Uni-cycle

In an effort to improve education and encourage education workers, the state government proposed a mass promotion with an accompanying pay increase for all the teachers. To get this raise, all education workers were required to take tests relevant to their levels and areas of expertise.

The Commissioner of Education realised his mistake quickly when in one of the state-run grammar schools, only two of the 65 teachers passed and was eligible for the promotion and subsequent raise. To prevent what was tending towards a strike, the results were reviewed, and it was decided that the pass mark of the teachers’ certification exam be reduced to 40%. This, it was proposed, in addition with re-grading some of the exam papers and the liberal application of half-marks and extra-credit, would allow 85% of the state’s teachers to be promoted.

The teachers’ union although not formally, by its own rules, allowed to be at any talks whose purpose was to discuss the reduction of teaching standards, agreed to this arrangement. All the teachers were passed. This included the 15% of failing teachers who, after much wrangling and based on the justification that they too had picketed to get the pass mark reduced, were also given their expected raises but without the promotion that should have come with it. They (the failing teachers) were told that in order to be promoted, they would have to retake the exams at their own leisure and pass it (at the new 40% mark). But with the incentive of money gone, no one volunteered to take the test again.

These teachers went on to teach the children of the state, and at the end of their six year stints, when the students struggled with their WAEC exams, some of the teachers said, ‘Ah ah nau, help them. Where you would you be if someone hadn’t helped you. You don’t know where you will meet each other in the future.’ So each of the subject teachers worked out the multiple choice questions then walked from class to class reading out the answers to the students. ‘Number seven D, number eight B, number nine either A or D.’

When the results of the WAEC exams came out, it was still shocking to those teachers that only 30% of their students passed both English and Maths. Apparently, teachers who can only manage a 40% passing grade cannot be trusted to provide proper cheat answers to their students. The students and their parents, in conjunction with the teachers, denounced the results. They said, ‘This new automated computer marking system is not favourable to the children. Who knows how hard you have to shade the answers for a computer to “see” it. We didn’t warn the students to shade that hard. I know my son is not an olodo.’

None of the children from that initial school (two of 65 teachers) did well enough to get into a noted programme in a federal university. By combining results from two exams, ten of the students did well enough to make it into a pre-degree diploma programme. The principal stood in front of a gathering of the graduated students who had converged in front of his office to protest. He told them the system was flawed and how could anyone, even the Minister of Education himself, vouch for a system where no one, not a single student, was able to get into university.

Calls were made and university admission offices were told to treat all grades in all subjects as valid passing grades except for F9 (0 – 23%). Though some would try, no one could make a legitimate excuse for an F9. After all, we have to have some standards.

With the altered criteria, applicants flooded the universities. So much that there wasn’t room enough for them all. More universities were created to handle the influx of students. Old universities were expanded. Lecture halls were crammed with students standing outside peeking into the class through slits in the windows. Of course, the students couldn’t hear a word of the lecture from that far out so they gained nothing by being there, but attendance was part of the final grade and mandatory if you wanted to be allowed to take the exams. So every day, they walked into the packed classes, signed in their names and walked back out to huddle in the hallways, leaving once they felt the lecturer wouldn’t notice.

At the end of 4 + x years, the students presented their final reports. From the titles of these projects, one could be convinced that much work had been done. ‘Evaluation of insurance trends amongst middle income residents of Lagos state from 1980 – 2010.’ ‘A critical analysis of the influence of the service improvements by the Ministry of Health to the lives of residents of Sabo.’ Etc etc.

At one of the project defence meetings, a professor asked why the student’s project had no summary and made no points in its abstract.

She (the professor) said, ‘Read your abstract out to us.’ The student did.

‘What is your abstract saying you did?’

He looked down, ground his heel into the floor, mumbled something, then repeated the cumbersome title, ‘I studied influence of improvements by the ministry to the lives of the residents in the area.’

‘Turn to the end and read out the summary,’ she said.

He flipped to the end of his project. He stood agape for a long minute, then said, ‘There is no summary.’

‘Yes, I noticed. You have 10 pages of unrelated graphs and then the end. Nothing else.’

He said, ‘They made a mistake at the business centre where I gave them to type. They must have removed the summary.’

‘Alright, we will continue this when you have the summary.’

