Mara ba de zua! abuja (that’s if I got it right Tho).
Anyways, that’s supposed to mean welcome to abuja. The city of bright lights, riches, plenty sugar mamas and no traffic at all.
Atleast that’s what late night NTA news , TELL magazine and series of unconfirmed capital city stories made us perceive while growing up in far eastern states and other parts of naija.
Well That’s by the way, this post isn’t just about the town in particular nor is it about how excited I was (still am) when I first moved to this place and how I felt disappointed after realising all those tales of money growing in trees, steady power supply (like it isn’t Nigeria again) and the whole sugar mama approaching you and changing your life with wealth and landed properties and all those fake stories that might make a man get lazy, nope.
This post is about the so called modern people of FCT, the increasingly everyday people that are in this quest of being seen as an intellectual and steadily restricting their ideas, humour and opinions to the fellow elite and a particular class of individuals.
You get to a social gathering and people can’t have simple convos anymore, nowadays we always feel the need to sound so professional, well read and well traveled to start up a conversation. It’s always the usual “What do you do for a living. Where do you live?” and one is always expected to respond with the Maitamas asokoros and wuse2’s . It’s almost like you shouldn’t exist if you reside in the outskirts of the town, God help you, you mention gwagwalada ,masaka or Abaji.
So It was after a long week of stress and hardwork and I really needed to unwind a bit with slow paced flavour song and a dead bottle of Heineken, I got to this sit out at some garden (luckily for me it’s Wuse2) with nicely dressed young people, to meet a friend. I introduced myself politely (as always) and I had barely sat down to start munching on the gizzard and kidney with much massa yahuza suya I met on the table , before this chic beside me started firing me with questions, “sup? Where do you work? Where do you live ? Where did you school? What did you study?” Omo!!! babe let me eat this suya first na and drop toothpick. She didn’t stop their she kept prying. “I like your knitted tie, i like your glasses, is it recommended (no, it’s shakomemded), do you read with it? Do you even read?”
“Do you this, do you that” Haba!!! Yarinya.
So I had to cut her short, and outplay her in her own game. I relaxed back, crossed my leg and fine tuned my thick igbo accent to sound a bit photosynthesis. I brought up national issues that relates to the economy and a possible review of trade policies that will put the importation of other countries’ waste products like her human hair in check, thereby affecting her imported beauty and borrowed looks personally. I asked her if she’s thought about that before. This chic didn’t utter any other word that evening.
So this is just a plea to the so called intellectual-Ankara shokoto on organic Tshirt wearing males, the so called hello-I got my-masters-from-Aberdeen-in-America single feminists and also the I’m-straight o’ but-I think-gays should-have-their-rights ranting she-males, that please when next you come to a gathering of adults (grown and obviously experienced), please try hard not to start off your conversations with individual achievements and status. Let’s exercise the shallow talks sometimes, let’s have simpler arguments like why people think custard is just an akamu that studied abroad, let’s deliberate on real matters like if ibadan chics really don’t know that some creams bleach before they purchase them, let’s talk about how power supply has improved since NEPA started supporting their power yards with generator, maybe when we are done aquatinting ourselves with these simpler matters that matter, then you can ask me what do you do for a living. Then I Just might answer you.
Nwanguma ‘Sic’ Ogo