The disparity between the rich and poor in Akwa ibom

The disparity between the rich and the poor in Akwa ibom.

The beautiful state of Akwa ibom is blessed with a rich  cultural heritage, fantastically peculiar language, diverse delicious delicacies, good road networks with street lights and artefacts that leaves envy etched on the faces of other states. Adorned with a mild weather and fertile land for tiling, sea for fishing and crude oil for export. It is a beautiful land flowing with sea and oil.
Hidden beneath the veil of beauty of the state is an ugliness between  the social classes. A great rift exist between the wealthy and the penniless in the oil rich state of Akwa ibom. Okay, Maybe penniless is too strong an adjective to describe those living below par in the state, it is not as if they are literally without a penny, but it does inject into ones consciousness, the wide margin that exists between the rich and the poor.

Just like most states in the country, the clime of Akwa ibom favours the rich. Equal tax rate is charged on both the rich and the poor, even when the revenue of the poor is nothing to write home about when compared to that of their rich counterparts. No extra tax on properties which are used to show affluence. A man can comfortably own five cars, one for each working day without paying taxes for any parking lot. The electricity billing rate is the same with the poor. No preference what so ever is meted on the low income earners. It is a case of equality as against equity.

But unlike other states in the country like Lagos, Akwa ibom doesn't provide a fair habitat for the coexistence of the rich and the poor. In Lagos for instance, there is a well developed transport scheme. Public transport buses of various sizes are readily plying the road, going to and fro  bus stop to bus stop. Such that, the poor without private cars can get to wherever they want within the state and beyond, at anytime and at a reasonable cost. On the contrary, such is not the case in the oil rich state. In Akwa ibom, the transport system is substandard, you don't get to see buses picking up and dropping passengers at different bus stops. What you get to see are parks where public cars load passengers. The snag with this type of transport scheme is that it is not cost effective. One gets to pay a fixed transport fare for the entire journey regardless of destination, even when one alights on the way, few distance from take off.

Also, one's  economic productivity is hampered by the fact that these public cars in parks are not readily available. A man who works in a bank can barely make it early to work without his private car because, when he comes to the park by 6.00 in the morning, he meets an empty park. When the early bird public car driver shows up by 7.00 or later, he wouldn't leave until the last passenger comes to fill up his car or cab as commonly called. On a mean day, it can take hours for the cab to be full with passengers. This stunts the economic growth of an Akwa-ibomite and is bore only by one side of the populace, the poor, while the rich cruise around in their private cars.

Corp members who by default do not fall into the class of the rich has deviced a means of survival. They cut their transport cost by "son son". "son son" is a lingo used among corp members to label free ride or free lift. In Ibibio, the predominant language in Akwa ibom, "son son" means thank you. When a corp member is given a free lift, s/he says "son son", to show courtesy and appreciation, hence the coinage "son son". So it is common to see corp members standing by the road side, flagging down private cars  going in their direction, in a bid to get "son son" (free lift).

The self esteem of these corp members, who are serving the country and live on a very low federal allowance is not in jeopardy,  there is no shame what so ever in them seeking "son son". The heart break, is seeing mature working class men and women in Akwa ibom, joining  corp members to stand by the roadside under the sun to seek "son son". Not only does it reduce the productivity of these men and women, who waste working time standing by the roadside for close to an hour or more, it tells clearly of the disparity between the rich and the poor. In terms of transportation, the poor who cannot afford private cars are handicapped.

The job opportunities in Akwa ibom are very minimal, it is unlike the south western or south eastern states where companies and factories are scattered  all over, providing job opportunities for both the skilled and unskilled labour, and rich and poor citizens alike. Majority of the minimal jobs available in Akwa ibom are concentrated in Uyo, the capital city. Not everyone can afford to live in Uyo, the house rents are exorbitant, cost of living is up the roof and beyond, favoring a habitat  for the rich. Even the poor who manage to cough out the money for the house rents are living from hand to mouth, without making any savings.

