. Community was the bedrock of my 2023.

Q1: A New Beginning, The African Aunty, Humility Lessons and a Benevolent Friend

Q1 was perhaps the most challenging period of my life. Although I anticipated that starting afresh in a new city, far away from all I have ever known, would be challenging, from the gloomy winter and near homelessness to temporarily becoming a house boy and the numerous job rejections I received (even Domino’s sent me a rejection letter—a whole barista loya like me), I never experred it. For the first time, I understood what Gen Zs mean when they say they struggle with their mental health. Coming to Dublin in the thick of winter from Nigeria was ill advised. Given the current exchange rate and state of Nigeria, I would do it again if presented with the same chance.

I experienced winter blues in my first month abroad. On seeing the weather turn dark at 4 p.m., I knew I had entered it. The temporary accommodation with an African aunty (an old acquaintance of my dad’s) in Dundalk worsened the situation. Commuting to and from my school in Dublin was a nightmare. Waking up as early as 5:30 a.m. to catch the Dublin bus by 6 a.m. was torture. Not as nightmarish as my experience staying with African Aunty, though. Considering I have blocked out most of my memories from my stay with African Aunty, all I can say is:

‘for your mental health, beware of African aunties in the abroad, particularly the ones who stay in council homes, try to game the system at every point, and are skilled at verbal abuse’.

I might not have enjoyed the verbal abuse, false accusations, passive aggression, and narcissistic traits, but I am grateful to her for providing me with temporary accommodation upon my arrival. I also received a lot of job rejections during this period. In a bid to make some income, I took up this kitchen porter cash job that was nearly modern slavery. I never returned after working a weekend there. Thanks to the unbearable body pains. Never look down on bricklayers. Kasamadupe. Thank God we don’t look like what we’ve been through.

In the midst of all this rogbodiyan, the occupants of Apartment 48 were a silver lining. Of all the memories from Q1, my time at Apartment 48 was my fondest. So, a little info about the Supes (Pelumi, Maame, and Stacey) from Apartment 48: When African Aunty more or less made life a living hell for me, the occupants of Apartment 48 gave me an airbed and took me in as one of theirs. God bless you guys abundantly.

Lessons Learnt:

1. Be humble at all times. Whether or not you heed this advice, Japa will humble you by force. I was a thriving barrista loya in my country, but even McDonald’s might not employ you abroad, especially if you are on a student visa.
2. In the midst of the valley, God is with you. He always takes care of his own. He might seem silent, but like Windows Defender, he is working 24/7. I wonder what my mental health would have been if the Supes from Apartment 48 hadn’t taken me in. They helped me settle well in Dublin. God bless you guys abundantly. Ironically, I had my best grades in school during this period and got my first job during my stay at Apartment 48.

Q2: Dissertation Meets the LOML

Most times, I feel my year commenced in Q2 because that was when things started getting better. My job was paying the bills, and despite some difficulty finding an apartment, I got to rent my first place (special shout-out to the Oyefesos), and best of all, the LOML strolled into my life on a Sunday morning.

To be honest, like Goodluck’s first term, it was unplanned. I had resolved to focus solely on my dissertation. I had even told a shawty that I was emotionally unavailable about two weeks before meeting the LOML. But who can blame me when that tall Amazonian beauty with a smile and awesome personality that could melt any heart who I had been eyeing on Instagram became flesh and appeared in my church? As the sharp guy that I am, I shot my shot and didn’t miss. The LOML happened to be God’s best gift of 2023 for me. She became my safe space from the very first date (T.M.I: our first date was in a pub😂) I’d probably require a separate article to give her her accolades. Meeting her is actually the best thing to have happened to me in 2023. She’s the best, for real. Get you a partner like the LOML. It became smooth sailing after meeting her.

I also socialised, met great people, made new friends, bonded with old friends, changed jobs, MCed two events, planned and organised a dope birthday party. I finally began to enjoy Dublin in Q2.

P.S. Every person should experience St. Patrick’s Day at least once in a lifetime. Very beautiful and colourful.

Lessons Learnt:

1. Tough times do not last. It is darkest before dawn. It gets better eventually. Everything falls into place.
2. There is love in Dublin (iykyk).
3. Community is one of the most important things to consider before you decide to japa. The abroad can be lonely, AF.

