The Problem with Nigeria

The problem with Nigeria is not a problem at all.
It is the perception of problems that hurts us more. When unlike me I chose the one-stop Arik Air flight, I hoped it would be better than the Ethiopian counterparts who took me to Addis-Ababa and in the same bid allowed many compatriots to board. Merchants from China and Dubai had successfully turned the air vessel to an Aero-club on that occasion.

As the announcer mentioned that our plane was ready for boarding, my brethren scampered to queue. That was perfectly normal. We love to contest for everything. I supposed that everyone knew his designated seat number and that having come this far, we were all sure to get on board and we all did.

I don't understand many things about Nigeria. And it puzzles me how we treat ourselves so poorly. Meanwhile I walk down the aisle of a plane that looks like a fairly abused hotel room and my mind is biased immediately. We cannot continue to buy or fly Naija so we can grow the Naira. Not when the Naira is rapidly growing out of control at 375/dollar. Not when the corners of the plane seats have grease stains and pockets of dirt are 'smartly ' hidden between seat edges. Perhaps the cleaner and the Supervisor are from the same tribe! Just perhaps.

Because Arik knows we don't worry much about vain things. The seat to my left had its tray nastily plastered up- a bold reminder to the unfortunate passenger that it was out of use. When everyone had seemingly settled in, the crew began their very manual demonstration of emergency protocols. I didn't need to look at their faces to know they didn't believe what they were teaching us. It was in the clumsiness of their acts. As the overhead announcer mentioned 'in the event of a landing on water', the elderly woman in front muttered 'God Forbid'. It was a notch too loud. Many more people than intended heard and a quick giggle followed.

Well, God forbade that one but he allowed us to be starved for longer than was necessary. A 21.30 flight expectedly should contain people who had skipped dinner in a bid to show up on time. While quiet hisses and grumbling filled the cabin, the pilot suddenly announced that we were passing over 'whatever city in France ' where this particular plane was built. A loud hiss rent the air while my neighbour asked me 'Who dat one epp '. I shook my head. Nobody o. I was already on energy saving mode. With all of the austerity measures in place and no mention of the menu yet, it was not unthinkable that 'Change' could strap meals on board.

Finally the Lord heard us. They said they were serving us food. Jollof rice or white rice. And I heard the trolley wheels emerge. Almost everyone sat up at once. For the first time, I noticed that the male crew did seem more like bouncers, with their hugging shirts and two of the air hostesses had hips too wide for the aisle width. They kept brushing the arms of the passengers on the aisle seats. Sometimes they apologised. Often they didn't - not that they ought to though. My senses were immediately primed. The anticipation of the elimination of Hunger.

They kept their word. It was 'jollofu' and chicken. Tasty too but in stingy rations. They too were desperate to keep things as Nigerian as possible. I saw Chivita juice and other home grown brews. I know it's just a matter of time before Zobo and Nunu will make the menu. Considering the fact that kpof-kpof wrapped in flimsy oily waterproofs made it. Suddenly, a robust atmosphere was generated. I overheard another elderly woman reading off the name on the air host's ID card. 'Uche, gbanyekwuolum wine.' It was an order. He complied. Nigerians like to finish as much Value Added Services as they can milk out. Because they paid for them!

We became blood brothers and sisters immediately after food: some strange Post-postprandial sense of Unity. If I had Buhari’s ears, I would tell him: In all your misgivings, your government must never starve Nigerians! Sadly, his ears are not much good at the moment.

All said and done, the journey was most importantly safe. I am tempted to talk about the beggars in Custom and Police uniforms conducting effusive 'at all at all, na e be winch ' pleas for alms from domestic and international travellers. If only Murtala knew he was named after a beggars Street, he would request a rename.

'Thank God it's Saturday,' the Custom man told me. I shuddered. I was so naive to think Saturdays don't get 'thank Gods'. He had his gloved hands on my luggage. I saved myself the stress and thanked God with him.

Let the Naira keep growing and keep going.

From hand to hand.

That is both the problem and the solution.

Obiora Oji.

Medical Misnomer.

Writer, Doctor.

Everyone lies but if you make your lies colourful, you become an Author.

Dream. Dream and dream...