Youths without job are in the majority, they engage in unethical source of livelihood. The men engage in robbery and kidnapping, or just idle, drinking alcohol in local joints and gambling over draft, a local board game. While the men are at it, the women are engrossed in prostitution. Prostitution is so predominant in the state that it ranks tops in the country sex rating. In fact, some people regard the state as the land of sex. Myth has it that the high rate of sex is as a result of  the high rate of dog consumption. That, however is yet to be scientifically justified but technically, it is as a result of unemployment, suffered mostly by the poor in the society. A lot of girls, old and young engage in the act of loose sex, this has resulted in the low price for call girls, compared to other parts of the country, chiefly because the readily supply outweighs the demand.

To fill the void between the rich and the poor, the government needs to step in with a strong foot. There is need to have a dynamic taxing scheme that would be lenient on the low income earners. Furthermore, there is a dire need for youth empowerment. It is not enough for the youths to be educated, they need to be gainfully employed to keep them busy to curb prostitution and other ills. There are a thousand and one jobs that can be created in the state. The transport sector is like a untapped mine, agriculture is another and so is industrialization. The government can do well to provide buses to roam the freeway and offer a much cheaper transport cost compared to the cabs. Loans can be granted to farmers to encourage agriculture, and mechanized agriculture for exports. Industries where local goods can be manufactured and exported is also a possibility, not only would it increase the internal generated revenue and provide non oil source of income, it would as well keep the youths gainfully employed and the gap between the social classes will be hugely reduced.

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Facebook experience.

This is my seventh year on Facebook, and with the years, comes observations, and observations begets experience.

The like feature has been one of the most controversial features of Facebook. It has come with so many misinterpretations.

The Problem:
Girl-A posts a photo of herself and gets only 10 likes. Girl-B posts a photo of herself and gets 120 likes. Worthy of note here is,  Girl-A appears to be more decent in the photo.

Girl-A turns purple face by her low-like count, she begins to think she didn't get as much likes because she's not as hot as Girl-B, or in a case where she's convinced beyond all doubt that she's prettier, she begins to question the loyalty of her friends. 'why did I get only 10 likes?' She soliloquizes.

On the flip side, Girl-B starts to feel on top of the pyramid, she begins to chew the ego that comes with stardom. she even brags to her friends about her like-conquest. 'If I post a photo, I get of over a hundred likes' she brags as if likes can add petroleum subsidy. "who like don epp? "  her shrewd friend counters.

The Discovery:
What they are ignorant of is the size of their friend list. Girl-A has just 90 friends, made up entirely of people she knows, while Girl-B has 4,120 friends on her list, of which she barely knows 100.

The Solution:
Facebook posts should have a like system based on percentage calculation. That is to say, your like status would be based on the percentage of likes you get relative to your audience (friends). Since one friend can only like one post once.

A line of code or two can fix this.

If this is implemented, Girl-A would get 11.1% likes, while Girl-B would get 2.9% likes.
See the difference?
In that case, no one will feel socially irrelevant or an overnight celebrity or harbour delusions of love/hatred.

The benefits:
It would eliminate trivial friends from the list of a Girl-B person. Trivial-friends whom she wouldn't accept but for like-sake, trivial-friends who might even hack into her account and post obscene contents, trivial-friends who only invites her to play candy crush or other annoying apps, trivial-friends who might hack into her account and add all the friends on her list to useless groups, trivial-friends who would generate unnecessary notifications...

Her account will be more secure and her confidentiality increased. The benefits goes on and on.

Thanks for reading.

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Last Day in Camp

The NYSC orientation camp finally came to a close. It had seemed  like the three weeks of camping would be unending, but here was the last day of the exercise.   Several camp activities made the three weeks somewhat unbearable for a person who had no military training. The routine parades at dawn, noon and   dusk,  amidst military jargons. The compulsory skill acquisition lectures in the afternoon didn't help matters. The lectures were held in a  pavilion, that was not big enough to  house the teeming population of corp members. Corpers scrambled for chairs. Even  the pavement of the pavilion was scrambled for, and used to sit. The lecture was called  SAED, which stood for skills acquisition and entrepreneurs development. But the skill acquisition lecture was more of an oratory class than practical, and  an avenue for sleep.  I won't easily forget the morning  drills after  parade,  under the scorching heat of the sun.  The soldiers seemed more happy and fulfilled the more they drilled us. Another necessary evil was  waking up by 4:30AM everyday except on Sundays by irksome trumpet sound when sleep was sweetest. 