Q3: Ajala, the Traveller, Becomes Man of Honour

‘Eventful’ is an understatement to describe Q3. My almost-obsolete project management skills were resurrected. My female best friend got engaged earlier in Q1, and guess who she made her Man of Honour😉. Yours truly. And you know, I never disappoint. With help from the LOML and some lovely people (a shout-out to the Esthers and Dami), I planned and organised a bridal shower. Given the groom is also a friend, I was part of the groomsmen. Alongside the LOML and Bolu, we nearly singlehandedly planned a wedding. Shoutout to the LOML for planning a bad-ass bachelor’s party as well. You know what they say about teamwork— ‘makes the dream work😊’. Planning all these things and managing people was challenging, but the satisfied smiles on the groom’s and bride’s faces long after the wedding and the beautiful pictures and videos from the wedding showed it was all worth it. By the way, wedding preparation is not for the faint-hearted. If patience is your enemy, stay away from getting married.

I had some amazing adventures in Q3. I toured Galway, visited the Cliffs of Moher, sat with the Galway Girl, clubbed in London, got stranded in London at night and slept at a train station, made my baby happy, celebrated her birthday in three different cities (Dublin, London, and Reading), attended an owambe in the abroad, inter alia (yes, I am still a lawyer). All these adventures were made more perfect by the community of friends (shout-out to the Babalolas and Tobi-Cash) I experienced them with.

Lessons Learnt:

1. Love is sweet, sha.
2. The right friendships are important for a happy life.
3. Giving is healthy. Giving transcends money. Giving can be in form of your time, resources, and love. The only way to receive is to give.
4. Wahala no dey finish. Go out, see the world, live, love, and laugh.

Q4: Here Comes the Moroccan Tourist

Q4 entailed me striving to finish strong in school amidst a physically demanding job. I was barely at home during this period. If I wasn’t in school, I was at work, and the Sundays when I was to rest, I was in church and out with friends. The 'D' in Ph.D. should stand for 'deserved,' because ‘to read book no easy’.

I had my birthday in Q4 and it was the best birthday I had ever had (shout-out to the LOML, the best event planner ever). The gifts I received and the community I made in Dublin were gobsmacking. God does answer prayers because He’s surrounded me with awesome people. People to learn from. People to enjoy the world with, and people to do life with. I am grateful.

Given the winter blues I experienced earlier, I resolved to spend my winter in a sunny city, and the LOML was able to convince me to end the year in grand style by visiting Morocco. I did not know how bad my ailurophobia was until I got to Morocco. They had cats everywhere. You can’t take a 3-minute walk without encountering a cat. You even want to take a dump, a cat is right there eyeing your butt. Those cats are so bold that they almost colonised our accommodation in Marrakech. Cats are the dogs of Morocco.

Despite the cat pandemic, Morocco was a lovely place. Given that their winter temperature peaked between 16̊ and 22̊, the weather was perfect. Given that I visited three cities (Marrakech, Casablanca, and Rabat) in Morocco, I have divergent experiences and perspectives on Morocco. Although my experience seemed wholesome, I am not sure it captures the full tourist experience, considering Morocco is quite big with numerous happening cities. FGS, I haven’t even visited Tangir, Fez, Agadir, and Chefchaouen. I enjoyed my time in Morocco very much. For the first time in my life, I felt like a tourist, and my ‘elementary’ French came in very handy. Given the recent backlash Morocco is receiving on Twitter, I’ll provide an article about my experience as a tourist in Morocco soon. Nonetheless, I recommend that if you are to visit Morocco, especially Marrakech, go in the company of more than two people.

Q4 was wholesome. A great way to end the year—in the midst of laughter, friends, and the one you love.

Lessons Learnt:

1. Learn French or another language. It could be a lifesaver.
2. Dispute resolution is an integral skill for maintaining relationships (i.e., friendships and romantic relationships). All relationships are not devoid of drama. Just ensure it’s healthy drama.
3. Be grateful at all times.

In Conclusion…

Looking back at where I am coming from and where I am, I am nothing short of grateful. I still have unaccomplished goals, but knowing God was my anchor and the one who ordered my path in 2023, I am confident 2024 is going to be awesome. He’s promised to announce me to the world, so I am positive and excited about the new year. I am grateful for friends as well, because for someone who is used to doing everything by himself, friends helped sail me through 2023. No man is an island, indeed.

I look forward to doing a review of 2024, although I have an idea of what it will entail 😘.

Joel 2:25 baby!

