I recently downloaded the Nigeria constitution on my blackberry thanks to this nifty link. But imagine my disappointment when I read the constitution and found out that there was not an explicit section that dealt with a Nigerian’s right to shit with dignity. I know some people might think this is trivial or irrelevant, but trust me it is very important! Several months ago I was at the Muritala International airport. I had just finished checking in when I felt a sudden rumbling in my stomach. This normally occurred when I was about to give a speech or when the elastic capacity in my stomach walls had stretched beyond its critical point. Unfortunately it was the latter…I needed to find a toilet and fast. I computed in my head that I had about 20 to 25 minutes before my stomach would be forced to deploy its contents. This was enough time for me to run through customs, security clearance and customs again (if you have been to MMA you know what I mean). Unfortunately my perfectly computed time (plus with buffer) did not agree with my stomach, somehow I had failed to factor in the fact that pounded yam mixed with Egusi and Goat Meat created a much greater stretching effect on the stomach than other foods.

By the time I got through customs, the only thing  circulating in my head were the words “must find toilet now.” It was as if the local food lodged in my stomach was doing all it could do to stay in Nigeria. Fortunately after dodging the second barrier of customs agents, I was able to find a clean and vacant stall. I was relieved, cause it could have turned out ugly.

After ridding my body of the Nigerian food impregnating it…I turned casually to clean myself up. And that was when I realized my biggest mistake. I had not checked for toiletries, there was no tissue paper in my stall. I looked over at the opposite stall and all over the toilet but there was no tissue paper to be found (apparently they had been kidnapped). I was in a quagmire of shit, mentally and physically. What would I do? I took one look at my white t-shirt and proceeded to

The words hit me like a ton of bricks! Mike had what! I exclaimed

…Mike was the quintessential kid, everyone wanted to be like him. Unlike us Mike lived a liberal life; his stories were filled with sultry tales of adventures on the streets of Lagos. As a young teenager his stories sparked our interest. I got to know Mike personally as a student at my Mum’s after-school tutorial program. He always arrived in the latest car models and his clothes exuded richness. I often wondered why we didn’t have the same cool clothes as Mike or the same liberal freedoms as Mike. It was okay for Mike to stay up past midnight, but for us it was two death sentences in one.

In the early 70’s popular Nigerian artist Fela Kuti released “shuffering and shmiling” a song that served to juxtapose the chaotic environment of Africa with the blinding optimism of its indigenes. Optimism that many times was the product of a mass flooding of religious hope into the minds of Africa’s people. According to Fela “suffer suffer for world, enjoy for heaven” was the motto that seemed to place the minds of Africans into a false sense of enjoyment, one that caused them to ignore their current and often chaotic predicament and remain enthusiastically optimistic for a future that was bleak.

On a hot 1995 summer morning my family gathered for breakfast in the reception of a hotel. It was the same sweet breakfast routine, tea, bread and a little family talk, the moment was beautiful. However in the space of less than 30 seconds what seemed like a beautiful breakfast gathering became a bitter family experience. From the corner of the room came the words “I hate you Mum,” “Your Stupid Mum,” and other words not fit for the public. It was a kid barely 10 years old raining words of insult on his mum, the whole room froze as the kid went on for what must have been a whole minute of diatribe against his Mum. Something about this picture was wrong, I knew it was wrong because I saw the look on my fathers face and the movement of my Mothers hand, they were thinking the same thing “why hasn’t someone knocked this kid out?” Then I remembered we were in America…

It was dark when we arrived, but the light from the full-moon did little to conceal the faces of nervousness that stood in line that morning. In the cold December morning we all stood together in a line that must have wrapped around the entire building. We waited for what seemed like an eternity, and finally the doors opened, we all shuffled in and were instantly handed out individual numbers. Numbers that would be used to control and direct the crowd of people already forming in the building. I waited for what seemed another eternity till my number was called out, all my documents were intact and I could start the test…

Don’t forget once you get that Dream, take it back to your country and give them a piece of that inspiration”

Writing inspired by Wyclef Jean’s
Memoirs of an Immigrant: “Heavens in New York”