The queue!
Sweet potatoes, the queue!!
Oh my world, the damn endless frustrating long queues for one registration after another. Queuing for various allowances, queuing for wishy-washy meals at the kitchen,  queuing to answer nature's call - a short line of people waiting in impatient turns to empty their bowels in the shabby toilet facilities.

After the ceremonial parade that marked the end of camping activities, dignitaries who came to honour the event dispersed into thin air, corps members were soon gathered in platoons, scattered in clusters as the posting letters were ready to be dispatched by the platoon officer. It was a feeling of happiness interwoven with unhappiness. Even though the camp was miles away from comfort, there were gloomy looks etched on the faces of corp members. Over the three weeks in camp, new friends were made, relationships established, both the genuine ones and the mammy couples.

The camp had become fun amidst the unfavorable camp conditions. It seemed no one wanted to leave after all. On one cluster, you see corpers taking group selfies, on another you see corpers exchanging contacts and on another you see couples hugging tightly like they were about to be separated and would never see again. Actually the odds were against them being posted to the same LG let alone PPA. Walking around were different fellowship associations carrying  placards of which were written the  names of different local governments, to assist those posted to any, easy location and transport usually for free.

Uyo,  the capital city was on the lips of every one,  only a few weirdos wanted to go to places such as remote villages devoid of either electricity, water or most importantly to me, data network, to spend the next twelve months in. Uyo was regarded as paradise in Akwa ibom, where one can get part time supplementary jobs, catch fun at recreational parks, Ibom Tropicana, the stadium, cinemas, clubs and everything a city can provide.

The glitch was that the capital city was just one of about thirty-one local government areas to be posted to. No one knew for sure where he/she would be posted, majority were visibly shivering nervously under the sunny weather, except a fraction whose parent or friend or parent's friend or friend's parent were at the top.

An aura of uncertainty and tension filled the breathing space as the platoon officer called out the state code.
"zero zero one zero " the platoon officer announced ,  his voice straining to the ears, one barely can hear him from a close range. He started calling out the state code in ascending order, it'd take longer time before he gets to mine.

I was claded on my ceremonial crested vest,  khaki trouser, jungle boot and face cap just like every other corper,  waiting patiently but not anxiously for my state code to be called. I was among the fraction that did not shiver nervously under the hot weather, I was quite sure to be posted to the capital city.  Seun gave me a strong assurance I would serve in a government agency therein.

Seun, an ex-corper who just finished serving, called me a few days to posting.  He said he'd seen my biodata online and I was well qualified to replace him in the accounts department of one of the government agencies in Uyo, where he served. He had actually called to seek my consent and told me what was required of me for the job, and  to ascertain if I was up to the task and willing to accept the offer. An offer I gladly accepted without boggling my brain. Not only would I be in the capital city, but I would escape being posted to a school. Who likes teaching by the way?

My phone rang, the caller ID was my bunk mate. We had a bet earlier on who was to get Uyo and who would be catapulted to a remote rural settlement. We didn't stake cash nor anything of value, but ridiculous mockery.

"Hello, guy how far" I answered the phone.
"Guy, guess what? " he quizzed.
" you've been posted to Nsit Atai" I answered, with a hysterical laugh.
Nsit Atai was the rural community were the camp was located.

"hahaha, you wish. I have been posted to Uyo. PPA, university of uyo... "
" What about you?" he continued
"I'm yet to get my posting letter. I'm quite sure it will be Uyo."

