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Saturday, October 23, 2010
A Vote for the Half-Baked Graduate
By Emmanuel Nathan Oguche
It pricks the heart when you set your eyes on them. Their stories squeeze pains and agonies out of your nerves when you hear of them. With their battered hope and shattered dreams, the shapeless shoes on their legs would tell you the distance they have covered, and how long they will have to trek from one street to another, procreating frustrations and meeting a dead end as they persistently search for the nonexistent. Some say it’s not the fault of theirs, while others believe that they are not absolutely guiltless. But one thing is sure: they are victims of a vandalized system; they are those who narrowly escaped and sprouted out of a cramped and suffocated system; they are neither bread nor cake but are often referred to as the half-baked, the nomenclature that has replaced the products of our hitherto glorious citadels of learning where scholarship and intellectual barter flourished like mushroom. They are the Nigerian graduates. Annoyingly, even those who lack the moral justification to whisper are screaming on their voices, shouting “crucify him, crucify him”; those who, when they cough, vomit mammoth of grammatical errors in the midst of senseless discourse; those whose actions and inactions have dragged us several decades behind; those who have exchanged the future of this country with fabulous fat foreign accounts are among those who christened the new Nigerian graduate as “half-baked”.
Salisu Suleiman of Good Governance Group dispassionately painted the passion of today’s students, a typical Nigerian student in Daily Trust June 7, 2010: “I interact with students who know everything about soccer, nothing about Socrates; all about Arsenal, nothing about Aristotle; all about Maradona, nothing about Michelangelo; all about Pele, nothing about Plato.” As for me, I see students who can stand united for MAN-U, not against ignorance; people who know when referee is right or wrong, not the wrongs of the leaders; those who are always in unison and loyal to their football clubs, not to their fatherland; they are quite knowledgeable about the scorecard of Premiership League, not about annual ritual of fiscal policy! But is the fault of theirs? Soccer give them joy than those boring philosophies of Socrates; Arsenal make them proud than the knowledge of Aristotle that many of their forerunners have acquired but can show nothing for it; Maradona’s dribbling panache rejuvenates their dying and hopeless souls than Michelangelo’s paintings and drawings that mean nothing to the system; Premier League scorecard represents reality than the annual ritual of fiscal allocations! Fellow Nigerians, is it the fault of Nigerian students that they paint their cars, rooms, and every part of their body with Barcelona FC color, Arsenal bangles and badges, Manchester United photo frames and Chelsea caps? It seems true that the only living heroes we have today are football cults. Where are the leaders? Where are the intellectuals? Where are the bureaucrats? Where is everyone?
Every year, thousands of Nigerian graduates in different batches, are discharged into the already saturated labor market that accommodate escalating number of unsold products. Strangely, in today’s labour market, quality products are seem to be sold cheaply while inferior goods are attached more values in terms of Naira. In the market too, fair play is regarded as naivety while foul play is regarded as a display of tactics. In the labour market also, rottenness sells more than freshness. It is surprising that an irresponsible father that gave birth to an irresponsible son now feels embarrassed about the behavior of his child! Nigerian graduates have become source of embarrassment to their nation and the nation is embarrassed? When the National Examinations Council (NECO) released its 2009 November/December Senior School Certificate Examination (SSCE) results, less than two per cent who sat for the examinations could boast of five credits, including Mathematics and English Language. Every year, corporate organizations pour their aspersion and dissatisfaction about the ‘below-standard’ performance of Nigerian graduates. National Youths (dis)Service Corp (NYSC)? All these represent and capture the present standard of education in Nigeria; the disappointment mirrors the decadence, deterioration in the educational sector; it shows our collective shame, individual failures; it puts in the picture the attitudes and values attached to the future of this country; it’s an indicator of where we are and where we will be and above all, it reflect the state of this nation. If a graduate is half-baked, it therefore means that there is a leakage within the system; if a graduate cannot construct a simple sentence, it means that somebody somewhere within the system has failed to ‘construct’ a simple policy that will mitigate imminent lapses. Also, any discomfiture a graduate gets in the corporate environment should be seen and treated as an embarrassment to the entire nation, not just a personal or individual embarrassment.