Three weeks later, clutching his as yet unedited final project, he was keeping a vigil outside her office. He had ditched the stolen summary story and resorted to begging. ‘Ma, after seven years, just this one thing I have left to submit.’

Two years later, he had stumbled into a position created for him by his uncle at the same ministry of health that had approved his final project. He would drive around in his work-appointed car with its official plates and complain to his friends that all the contracts were going to foreigners when we have educated people right here waiting. Some of his course mates (people he claimed to have taught) hadn’t been so lucky. They had become teachers.

Teachers as we all know aren’t paid as well as workers in other ministries, so when the commissioner of education suggested a promotion and a pay raise, they all jumped at it. But first, they had to pass an exam.

Last bike to Clarksville

Last year, I was on my way to a meeting in Yaba. I made it as far as Ikeja Along before getting stuck in traffic. I was going to be late so I hopped down and ran to a bank of motorbikes.

An okada man agreed to take me to Oshodi. I climbed onto the back of the bike expecting him to start it, but he just stood to the side and shouted, “Oshodi, one chance, one more yansh.”

Huh, what does he mean by one chance? I’m already here.

Unless? No…. no way.

But the people I see doubling up on bikes always look so happy. Two people who were strangers minutes ago, chatting it up the entire ride, getting into playful arguments and tapping the okada man in to mediate. “Abeg tell am Barca no fit win.” Sometimes you have a third person sitting between the handlebars, eyes squinty from the wind whipping, alternating between chipping in to the argument and grinning like there is nothing else in the world he would rather be doing.

I reasoned then that if I insisted on special treatment, I would always keep asking for special treatment, so I decided to go along with it.

I start to rethink my decision when a man approached another bike and refused to ride with anyone else offering instead to pay for “both” seats. But I have a problem with changing my mind in public. I am convinced that thieves and kidnappers target people based on how uncertain they look in public. When I’m out, I try to look as confident as possible. I would take a taxi to a wrong destination rather than admit to the taxi driver that my plans have changed and I no longer have to go there. After he drops me, I would pretend to look through my bag until he leaves then I’ll get another cab to take me back to my original location.

I went over the mechanics of the ride in my head, who would go in the middle and who would go at the back. I’m tiny so I would likely get stuck in the middle, the meat in the motorcycle sandwich. Will my new best friend lean over whispering into my ear to start a conversation? Would he grip my waist with his thighs to steady himself, rubbing my back saying, ‘It’s okay, it’s okay’ if I pretend I dont understand him? Could a bomb go off right here killing all of us and saving the day?

I was so engrossed in thought, I didn’t notice a shadow looming over me until a large woman tapped my shoulder indicating she wanted to get on.

She straddled the motorcycle sitting behind me and each of her breasts rested on a separate shoulder.
The okada man started up the bike. “Abeg, dress forward small.”

I said, “Uh-oh” as she scooched closer, then I blacked out.

Or I thought I blacked out. I was enveloped in a cocoon of warm flesh. My hearing went and I couldn’t see a thing. I tried to wiggle my head to the side, but nothing happened.

I had no sense of the motorcycle’s motion. I imagined I could hear the rumble of traffic, a murmur in the background like waves in a seashell.

I’ve heard of these sensory deprivation chambers where you’re suspended in goo and lose all sense of self. You could hold your hand in front of your face and would be unable to see it.
It was like that. Minus the availability of air and the relative safety.

And the freedom of motion.
And an avenue of escape like knocking on the walls of the chamber for the operator to let me out.

The motorcycle entered a pothole and jostled her, I came up for air like a drowning man before I was sucked back under.
At some point during the ride, I think she took a phone call. Her voice came to me in that dark place as an omnidirectional rumbling transmitted as vibrations directly into my body.
“I DEY ON TOP OKADA. MAKE I CALL YOU BACK.”

When the bike stopped at Oshodi, she got down and the sun hit me as I was spilled out into a harsh world. Dizzy and disoriented, I staggered around in circles then I walked out into the middle of the road.

Efficiency

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The Accidental Feminist

On my way home from a wedding on Saturday, I got into an accident.