Hi whoever is out there,

I am Olamitunji and no, I’m not an alcoholic. I just feel alone. It’s not a strange feeling actually. It’s becoming quite a familiar one. I’ve felt alone for most of this year. 2022 seemed to have shown me pepper but He’s promised me it’s going to end on a high. So, I’m holding on to that. Moreover, it’s not been all gloom and doom. I’ve achieved some highs already. 2022 has seen me experience a roller-coaster of emotions. I have laughed. I’ve cried. I’ve loved. I’ve felt empty. I’ve felt joy. I’ve felt anger, frustration and sadness. In summary, I’ve felt almost all emotions in levels I’m not sure I have ever felt before, especially the negative emotions. But the emotion I’ve felt the most throughout every point of this year is “alone”. I’ve felt like I’m journeying life alone. It’s been like I face the mountain of obstacles, the beads of struggles and the weight of the world by myself. Adulting and life pounds me, I fall and as a righteous man that I am, I rise to go again, alone, sadly. It’s becoming overwhelming, to be honest. Funnily, I sometimes feel I have it better than a lot of people. I’m sure a lot envy my life. If only they knew what went on in my head. Thank God for Christ. Thank God for the Holy Spirit. Thank God for God. Because the Trinity has been the only thing keeping me going. Karl Marx was truly right.

Anyway, it’s not been easy. Praying sometimes has become a chore, especially when it feels like He’s not answering, even though I sense He’s listening. But I’m sure it’s my tiny puny mind that cannot comprehend the process and for that I’m grateful.

I know God loves me. I may not feel Him sometimes but from experience, I know He does. He loves me very much to always remind me, when another dose of amnesia kicks in, that He is with me at every point. Even in my “alone"moment, He is with me, alongside the Heavenly Host. Even when I don’t see Him or feel His presence, he uses the most unexpected source to remind me that He’s never forsaken me.

So, life came with some unexpected gbas gbos lately and the cycle of “alone” came again, infecting me with another bout of amnesia on who I am in Christ and what He has done for me previously. Thankfully, I have the Holy Spirit and rather than taking solace in vices that I’d left in my previous life, the Holy Spirit directed me to certain unexpected source to remind me of His word . I love God so much. He’s just beautiful. Very cute, especially with how He shows up for me at the least expected times. At times, I don’t feel I deserve His love and how intentional He is with me. I may not understand a lot of things about the process but it’s not my duty to understand. I’m in the background and He is taking centrestage.

Anyway, back to the reason we are here. He led me to write again after a while, and that’s the purpose of this post — to remind whoever is out there that God loves you and never forsakes you. He is with you at every point in time. In the highs, he’s there, in the lows, he’s closer than you think. During the trials, he’s guiding you through the hurdles. The road will most likely be rough but he’s there with you, protecting you from the blackholes and strengthening you till you get to the finish line. He loves you more than you can ever imagine. You are not alone.

Soliloquising in my guilt and shame,
He is there.
Withdrawing into my shell of isolation
He is here,
My iconoclasm - He wraps in His warm embrace.
"You are not alone running this race,"
He reminds me
Even in the valley of the shadow of death,
"I am here".
His river - never wanting, in abundance quenching my thirst for validation.

Parents may forsake me but, He has and will never forsake me, always receiving me despite my flaws. He loves me despite and not because.

His Blood - cleansing my obdurate heart 24/7.
Pumping so hard it leaves the roaring lion disappointed.
Yet. My soul reclines into the hades of self-doubt.
His embrace…Oh! His beautiful embrace of love envelopes my obstinate soul.
So warm, hospitable enough, it drowns my doubt.
His Spirit - rinsing away the amnesia submerging my heart.
In the midst of the storm, in his peace, I lay my head.

Pacing headlessly in my wander, His presence be/comes my rest.
Drawing me back into his wonder.

He is with me. Not alone. But with the heavenly host. How did I think I was alone? How? Fighting my every battle alone when I had the Heavenly Host waiting for my command. I felt worn out, oblivious of the wars He’s won for me.

God, I love you more than I know. You’ve never stopped loving me and I’m grateful I am not alone.

P.S: this piece is raw and unedited.

The date is 21st October 2020. The time is 9:08 pm, approximately 24-hours since the Nigerian military massacre of its citizens at the Lekki Tollgate area of Lagos, a popular suburb that houses a large number of the dwindling Middle-class Nigerian youths who have arguably suffered the most under this current “military” civilian regime. I can’t sleep. My mind is restless.

The middle-class youths seemed to have been the last wall of defence in the fight for a better Nigeria. They bravely stood up to the incompetent government, bearing no arms, barring the wooden Nigerian flags they terrifyingly waved and their frightened chants of the Nigerian anthem. An anthem, the leaders of this nation never hold dear.

Now, it is 24-hours since this massacre. Still no direct address or statement from the Commander in Chief. No person has been held responsible. No explanation as to who gave the diabolic order to kill civilians. Instead, there have been subsequent killings of Nigerian youths in other parts of Lagos. The earth of Lagos is soiled by the blood of innocent youths in various parts of the state like Yaba, Mushin, Shomolu, and many other places not captured on camera. Lagos is burning and the strongman of Lagos is allegedly in France.