Yes, it is true that many Nigerian graduates are half-baked. But many people still believe that those ‘half-baked’ graduates are more baked than many House of Assembly members, Governors or Ministers who are today adjudged as being successful politically but have performed woefully in terms of national development. Have you not heard of a Ministerial nominee who could not recite our National Anthem? Or another who could not differentiate between Obasanjo’s NEEDs and needs in Economics? Are they better baked than the Nigerian graduates of today? They are many “Honourables” in the House or those whom Dr. Wale Okediran fearlessly referred to as the “Tenants in the House” who have never made a striking headline since they are elected into public office except headlines from one form of scam or the other and the extravagant razzmatazz of their victories at the election tribunal. But we all know that as soon as they are declared winners, their voices are lost among the ‘’yes men”, “we concur fellow”, “honourable no question” or those whose character exhume new identity and it may not be wrong to call them “sitting allowance warlords” “Ghana must go lifters” and “mobile ATM” dispensing Dollars and Pound Sterling in place of law-making.
Graduates do not bake themselves. If a cake is half-baked or not baked at all, is it the fault of the cake or one who baked the cake? In March 2007, one of the most vocal Ministers of Education in the country’s history, Oby Ezekweseli fashioned Community Accountability and Transparency Initiative (CATI) which was intended to inform Nigerians about how much money was expended on education and to know whether such money were judiciously utilized. This initiative was to empower Nigeria to ask intelligent questions that bother on accountability, probity, frugality and efficiency. CATI would have accorded Nigerians to ask what government officials are doing, what Schools Management, Vice Chancellors, Rectors, Provosts are doing with tax money. During the launch of this noble initiative, the gory slides about the appalling conditions of Nigerian children receiving lesson on the floor, sitting under tree and overcrowded classroom squeezed tears out of Ezekweseli’s eyes. What do you expect when children receive lessons from half-baked teachers, under a half-baked condition? It will be unfair to expect that child to be fully baked if he is fortunate to be among the few graduates. Victims of a half-baked system, you may say. Posterity will judge, Oby’s tears that flowed the day CATI was launched will summon curse on those who cast off the initiative after her tenure, not because it lacked merit but due to the fact that it is anti-embezzlement, anti-fraud and anti-account-fattening.
The current standard of education is a victim of a rotten system; a system that has no regard for quality, a system that is ruled, dominated, hijacked by group of people who give little or no regard to the prosperity of this country. It is so unfortunate that those who are killing the system today are beneficiaries of free education; they are the ones baking the half-baked graduates. The Nigerian generation today is not better than a half- baked generation. What do you expect from politicians who come to power through flawed electoral system and those who are more obsessive about making policies that will change their fortunes rather than that which will transform the entire Nigerian society? What do you expect from lecturers whose income from bribe is far greater than salaries that are due for them? It is no longer news that the libraries in our tertiary institutions are haven of antiquated materials - they are as thirsty of instructional materials as they are of readers. Even those whose children have never tasted the bitterness experienced by public schools attendants are screaming on their voices that Nigerian graduates are unemployable as if available jobs are adequate for the employable groups. Is it not in Nigerian tertiary institutions where the use of candles has replaced electricity? Is it not in Nigerian schools, students sacrificed their feeding allowance on the altar of avarice, the common trait among our tertiary institutions lecturers? It is in the Nigerian schools where 15 students are stocked and cramped in a room that is meant for two students as if it’s a natural thing to do. It’s in the Nigerian higher institutions that students attend lectures by standing or writing on the back of their colleagues; it is in Nigeria young graduates go back home to join their younger ones in the house chores upon graduation. This is the profile of an average Nigerian graduate.