When I started driving in Lagos, my co-worker Demola pulled me aside.
“These are the most important things that you must know,” he said counting them off on his fingers. “If you get into an accident, never apologise. That is like admitting it is your fault. Never ever call the police, they will just take your car and demand more money from you. And don’t bother calling your insurance company. That insurance paper you have is just for show.”

I nodded, he continued:
“Here are the things that you can do to stop your car from being scratched…”
He paused for dramatic effect.
“Nothing,” he said “absolutely nothing. There is nothing you can do to prevent your car from being scratched. It is only a matter of time.”
“When you get into an accident, if it is a small bump and you’re the one at fault, ignore it until the other person says something. But once they acknowledge it, start by abusing them, then get down and prepare to fight. You don’t have to go through with the actual fighting but you must show a willingness to fight.”
I wrote down his advice in my notebook, tabulated under Dos and Don’ts.

The woman was driving a silver Matrix. She was in the left lane, and I was on the right and both lanes were making a right turn. No merges, no traffic lights, just two cars turning into two separate lanes. I saw she was moving towards me as she turned. I braked and pressed my horn, a long sustained beep. She didn’t hear it; she drifted closer and closer until she lodged the passenger side of her car into the front of mine.

I dropped my head into my hands. She climbed out of her car. She walked around to survey the damage. She glared at me still sitting in the car.
I rolled down the glass. “Didn’t you hear my horn?”
“What?”
I repeated slowly, “I saw you coming towards me. That’s why I stopped and started horning. Didn’t you hear it?”
“Aah!” she said, “Are you acting like this because I am a woman?”

I was confused. How was I acting?
She was wearing iro and buba with sweat smudged makeup like she was returning from a party. Her gele was in the front passenger seat still wrapped up in the shape of her head. She was right, I was being dismissive about the whole thing, because she was a woman.
If it was a man, I would have been more aggressive. I would have scrambled out of the car before she did. I would have gone with huffing, puffing, and chest pounding. But I was sitting, calmly explaining through the window.

She said, “You hit me and you can’t even say sorry-”
I got out of the car. “How could I be the one who hit you? I wasn’t even moving!”
“And now you’re talking to me anyhow because I am a woman.”
“What does this have to do with you being a woman?”

A crowd had gathered. Drivers behind us reversed and drove around. The conductor of a passing bus poked his head out, he looked at the damage. “There is nothing there, take your car and go.”
She stuck her finger in my face, almost touching my nose. “You are wrong, admit it! Instead of apologising, you’re only treating me like this because I am a woman.”
I had come with logic and assumed that would be enough. If I saw her and wasn’t moving and she didn’t see me until she hit me, how could it be my fault?
A man from the crowd stood between us. He said, “Madam, calm down. Relax, madam.” Then to me, “You should tell her sorry. You know how women are.”

I was clearly losing.
I said, “How? Why! If you can’t drive because you’re a woman, you should stay home and pound yam for your husband.”
She shouted “E-hen! You will see today.”
She tightened her iro and ran to the front of the car. She pounded her hand on it three times. “Call the police! I’m not going anywhere until police comes.” Then she sat on the car.

Two months ago during the Christmas break, Niyi, a friend from New Jersey, was visiting his family in Lagos and I went to see him. I stopped at that suya spot by the Allen Avenue roundabout that sells suya all day. By the time I got to Niyi’s place, he was waiting for me outside in baggy shorts and sunglasses, holding a pitbull at the end of a jangling chain. I dismounted from the back of the okada and because I didn’t want the suya to get cold, I had started eating it out of the newspaper wrap. He saw me, shook his head and said, “O boy, you have gone native.”

Perhaps because of what I perceived as an implied insult or maybe it was just the look on his face when he said it, I got offended. I had been annoyed by it since then, since Christmas, up until now. I thought about that as I was berating the woman sitting on the car, and if you’d asked me at this moment, I would have accepted. “Okay, maybe a little native.”

It was past seven and fully dark. The headlights from passing cars would flash on us illuminating the crowd around the two cars. They had split into two groups: the first was asking the woman to let it go. The second group was asking me to beg the woman to let it go.

An hour-long scuffle later, after we had exhausted our insults, I resumed my journey home. The police never showed up. As I was driving, I noticed the rear-view mirror had been knocked out of position. I reached up to adjust it and in it a stranger with wild eyes stared back at me. I avoided his gaze.