I have to study but the only things my mind is processing are the gory images of that 15-year-old boy that was shot at Pedro. I can still see the sad tweets of the heartthrob of the law-abiding young designer who was killed in his compound by a stray bullet from security forces outside his compound. The real-life movie of the young man on DJ Switch’s Insta-live giving up the ghost while the “Unknown Soldiers” kept shooting at them still keeps replaying in my head. I would have said that the government brought a bazooka to a fist-fight but we all know it takes two persons to fight.

I have tried reading a novel or watching a movie but my mind can’t move past the number of deaths and extra-judicial killings (this is debatable since the youths weren’t even criminals) by the Nigerian government who swore to protect their citizens. Thankfully, I believe in God, thus providing the only strand of hope left in me that the perpetrators won’t go unpunished. I talk to Him. At least He should understand how I feel. He watched His son die for sins committed by others.

I have avoided Twitter and other social media platforms like a plague today but my mind can’t stop replaying the graphic videos I have seen already. Sadly, many other youths are also going through this mental breakdown. They are psychologically exhausted and physically fatigued. I wonder how the people in government or their children sleep at night.

REALISATIONS

Countlessly going through the events of Black October, I realised certain things. A lot of people in my generation have always accused our parents’ generation of being complicit in the decay of this nation, through their silence in the face of oppression and their failures to demand accountability from their leaders. I think our conclusions were not totally correct in this regard.

Now I know why our parent’s generation seemed to be silent in the face of oppression. The events of Black October have shown me why they were comfortable with the scraps they got. Why they were comfortable with just getting by while their government heartlessly plundered their resources and mismanaged their taxes while dividing them along ethnic and religious lines.

Our parents were not silent, They were silenced. They had seen enough violence and hurt perpetrated against them by the people who swore to protect them. They were gagged by the ones who they freely trusted through the ballot boxes.

They were broken. Each of them walked around carrying a form of hurt or scar. Beneath their ephemeral smiles and happiness laid a grimacing scowl borne from years of oppression. Their resignation to fate had led this country to the ebb it has reached but you cannot totally blame them. The Nigerian government are experts in breaking the spirit and will of a lot of their citizens. Now they are attempting to break the will and spirit of a new generation using the same tactics they have always used.💔💔💔

They tried breaking us by impoverishing us but our generation, leveraging technology outsmarted them. They tried taxing us, we quietly bore this while planning our exit strategies to Canada. They tried dividing us along ethnic and religious lines like they did our parents but we were united by the fight for our lives from the security operatives who swore to protect us.

Without bearing arms, we, the lazy youths, trooped out peacefully asking for a chance to live. Which was within our rights. We did not ask the President to resign. We did not ask for good roads. No! we did not ask for a working system. No! We did not ask for uninterrupted power supply. We did not ask to end bad governance. We just asked for a chance to live. A chance to become the future leaders, the birthright we were promised.

The oppressors who had always enjoyed being unquestioned felt affronted and responded with water cannons, thugs, bullets and violence against its future. They had silenced the past, eaten the present, and were now bent on annihilating the future.

Hope, Our Last Resort

While looking for some form of AA meeting for government-induced traumatised Nigerian youths, I called up a few friends (definitely via WhatsApp because of rumours that the government is monitoring our lines. “Cyberwarfare”, they call it). One striking feature of these convos was the extreme lack of hope in this country. Lack of hope in the movement. “Gloom and doom” would be a perfect title for this horror movie.

Dear Youths,

We can’t back down now. We’ve come too far to back down now. A lot of innocent blood has been shed to go back on our demands for a chance to live. It is our last shot at a better Nigeria. We are the last resort.

We can’t let the wicked ones win. We can’t be silenced like our parents. The future is counting on us. Our parents are looking up to us. The blood of the heroes gone are crying to us. It is darkest before dawn. Always remember this. The dawn is here and that’s why the evil forces are fighting desperately.

When our children ask us how we created a better country for us and them (yes! For us too. I’m still young enough to experience a better Nigeria. You are too);

We will explain that our generation fought thé evil ones with tears, sweat, and blood, and we won. We will tell our children that the country of our dreams that they are enjoying was birthed on the blood of youths killed by the government of that day. We will tell them we persisted and won. We defeated the bad boys of that day.

Due to our victory, they can enjoy the freedoms they enjoy. They can Sọ̀rọ̀ Sókè. They can walk freely without the fear of being killed. Beautiful Nigeria was built on the tears, sweat, and blood of innocent youths. Heroes who didn’t die in vain.

It may be hard but keep the faith and hope alive. It’s darkest before dawn, remember.