You will agree with me that today, if you are a child of nobody and wants to become somebody someday, you have to be extraordinarily good in whatever you do – education, career, business. If not, the children of ‘somebody’ will frustrate children of ‘nobody’ out of the system. Why should a child of ‘somebody’ be serious with academic when he is given the impression that with or without knowledge his father’s networks and net worth would fetch him his dream job upon graduation? The only children who seem to work hard nowadays are the children of ‘nobody’.
Before the economic crunch that gulped almost all the banks in Nigeria, the banking sector was a dumping ground for young graduates, including the half-baked. Yes, dumping ground because even those who studied Medicine, Journalism, Engineering or law, wanted to be bankers. Today, some of those half-baked are doing “well” just because they could bring huge deposit. Most times, that is what it takes to be a successful banker! If you a man, you have few and limited options; ladies do have more options including, corporate prostitution. Banks did help the graduates, but were also part of the problem. Thank God I did not abandon my pen for banking hall. May be I would have been among the frustrated ones, either as a result of my inability to meet up with ridiculous “target” or among those who got “clean sack for stainless records” (Apology to Prof. Niyi Osundare)
I’m not celebrating the half-baked graduates; I am not writing in defense of mediocrity; the piece is written to challenge our sense of judgment that has been beclouded by sentiments, ego-centrism and parochial perception. The youths should know that success has many friends but failure is a loner. No one celebrates failure, not even the failed system. They should know that the same system that gave birth to ‘half-baked’ or ‘not-baked-at-all’ graduates also has many ‘fully-baked’ or ‘well-baked’ as its proud infants who have risen to limelight or have climbed to the highest rung on the corporate cubicle, out of sheer hard work, dedication and commitment. Many Nigerian graduates have made name for themselves and their alma mater in the corporate world despite the unwholesomely disheartening situations they experienced in the course of acquiring knowledge from a half-baked system. Nigerian graduates deserve the loudest ovation; they try to make the best out of an unfortunate circumstance. Kudos! That is a mark of greatness!!
If parents would stop sending their children and wards to special centres in order to make special grades; if only the admission to tertiary institutions are given to only those who are qualified; if lecturers would stop trading grades for money and sex; if only those who have standard product will make reasonable sales in the labour market; if only what is due for Ceasar is given to Ceasar; if only we can prefer quality to quantity and if only we can put the right peg in the right hole, then we will sing a new song. The song that will put smiles on CEOs and MDs; the songs that will enhance the image of Nigeria among the comity of nations; the song of hope to all Nigerians; the song of freedom. So join me as we say “no to half-baked” anything and “yes to high standard” in everything.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Love from Angel
Consider a certain hot afternoon in October. The sun was sending its savagely fierce missile of rays upon the earth, the kind of missile that knows neither friends nor enemies. The strong and persistent sun rays that knows every secret passage to the skin pores. The unkind summer sun that amalgamates heat and make couples dread lovemaking. The scorching rays that encourages young ladies to put on jumping, skimpy and sleeveless dresses that expose their flaccid biceps, and the mouth-watering lower part of their abdomen that would never satiates the appetite of the morally malnourished men, those men with gimlet eyes – those whose stares can rip to pieces any apparels that women use to cover their nakedness.
Helen Jones had defiled the lingering insurgence of the sun and had gone to a near by Shopping Mall. She had gone to pick assorted candles, flowers, perfume, new blue CDs and DVDs and all that would sparkle and spice up her traditional Sunday lovemaking with her husband. Though there are varied opinions on whether lovemaking between couples should be spontaneous or pre-planned. Helen and her husband chose to make it spontaneous, due to certain circumstance she wished they could change.
Angel Crimson Jones had been a busy husband who was married to his career rather than his wife, an act that had in the past put the marriage on a verge of disintegration. The family counselor had advised the couple to fix a particular day for their lovemaking escapade, a suggestion that had put an end to the aged-long squabbles. Sunday was unanimously chosen.
