In
2005 I got the opportunity to read Nelson Mandela’s Long Walk to Freedom. It is one of the most exciting moments of my
life. The book had been taking too long to get to the small school library at
Federal Government Girls College Kabba. My hands shivered the first time I held
the book in my hands. I caressed the yellow glossy cover like if I had the
world’s greatest treasure in my hands and with every page I turned it dawned on
me for the first time in my life; I HAD
A HERO. Nelson Mandela’s story is touching because it explains firsthand
the trails of a man who had an ideology that seemed unhealthy and life
threatening in a world where white was king and black was scum. Nelson Mandela
is a selfless man; he is more than a human. His acts of selflessness defies
human understanding and the human populace will never be able to fully
understand the debt he paid for the emancipation of black people not just in
South Africa but the world over.
As a kid I always knew that I was different, I
loved cartoons like the rest of my peers but while others were looking for
entertainment I was looking for something else on TV; HEROES. As a 5 year old
spider man was my favourite TV character. I loved his humanity, his closeness
with his aunt and uncle and the humanity he portrayed more than other TV characters.
I wanted to spurn webs like him, walk upside down from the walls of dark
alleyways and save the world at night when no one but bad people walk the
streets. I got bored with him and by the time I was 7 years old I was convinced
I wanted to be a magician. I always watched the magic show on NTA 2 channel 5
every Friday night at seven so I could learn new tricks which I was never able
to execute. I was fascinated with the idea of transporting the minds of people
from the harsh reality of their current situation to a place where everything
was possible with the help of a white handkerchief and some birds and so my
dreams changed with every new hero I encountered.
At
the age of 8 I was enamored with Fela; I once saw him on TV carrying weed in
one hand, wearing white underwear and holding an interview with NTA. He was
fearless in the face of death, he seemed to derive inspiration living on the
cusp of danger every day, and he was the type of man the ordinary person could
relate to. He went to England to study music at a time when parents only sent
their children abroad to study professional courses; he came back and disgraced
English language by doing his songs in pidgin. His dance moves were
revolutionary because it seemed to mock the military government at the time. We
all wanted to be apostles of Fela, a hero who changed the ideology of Nigerians
through music.
When I was 13 years old I wanted to be a pop
star like Michael Jackson; wear black leather jackets with fantastic hats and
killer aviator glasses. At 15 I wanted to be political analyst; talk about
issues that were past my understanding, proffer solutions like I was perfect
and become the incorruptible one like St Thomas Moore
I
was lucky to have gotten admission into the university right after secondary
school. I had experience with some form of independence because I went to a
boarding school in Kabba, Kogi State.
This was the first time I would be thrown
out there into the world on my own to make my way in the university community
for the next couple of years. After I had completed the preliminary registration,
my uncle handed me over to Prof Ukaeje who was to serve as my guardian while I
was in Keffi. Tears prickled at the corners of my eyes in fear of truly being
left alone. Prof saw the fear in my eyes and he tapped me on the shoulder,
gazed at me and said “don’t worry, you will be fine and I will look after you”.
A sense of calm came over me in that moment and the fear that I felt before suddenly
seemed to vanish. Prof was a proud man; he took pride in his country Nigeria;
his house was painted green and white and the first image that greets you as
you enter into his living room are the flag, coat of arms and the picture of
the current president of the Federal Republic of Nigeria. He took pride in his
six children by exhibiting their pictures on the left side of the wall in the
living room. He had great confidence in his ability, he was sociable, generous
and always willing to help even if it inconvenienced him, he was my hero, the
person I looked up to. The man I went to when I couldn’t make sense of lectures
I had received in class, the man who brought me banana cake because he knew how
much I loved it. The person who taught me that life is more than the expectations
people place on you or the morals that society expects you to adhere to. He
helped me understand that money is only useful if you are alive to spend it and
each day is a gift that should be enjoyed.
I
have read Buchi Emecheta’s The Joys of
Motherhood more than 6 times. I read it so many times I knew what lines
came from what page, I knew what every colon and comma was supposed to express,
I had a mental picture for each of the major characters and I wanted to be the
type of woman who carried her family on her back no matter how hard the wind
blows.
I
will never forget the feeling of pride I felt after reading Purple Hibiscus; the excitement I felt
at the realisation that Chimamanda Adiche was not only a writer but a Nigerian
who placed women at the core of her stories.
Things fall apart
will always be special to me because it was the book that signified my coming
of rights as a teenager able to understand stories far beneath the surface understanding
of a lay man reading books for pleasure.
I
followed the Liberian elections that brought Ellen Johnson Sirleaf into power
and I was as excited as any other black feminist to see Africa accept a new
type of change, I read books about heroes of the past who lived before I was
born and I kept up with the activities of radical scholars who fought for a
different Nigeria.
I
talk about Prof because his death has helped me realize that the models we aim
to mold our lives around; those whose perks we think are awesome, those who
make us want to take that extra step in our careers because we found out they
did the same are human just like us, only different in their approach to life.
I
have always searched for heroes; in my dreams I searched for someone who would
conquer ojuju, in my waking moments I thought of someone who I could dream
about and at night I slept easy knowing that my heroes were safe.
The
deaths of two major political heroes I admire have brought me to the sad realization that my heroes are dying. The heroes that we grew up hearing about
in text books and the pages of magazines are fading away. In Nigeria, this
dearth of heroes signifies the level of rot in a system where everybody knows
nobody, where friends and foes mean one word, where models are nonexistent and
where moral scruples are laughed at as an inconvenience.
Everybody
has a hero. Someone you looked up to while growing up, someone who made you
believe that limits are fears that do not exist for those who dare to push in a
forward movement. My heroes in part made me who I am today; my style of writing
is inspired by the works of others who I have admired. The things I have done I
did because someone else did it before and they were excellent. Michael Jackson
taught me to believe that even if my hips can’t swing to the moon walk because
my dance is at best akward jegging I can still have fun when a song is playing;
Whitney Houston made me believe that magic is not for everyone, but I
appreciate it when I see it in others. Nelson Mandela convinced me that the act
of total selflessness is not lost in a world of chaos and anarchy. People who
are great for what they have achieved, how they have affected change in their
society and other great people they have honed into key societal figures.
Heroes make us stronger, they give us a guideline where we are left without
clues, they strengthen our belief in the impossible, they push us far beyond
limits we envisioned, and they challenge us with mocking eyes to be better
humans. Most importantly they fill us with hope in a world of dread and as we
live our lives through theirs in the pages of newspapers and sights on TV we
are filled with a renewed passion for life.
It
saddens me as a feminist to realize that we do not have enough female heroes
for young Nigerian women desperately looking for someone to look up to. Women
like Okonjo-Iweala, Patricia Etteh, Ezekwesili, Danjuma, the actresses and musicians
who have found fame by virtue of their career path should be at face of women
emancipation in Nigeria, but the scenario is completely different. The few in
government do not associate themselves with NGOs geared towards the support of
women’s right. Talk is cheap, action is harder. Self interest will only get us
so far. My life aim is to be remembered for those I have helped become stronger
through the thoughts I put down on paper. To be somebody’s hero, to give back
to those who helped me get to where I am today. To be a part of women who
support an end to domestic violence, rape, degradation and dehumanization of
women the world over and to die knowing I changed the world better than I met
it.