Sọ̀rọ̀ Sókè and Stay Woke,

Your fellow Nigerian youth,

P.S: “…Such people have chosen their own ways,
And their soul delights in their repulsive acts;
So I will choose their punishments,
And will bring the things they dread upon them
Because I called, but no one answered;
I spoke, but they did not listen or obey.
But they did evil in My sight
And chose that in which I did not delight…
Your brothers who hate you, who exclude you for My Name’s sake…
But they will be put to shame. The sound of an uproar from the city! A voice from the temple!
The voice of the Lord, providing retribution to His enemies.
Before she (Zion) was in labor, she gave birth;
Before her labor pain came, she gave birth to a boy.
“Who has heard of such a thing? Who has seen such things?
Can a land be born in one day?
Or can a nation be brought forth in a moment?
As soon as Zion was in labor, she also brought forth her sons
“Shall I bring to the moment of birth and not give delivery?” says the Lord.” -Isaiah 66

Cc: The bad boys in power

“I hate you Tajud!” was all he could hear. Even though the earth was tearing down beneath him.

“I don’t want to see you again!” was all he could see even though the black sedan just rammed into the Mack truck beside his shy-looking BMW coupé, attempting to crash into his consciousness. He could care less. He needed to get to her porch. He doubted the possibility of ever setting foot in her gaudy room again. He had always complained of the room’s excessive bright paintings and flamboyant drapes. All that didn’t matter now, getting to her porch did.

“You hurt me, TJ”… He could still taste the bile in her sunken tear-ridden eyes. Her room was where everything ended.

“Get out!” The rain pouring from the dark clouds reminded him of his helplessness that night. He couldn’t help the solution of tears and her black mascara drooling down her puffy cheeks.

“The world is ending,” the reporter on the radio screamed, “Stay in your homes.” He could care less. People had been bursting into flames burning properties in the process since that mysterious virus appeared from nowhere some months ago. “Covik-1–9,” WHO called it.

All he could think about was getting to her porch. Spending the end of the world with her was the only thing he wanted. For a second he was distracted from his desire by the firemen putting out the fire from a young woman who burst into flames with her toddler on her back. He could care less. Only if the firemen could help put out the flames of regret and anguish that burdened his heart or better still put out the ocean of tears tearing her heart, he thought.

He wished he hadn’t done it. He wished he hadn’t let Lily, her best friend in that night. She only wanted to chat while waiting for her friend. He wished the rain hadn’t fallen that night leaving everywhere cold and cozy. He wished…

“TJ!” the echoes from her shock still reverberated in his head. Even in his disorientation, he could see the concoction of anger, shock and disappointment brew in her voice. The horror in her eyes betrayed the beauty in her face.

He was guilty. He knew it. But the world was ending and all he wanted the most was her cuddles. Her laughter was all he wanted to hear while she was wrapped in his arms. Her laughter drowning the screams of the world ending.

“Father forgive me, Lady Luck shine on me,” he muttered as he approached her porch. And shine, Lady Luck did.

The front door was open. But no signs of her. His heart started beating louder than the bomb blasts occurring a mile away. “she must be in the kitchen”, he thought. On his way to the kitchen, he is interrupted by her screams from her room upstairs. Racing to where it all started, he bursts in.

“Renny!” trying to be oblivious of Sally, his female best friend on top of her. Seeing them both naked, TJ’s world comes crashing down.

His eternity with her ended before it even started.

Follow:

Twitter: @lighthouse_cfr

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“How can humans be so inhumane?” were the only words that repeatedly proceeded from my mouth as I narrated to a friend, the gory details of the “Ajah” video that trended on twitter earlier in the day. It was a video showing a mob throwing sachet water, bottles and stones at a clearly traumatised girl. she was reportedly dropped from a speeding SUV under the bridge in Ajah.

Some even hurled insults and insensitive jests at the girl’s situation. I am sure my friend could notice I wasn’t the same after the video. It was a real-life horror movie. All day my heart was grieving, moving intermittently between the emotions of anger, sadness and disappointment as images of that poor lady suffering a second persecution from hundreds of jobless Nigerians popped up occasionally.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, the activities and stress of Lagos temporarily banished the images from the fore of my mind.

Now it’s 2am, I can’t sleep. Rolling around restlessly. The darkness supplied by the unreliable NEPA doesn’t help matters. The inhumane vitriols of “na ashewo she be”, “god don catch am”, “runs girl” made by the people that took pictures of the naked, emaciated girl kept gnawing at my mind. As I close my eyes, I can’t stop the torture of tears that stroll down as I relive the image of the poor girl. The infested wounds, gaunt bones and shock. I thought I could stand horror movies but this is not make-believe.