To Helen Jones, every Sunday was special. From the food that would caress her hunger to the mood of the plates used in serving the food; from the bright-coloured apparels that would hug her curvy and voluptuous body to her breathtaking walking steps, every activity of her on Sunday speaks romance. Sunday was the day she would feel like a woman, the day she would feel the warmth of her ever busy husband.
Helen was at the shopping mall when her phone beeped. It was her “Sweet Angel”. Before she picked the call, many things had run through her mind. She thought her husband had called to “carry-over” the much anticipated act to the following day. The second thing that came to mind was may be to remind her to pick Joan from school. But it was neither of the two.
“Hi my sweetie, please kindly come home now. I’ve a big surprise for you.” Angel Jones beckoned with excitement.
“Ok my Angel. Give me some minutes, say fifteen.” Helen replied as she hastened up and quickly summarized her shopping activities.
Before ten minutes, Helen was home. Right from the gate she was shouting in ecstasy, “Honey…Honey… I’m home.” When Helen got to the sitting room where she thought “Honey” would be waiting, she saw that the whole place was deserted, quiet and dead. The television was off. The CD player was no longer playing Don Williams MP3 she had inserted before leaving the house. Only the well-arranged books, old magazines and shredded newspapers were staring at her curious face.
“Honey…Honey…where are you? I’m home.” Helen called with agog. “Hey…Hey…Please…there’s…there’s no time for pranks today” she muttered as she walked faster to the bedroom.
On getting to the bedroom, Helen sighted her husband lying on the floor. Sleeping? Searching for something? Immediately, she quickly flung all the things she had bought for the memorable Sunday night, not mindful of their frailness. Helen was as silenced as her silenced husband.
“Angel…What are you doing on the floor? What surprise do you have for me on the floor?” Helen moved closer to confirm her fear. As soon as she grabbed Angel’s body she knew that something tragic had happened. If a loud piercing scream could wake the dead, Angel would have come to life. Shortly, Helen’s eyes were overwrought and dampened with water. After much condensation, there was a sporadic heavy downpour - rain of tears. Can the rain stub out the fiery furnace? It was a furnace of great passion and pains; furnace of unprecedented shock and disappointment. It was hell.
It all happened in the ambience of the same room where they frequently kissed every Sunday night, and giggled like Tom and Jerry, and later climaxed with lovemaking. The room that would always steam and glow of romance was now filled with sorrow and agonies; the room where Angel Jones Crimson would seat to write all those controversial articles and books about developing countries. Helen couldn’t just believe it; her tears understandably couldn’t stop gushing; her heart couldn’t just stop bleeding; confusion had built a huge tent on her sobbing soul. Her grief stood tall; like Zuma Rock it stood broad, unbreakable and immersed in an obscured spherical aberration. Her husband, Angel Jones Crimson had just aborted a dream and robbed the world of an inestimable asset. It was an act people considered bizarre and stupid but to Angel, it is the “wisest decision ever taken” - suicide.
In a two-paragraphed note Angel left behind for his thirty two years old wife Helen, he had written philosophically: “My dear Helen, the world is laden with mysteries of different magnitudes: about the known and the unknown, our likes and dislikes, about what we hate and what we love and above all, about life and death.”
The send paragraph read: “My recent decision is the hottest and most recent of all mysteries. It’s painful though but don’t cry for me. This is the best decision ever taken by me, the best way I can prove my love for you. Because of your love I lived, and for your sake I’ve died. This is the greatest love from me to you. Tell Joan how much I love her.”
Angel had once described Africa as the Continent of Agonies because if “you give them gun or machete, they will use it to slaughter themselves…give them aids for AIDS the ruling elites would turn it to money making venture.” It was from this same room he had written “African leaders are living large, always fetching fortunes from the misfortune of their fellow humans.” Is the agony Angel bequeathed to his wife and seven year daughter not greater than that which was handed to Africa by her leaders?
