Get me out of London, I am from Ibadan
By Taju Tijani
Some few weeks ago, friends accused me of a cowardly behaviour. In the court of subjective public opinion, I was arraigned for doing a marathon race to the UK at a time when the clouds of nationwide protests were overcast. As an influencer, they could not understand why I was not fighting the cause of #EndBadGovernance from the front, leading the angry, the hungry and the revolutionaries baying for a political reset in my homeland called Nigeria. They could not figure out the scheduling of my summer holiday to a critical month in the life of a nationwide grassroots protest in Nigeria.
My apologies to all trench warriors who wanted to reset Nigeria for the better. I am always on the side of the oppressed. The only problem is that Nigeria has gone passed redemption. Call me a pessimist. I am one. And completely unashamed to be so. Optimists in Nigerian project are your Ministers, Senators and HOR members who smile home each month with millions of naira as rewards for the job undone. They are the fattest kids on the political block. So, looking at the body language of our political class, I know it would be in futility staging mere protests to dislodge such parasites from their dumpsites.
I arrived Naija in February and promised heaven that I will stay rooted and face all the ups and downs in this country. I scaled March. I passed April. I was here in May. Wow, June saw me eating abula all around Ibadan. July came and bathed me with its endless rain. By late July, I have had enough. The traveler in me was roaring to airborne all over again. Calls were coming from missed friends to do a flying visit. The biggest magnet was my daughter who was dying to see the damage done on me by Nigeria.
I arrived the UK in the thick of summer. There, I exchanged my agbada for t-shirt and a pair of jeans trouser over my trainers. I spent days in the grassy park ruminating on life. I picked a new interest in TikTok. I churned out videos where I offered the world my dancing skills. In the evening, I watched the television and do some reading. The routine was fairly predictable. Bible reading in the early morning. Exercises of all sorts. I am now into weight lifting. Muscles are leaking fast with aging. Dumb bells and kettle bells became dear friends in the morning. Then press ups, squats and kegel exercises. Then breakfast. From the dining arena, I am feasting on the servings of the brilliant trio of Abati, Rufai and Ayo on Arise Morning Show.
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Then t-shirt, jeans and trainer again. The summer weather encouraged my outdoor zeal. I became a train junky. I could join the train from the start of a station to its eventual destination. I made it a habit to exit at unknown station and look at its ambience and walk around the high street of that borough. This daily assault on time kept me going.
London offered me endless excitement and an avenue to rediscover myself. The quietness of my neighbourhood; my agreeable neighbours, books to read and places to visit. Then night into days. Days into weeks and on and on. I later got fed up. I slept and woke up and realized that someone needed to get me out of London because I am from Ibadan. I was tired of the monotony of life in London. The orderliness, and the absence of chaos which I was used to in Ibadan, made me lust for home.
London, where I had lived for over 30 years, seems like a cemetery. It had become a place of quiet meditation to feast on Seneca, Aristotle, Socrates and Marcus Aurelius. It is now a place of contemplative philosophy to unravel the meaning of life. Nigeria, my Ibadan, is a thrumbling, happy, chaotic, spontaneous, energetic and fast-moving city where I long to be. The mayhem, the noise, the lack, the rudeness, the macho bravura of the street boys offers me endless fun. Beggars approach you and ask for money. No pretense. Police openly asks for a dash. Everybody in Ibadan is looking for ways to prize something out of your pocket. That’s life. That’s living.
The Ethiopian Airline landed at the MMA exactly as scheduled. A bus ferried me out of the airport. I took control of the bus and drove it all the way to Ibadan. Lagos-Ibadan expressway is now a driver’s delight. Speed junkies could fold up the road in 45 minutes. My standard driving time remains the same. The moment I approached Ibadan my adrenaline began to bubble up like a restless beach water. I am home again. Street hawkers of all kinds welcomed me to Ibadan. I grabbed the Nigerian local bread which I missed in London. A bottle of cold water and a bottle of groundnut. I promise to feast on those combos, favoured by bricklayers, as my dinner.
After two weeks in Nigeria, I felt I had come into hell. Yes, I missed the August protest but much more irritating was the absence of fuel and the erratic supply of power. Fuel scarcity holed me up at home. Though that was God-sent. I needed the rest before I face the reality of returning to a country that had been reduced to nothing. I enjoy the smell of Ibadan. The chaotic madness of our high streets from Apata to Yemetu.
I got myself out of London and returned to Ibadan to face all the hidden consequences. My pain threshold is thin. If Ibadan denies me the peace and excitement that I need at my age I will get myself out of Ibadan again and return to London. Should I live in this endless cycle of japa and japada? Please, I am out of London and back to Ibadan! Help! I am missing my Mexican burritos and nachos already.