Previously, I had prided in my love for horror movies and how I found them funny. But with the real-life horror movies Nigeria has constantly shown me, I don’t think I can ever find horror movies funny again. If it is not a tanker bursting into flames on a federal highway, it is a helpless fire outbreak in a major market.

Death and tragedy have become Nigerian citizens. The people and the government have become comfortable with their presence.

Nigeria seems to be the unending real-life version of the Final Destination movie. The concoction of emotions I thought had been supressed by Lagos came rushing back. Anger, sadness and disappointment flooded my heart again.

I am angry at the Nigerians who stood watching her drown in her misery and couldn’t offer a helping hand. It is annoyingly saddening that these Nigerians could turn on their phones to capture this gory moment but couldn’t dial the numbers of social workers and emergency services. For Christ’s sake, what was fascinating about the plight of the girl. Why would somebody be so comfortable in turning the plight of this girl into a negative moral story on twitter and Facebook rather than ensure the perpetrators are brought to book. I couldn’t understand how some perverted minds would joke about her private parts rather than offer her clothes.

I am angry at the Nigerians who instantly assumed she was a runs girl or prostitute because of her tattoos. I wonder how that should be a reason to sentence her to death even if she was one. I don’t understand why you can’t assume she could have been kidnapped on her way to work or back from work. I wonder how you can’t infer that she could have been a victim of human trafficking. Even if she was a runs girl/aristo gone wrong, that does not mean she should be persecuted again.

What they did to that girl is no different from jungle justice. I don’t want to imagine what she had been through already. I wonder how you can comfortably try a girl who has suffered enough already.

It is sad that in the midst of the Lagos sun, these people turned to her suffering for entertainment. I am sad because many of the jungle prosecutors would be workers in their respective churches. It is sad that some of them would use the girl’s plight as reference for testimonies of the goodness of God and the congregation will shout Hallelujah.

Some would even drop offering in church as gratefulness to God. Money that could have served as donations to rehabilitating the poor girl.

I am sad because this is not the Nigeria I experienced while growing up. I mean it was bad but not this bad. This is not the Nigeria I hoped to meet as an adult. It is disappointing that this is what Nigeria has become. It is saddening that many Nigerians have no option but to flee their own countries to save all the sanity and humanity they have left. But what do I know? Yeats already foretold it,

“Things fall apart when the centre cannot hold.”

The actions of people in the video, including the various social media comments helped me realise that the real enemies of Nigeria(ns) are not politicians. The devils are not the ruling class. Neither are they the rich. The real enemies of Nigerians are Nigerians themselves, particularly the masses. Poverty has eaten so deep into the psychological makeup of the average Nigerian that he now cares only for himself. so far, he is fine, he doesn’t care about his neighbour. So far, he survives, he doesn’t mind hurting his neighbour in the process. The loss of values in the average Nigerian has led to a lack of love.

To be able to ignore the darkness and bitterness in their hearts, they hide under the cloak of religion convincing themselves that the more activities they do in their churches or mosques, the more their sins are covered. Sadly, this is not the love Christ or Mohammed preached.

Nigeria is fast descending into anarchy. In the name of hustling, Nigerians are fast becoming beasts. I think I may have lost hope in this country. The future of this country is so dim, we need consistent and persistent surge of lights. It is like an aura of gloom, bitterness and darkness plagues the Nigerian air space. I hope there are still a large number of people who have refused be converted to this new religion of inhumanity.

Who is the Girl Child?

Some of you may define her by the absence of a third leg. Is the definition encompassing? I’ll leave you to judge but what I know is that:

She is not the back-bencher in a house of a boy and girls

She is not the first resort at the sound of wedding bells

nor is she the last resort at the sound of clanging school bells

She is not the maid condemned to the kitchen while her brothers prepare for school

She is not the sex object to determine whether your guy is cool

Her sexuality is not the agenda at your evening conferences

nor is it the topic at your community meetings

She is not that reverberating silence at the screams of The Father’s ego

Who is the Girl Child?

I know she’s not the Ogbanje to blame for your misfortune —

She is not the Aje to be condemned to the Guantanamo torture

at your clerics’ deliverance courts

She is not the witch to be left at the stake crying to be burned

Remember, Papa always said, “Ẹvery man is an architect of his own fortune”

I know she’s not the only one whose life is ruined at the unwanted

responsibility growing inside her,

Yes that one! The little foetus two teenagers created.

Her tender vulva is not the specimen for Uncle Boniface to test his pornography skills

She is the innocent soul with dreams of endless possibilities

Who is the Girl-Child?