Angel was adjudged by all standards as a successful journalist in all its ramifications. He had won many awards in journalism including the prestigious Pulitzer Award for the Best Investigative Journalist of the Century. His books always top on the United States and UK charts. He had special interest in Africa and Africans and had written several books with controversial, enigmatic and sometimes ridiculous titles. Check out the following: “Oh Foolish Africa”, “God’s Second Mistake”, “The Prodigal Continent” “The Hottest Part of Hell”, “Who Ate the Umbilical Cord?” and “The Foolish Poor Who Feeds the Rich”. Though these books explore different themes on the origin of the numerous problems of Africa including corruption, religious intolerance, greed and violence but did not ignore the roles of the Western countries in the woes of Africa especially in flaming some of the home-based violence, genocide, ethnic annihilation and political despondency. But truly, only a coward and the weak would continue to have the feeling that he is being limited by historical, political and social circumstance. It is not colonialism that has limited Africa. It is not neo-colonialism. It is not globalization. It is the inability of Africa to take responsibility.
Angel had taken responsibility about his past and he felt the best way to do it was to commit suicide, an act of cowardice. No one could fathom why Angel Crimson could take solace in terminating his own life at the peak of his fame. Not even his wife whom he had shared fourteen years with. Not Bill Herbert, a loyal, faithful, reliable and professional colleague whom he had worked with for more than a decade. Not even Joan, Angel Crimson’s only begotten child who he always spend his leisure with at beaches, ice cap of Alaska, and in some notable places in Africa like Obudu Cattle Ranch, Tinapa and sometimes, in South Africa and Kenya. Want to know why Angel committed suicide? Watch out for my "The Hottest Part of Hell"
Helen Jones had defiled the lingering insurgence of the sun and had gone to a near by Shopping Mall. She had gone to pick assorted candles, flowers, perfume, new blue CDs and DVDs and all that would sparkle and spice up her traditional Sunday lovemaking with her husband. Though there are varied opinions on whether lovemaking between couples should be spontaneous or pre-planned. Helen and her husband chose to make it spontaneous, due to certain circumstance she wished they could change.
Angel Crimson Jones had been a busy husband who was married to his career rather than his wife, an act that had in the past put the marriage on a verge of disintegration. The family counselor had advised the couple to fix a particular day for their lovemaking escapade, a suggestion that had put an end to the aged-long squabbles. Sunday was unanimously chosen.
To Helen Jones, every Sunday was special. From the food that would caress her hunger to the mood of the plates used in serving the food; from the bright-coloured apparels that would hug her curvy and voluptuous body to her breathtaking walking steps, every activity of her on Sunday speaks romance. Sunday was the day she would feel like a woman, the day she would feel the warmth of her ever busy husband.
Helen was at the shopping mall when her phone beeped. It was her “Sweet Angel”. Before she picked the call, many things had run through her mind. She thought her husband had called to “carry-over” the much anticipated act to the following day. The second thing that came to mind was may be to remind her to pick Joan from school. But it was neither of the two.
“Hi my sweetie, please kindly come home now. I’ve a big surprise for you.” Angel Jones beckoned with excitement.
“Ok my Angel. Give me some minutes, say fifteen.” Helen replied as she hastened up and quickly summarized her shopping activities.
Before ten minutes, Helen was home. Right from the gate she was shouting in ecstasy, “Honey…Honey… I’m home.” When Helen got to the sitting room where she thought “Honey” would be waiting, she saw that the whole place was deserted, quiet and dead. The television was off. The CD player was no longer playing Don Williams MP3 she had inserted before leaving the house. Only the well-arranged books, old magazines and shredded newspapers were staring at her curious face.
“Honey…Honey…where are you? I’m home.” Helen called with agog. “Hey…Hey…Please…there’s…there’s no time for pranks today” she muttered as she walked faster to the bedroom.
On getting to the bedroom, Helen sighted her husband lying on the floor. Sleeping? Searching for something? Immediately, she quickly flung all the things she had bought for the memorable Sunday night, not mindful of their frailness. Helen was as silenced as her silenced husband.