Psalm 82:6 says

She is a goddess

though she craves to be treated as one

Her pretty face and body parts should not be

victims of the piercing ogles of male eyes

While her talents, intelligence and creativity scream for your mind’s attention

Her body is a temple of God

She is a high priest pure in heart

daily seeing God but we fail to listen to her intuition

She may be tiny but not to be grounded by your limitations

Her esteem, not to be dashed by the condescension of the average man

When she aspires for that equal opportunity

Who is the Girl-Child?

She is not your wife material because of her sumptuous meals,

domestic versatility

and dexterity in the other room

She is the wife because of the depth of her mind that jointly propels an empire with you

She is not the trophy on the shelf of toxic masculinity

She is not the scape-goat for the society’s misgivings

She is not the first resort for the savior called marriage and the last resort for the luxury called a career

She is not a baby making machine with no benefit to the society

She is not a little clueless bride who is ripe for the rite of passage called Fistula

She is not the rapist, pedophile, immoralist and sodomist who needs to be curbed by Female Genital Mutilation

She is not the shadows in the curtains hiding behind her husband

She is the other half completing the whole called “a couple”

Her body is not the artifact to be illegally transported abroad for the pleasure of the white man’s eyes and fingers

She is not a suicide bomber, she is a giver of life

She is not defined by her husband, she is defined by her achievements

She is not one to be reminded that ilẹ̀ obìnrin ó kín pé sú

She should be told constantly, ayé ń bẹ lese rẹ

The world is at your feet,

you are the defining factor, my little girl Child

She’s not the ashawo when a spinster

And the prostitute when she refuses to buy clothes from your perverted gropes in yaba

She is not the olosho when she challenges your views on the streets of twitter

Mister, she is not a hoe when she “has the balls” to thread places you wouldn’t dare.

She is not the runs girl when her successes escape the box that is your mind

She is not the prey to be devoured by a predator in position of power

Who is the Girl-Child?

She is a mother who births a generation

She is a wife not bound by the rusty views of a failed nation

She is a Funmilayo Ransome Kuti who Man’s up for your rights

She is an Adichie changing the narrative of a man’s world

She is a Dora Akunyili breaking the barriers of impossibility

She is an Oby Ezekwesili, constantly challenging the Strongmen

She is a Kemi Adetiba who before your eyes sets the blueprint for change rolling

She is an Olajumoke Adenowo, who doesn’t just design masterpieces but designs a plan for better leaders in our hearts

She is an Adadevoh, the sacrificial lamb for the unborn nigerians

She is the Queen Amina who leads men into the battle for her motherland

She is the change we need

She is that rose blooming in the midst of thorns

She is you changing the narrative,

The key to the future

Sound the alarms, conk the gongs, turn on the radios

Let’s join hands and change the stereo-type of the Nigerian Girl Child.

-©Francis Ololuo

Commemorating the International Day of the Girl Child

Once upon a time, in a not-so-distant past,

The colonialists married couples who were carriers of the sickle cell. Let's call the couples, "The Founding Fathers" and the colonialists, "The Holy Priests at the Red Wedding". The wedding seemed blissful and promising.
Sadly, these couples birthed embodiments of the Sickle Cell

Now we revel in the anguish of our nature. Prancing around with corrupted cells, corruption envelops our entire existence. Our lives become the Crisis. We didn't have to wait till midlife. The throbbing pains caught up with us in our youth.

Trying to mask our affliction, we masquerade in expensive Mary-Kay bronzers, hoping the world doesn't see the cracks in our skin.
Sadly, the world laughs at the fractures in our hearts.

"you are the future leaders of tomorrow", our fathers said.
Sadly, Tomorrow died today.

©Francis Ololuo

Over the years, the music industry in Nigeria has ostensibly evolved. Along with this evolution is the continued undermining of the influence of songwriters in Nigeria. Although the first in the food chain of the music industry, songwriters have been given little or no recognition in Nigeria. From not giving them credits to withholding their royalties and even the lack of award recognition for their hard work. Bearing in mind the overwhelming importance of songwriters to churning out hit music, this is a sad phenomenon.

Compared to the situation in the UK and the U.S where a well-structured system exists and songwriters are given adequate recognition as well as paid royalties for their songs, their rights are specifically provided for under their various laws (e.g. the Digital Millenium Copyright Act (DMCA)); there are collecting societies like the Performers’ Rights Society (PRS) and the BMI in the UK and US respectively who are responsible for ensuring the royalties of the songwriters get to them. A very good example of this is the claim instituted by the PRS against SoundCloud in 2015 over their failure to pay songwriters outstanding royalties for streaming their contents. Also songwriters are recognised and awarded for their contributions to songs by various award organisers. Notable of this is the Grammys which has about 5 or 6 categories for songwriters.

The scorn at the idea of Nigerian music artistes outsourcing the lyrics of their songs by the Nigerian music fan base has led to the continual non-recognition of song writers. Unfortunately, many Nigerians deem artistes that do these as lazy and unoriginal, blatantly ignoring the busy schedules of these artistes and the strain it puts regularly on their creative sides. Many Nigerians still can’t fathom the idea of a songwriter and the performing artiste being different persons. Although, many times, usually the same persons, this is not always so. Abroad, most hit songs performed by popular artistes were written by other people. “Diamonds” by Rihanna was written by Sia; “Love Yourself” by Justin Beiber was co-written with Ed-Sheeran. Also there are many professional songwriters association abroad. In essence, song writing is a profession. The likes of Shane McAnally, Max Martin and Nadir Khayat have proven.

The industry over the years has seen various disputes among artistes and songwriters over credits to a song. From the 2-face and Blackface evergreen dispute over “African Queen” to Davido and Password’s over “Gobe” and the more recent one of Dammy Krane and Wizkid over “Baba Nla”. It has become obvious that not only is the non-recognition of songwriters the bane of development of the music industry in Nigeria but also the lack of education on their rights as songwriters has dealt the industry a large blow. This paper will explore the legal rights granted to song writers under the Nigerian law

The legal rights of a songwriter is one protected by copyright and provided for by the Nigerian Copyright Act (Cap.28 LFN 2004) in Nigeria. “Song writer” is not defined by the Act but may be defined as persons who write the lyrics and melodies to a song. Thus, producers sometimes can be classified as songwriters especially where they provide the melodies and hooks to a song. Nonetheless, the definition given can be deemed to fall under the term “author” provided by the Act since songwriters are largely the creators of the work and without them there won’t be a song.
Pursuant to section 10 of the Act, songwriters are the initial owners of the copyright in the song. It should be mentioned, in Nigeria, copyright subsists in a work automatically without the need to register it. The act by virtue of section 6 (1) (a) grants certain rights to do or authorise the doing of certain acts by a songwriter and these rights can be summed into the following:
Reproduction of the work into any material form;
Publishing the work (which includes making commercially available to the public the work);
Production, reproduce, perform or publish any derivative of the work e.g. translations, adaptations of the work, etc.);
Performance of the work in public;
Broadcast or communication of the work to the public’;

Section 44 of the Act also grants the right to restrict or control the importation and exportation of copies of his work. Therefore, a songwriter may do or authorise the above acts in relation to the song.

By virtue of section 10, the songwriter being the author initially possesses the copyright in the song but the Act in section 11 gives the songwriter the right to assign or lease some or all of these exclusive rights in the song if he so desires usually for a lump payment or continual royalties. These assignments or transfer of rights are done by contractual agreements. Based on this, the songwriter may transfer by contracts his reproduction, publishing and performance rights to the publishing house (or record labels as is commonly done in Nigeria where well-developed publishing houses do not exist yet) and the artistes who perform the song. Usually, the publishing house and the songwriter split the proceeds from the song 50/50. Both parties usually own part- copyrights to the song. The songwriter being the author to the song is entitled to royalties when his song is used by third parties in relation to the acts prescribed in section 6 of the Act. Depending on the contract, the songwriter is entitled to print royalties, performance royalties, mechanical royalties and synchronisation royalties. The songwriter is as much the owner of the song as the artiste who performs it.

The benefits accruing to a songwriter is largely dependent on the contacts signed and his negotiation power. Irrespective of the rights imbued in a songwriter by the law, many song writers still fall prey to harsh contracts making them transfer all or most of their rights to the song. This is why it is imperative to get an entertainment lawyer before entering into any contract in relation to your song in order not to be embroiled in quagmires that can adversely affect your brand e.g. Kiss Daniel.

As a songwriter, you are the initial owner of the song. That is some power many don’t know how to wield. You also have the rights to be credited for your song as the author pursuant to section 12 of the Act. Music is a business and it is time to start making money of this business. Songwriters depending on the contract signed are entitled to royalties when their songs are played in public or broadcast on radio stations. In order to effectively reap these royalties, it is important to register as a member of a collecting society e.g. COSON.

Hopefully in the nearest future, the rights and hard work of songwriters in Nigeria will be recognised by the government having a more specific provisions touching on songwriters; creating of formal organisation of songwriters thereby emphasising professionalism; and award categories are created to recognise the hard work and instrumentality of songwriters to a song.

Francis Ololuo
Francisoololuo@gmail.com