“Angel…What are you doing on the floor? What surprise do you have for me on the floor?” Helen moved closer to confirm her fear. As soon as she grabbed Angel’s body she knew that something tragic had happened. If a loud piercing scream could wake the dead, Angel would have come to life. Shortly, Helen’s eyes were overwrought and dampened with water. After much condensation, there was a sporadic heavy downpour - rain of tears. Can the rain stub out the fiery furnace? It was a furnace of great passion and pains; furnace of unprecedented shock and disappointment. It was hell.
It all happened in the ambience of the same room where they frequently kissed every Sunday night, and giggled like Tom and Jerry, and later climaxed with lovemaking. The room that would always steam and glow of romance was now filled with sorrow and agonies; the room where Angel Jones Crimson would seat to write all those controversial articles and books about developing countries. Helen couldn’t just believe it; her tears understandably couldn’t stop gushing; her heart couldn’t just stop bleeding; confusion had built a huge tent on her sobbing soul. Her grief stood tall; like Zuma Rock it stood broad, unbreakable and immersed in an obscured spherical aberration. Her husband, Angel Jones Crimson had just aborted a dream and robbed the world of an inestimable asset. It was an act people considered bizarre and stupid but to Angel, it is the “wisest decision ever taken” - suicide.
In a two-paragraphed note Angel left behind for his thirty two years old wife Helen, he had written philosophically: “My dear Helen, the world is laden with mysteries of different magnitudes: about the known and the unknown, our likes and dislikes, about what we hate and what we love and above all, about life and death.”
The send paragraph read: “My recent decision is the hottest and most recent of all mysteries. It’s painful though but don’t cry for me. This is the best decision ever taken by me, the best way I can prove my love for you. Because of your love I lived, and for your sake I’ve died. This is the greatest love from me to you. Tell Joan how much I love her.”
Angel had once described Africa as the Continent of Agonies because if “you give them gun or machete, they will use it to slaughter themselves…give them aids for AIDS the ruling elites would turn it to money making venture.” It was from this same room he had written “African leaders are living large, always fetching fortunes from the misfortune of their fellow humans.” Is the agony Angel bequeathed to his wife and seven year daughter not greater than that which was handed to Africa by her leaders?
Angel was adjudged by all standards as a successful journalist in all its ramifications. He had won many awards in journalism including the prestigious Pulitzer Award for the Best Investigative Journalist of the Century. His books always top on the United States and UK charts. He had special interest in Africa and Africans and had written several books with controversial, enigmatic and sometimes ridiculous titles. Check out the following: “Oh Foolish Africa”, “God’s Second Mistake”, “The Prodigal Continent” “The Hottest Part of Hell”, “Who Ate the Umbilical Cord?” and “The Foolish Poor Who Feeds the Rich”. Though these books explore different themes on the origin of the numerous problems of Africa including corruption, religious intolerance, greed and violence but did not ignore the roles of the Western countries in the woes of Africa especially in flaming some of the home-based violence, genocide, ethnic annihilation and political despondency. But truly, only a coward and the weak would continue to have the feeling that he is being limited by historical, political and social circumstance. It is not colonialism that has limited Africa. It is not neo-colonialism. It is not globalization. It is the inability of Africa to take responsibility.
Angel had taken responsibility about his past and he felt the best way to do it was to commit suicide, an act of cowardice. No one could fathom why Angel Crimson could take solace in terminating his own life at the peak of his fame. Not even his wife whom he had shared fourteen years with. Not Bill Herbert, a loyal, faithful, reliable and professional colleague whom he had worked with for more than a decade. Not even Joan, Angel Crimson’s only begotten child who he always spend his leisure with at beaches, ice cap of Alaska, and in some notable places in Africa like Obudu Cattle Ranch, Tinapa and sometimes, in South Africa and Kenya. Want to know why Angel committed suicide? Watch out for my "The Hottest Part of Hell"
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
Are you a REaL MaN?
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