"Okay o. Call you later ",  the call ended. I began pondering about the conversation, this guy would surely crack pieces his ribs if I don't get the  capital city.
Aside the mockery, the news of a friend's success naturally stimulates one to replicate similar feat, thereby putting one under nature induced pressure.  At that instant, the pressure mutated into tension, which gradually grew, starting with a cold feet. I started imagining the worst case scenario.  Teaching a remote public school in a  remote village with no remote cellular network; would there be any visible electric cables and poles to keep the hope of electricity alive? How many miles would I have to walk to get water,  probably stream water? Would they speak English? Pit toilet or 'bush'? ...

"zero five eight zero " the platoon officer announced,  his voice jolted me back to reality. It seemed his voice became fainter, as he progressed down the list. To help matters, corp members close to him would rebroadcast and amplify the  state code in choruses,  further raising the tension. Not helping matters.

" zero five eight zero" they re-echoed,  from their facial expressions,  one could tell his/her fate. If they were all smiles, revealing their dental cavities, then it was probably the capital city, otherwise, it was otherwise.

My heart beat began to accelerate as my state code was among the next in line, it seemed as though there was a change in gear with each state code called. I found and forced my way deep into the cluster of people around the platoon officer.

In no time,  my state code was called out,  I proceeded to the platoon officer's desk to collect my posting letter. I stood tall in front of his desk,  spreading my shoulders wide and high like those of a peacock, to shield my posting letter against prying eyes and the longing necks from those behind. The platoon officer handed me the sheet and at a glance, my eyes went straight to the posting address at the top left of the page.  My mouth was opened slightly, a fly could have  easily flown  in, my eyes popped out, they could have fallen off, I felt cold and my joints froze for about 10 seconds after which my heart beat decelerated back to normalcy. I was posted to Nsit Ubium local government. I quickly folded the sheet to half its size not to reveal its content and folded it again and again until it was small enough to fit in my pocket and then i tucked it deep into my right pocket.

Almost immediately, I heard voices at my back asking in unison,
"guy where were you posted to?"

I turned around head held high and with a big grin spreading from my left cheek to right,  and looking from left side to right and smiling again for emphasis I responded,  "Uyo!".

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Unnecessary Frustration

Just like other nights,  the house of Mr. Okafor was without  power, and enveloped in darkness, just like other houses. The blackouts in the country had become excessively recurrent, the people had adjusted to living in darkness. Suffering but smiling. Aside from the curses laid out on the power company anytime the power supply was  interrupted, no one seemed to have taken any legal action.

Mr. Okafor, a middle class business man in his early forties,  lived in a flat in a Lagos suburb, with his wife,  five kids and his nephew, Chike. He was a happy family man but lost his temper easily when frustrated. The prickly heat that filled his house with gloom, caused by the lack of power,  was enough to trigger his frustration. For this reason,  he had acquired two generator sets.

Dinner was already served, however, Mr. Okafor wouldn't settle for it yet until the breeze from the fan in his living room cooled down the steamy Eba and hot Oha soup and his sweaty body. The time was already 8pm,  the time Mr. Okafor customarily  powers on his generator set, as an economic game plan since petrol started selling for a high N150 per liter. He went downstairs with  Chike to power on the generator set, located some few foots away from the flat for safety reasons.

Usually the generator starts after the first or second yank of its starter,  but it would not start yet, even after the umpteenth trial.  This too was enough to trigger Mr. Okafor's fury.  He could not call  the generator repairers who fix the machine,  he knew it would take only a miracle to get them to leave their workshop at that time of the night,  owing to their busy schedule.  The other generator he has was not in good shape, the engine knocked as a result of overload, Chike used it to iron his clothes two days ago  for a job interview,  an interview that was later postponed.

The breeze had ceased,  the mosquitoes were actively present and the chattering sounds of generator sets in the neighborhood filled the air mixed with   carbon fumes. Mr. Okafor was tenacious, he never gave up on things so easily without a fight. Bearing in mind his food,  the heat and the television program, He sent Chike to get his  box of tools so that he could try some first aid on the generator.

He replaced the plug with a spare but after a series of attempted starting, the engine gave a cough but failed to start. He got the engine oil changed yet the engine remained cold. Then he went as far as cleaning the carburetor. Cautiously, but with enough force he thrust the starter,  the engine kicked, whined and then was silent.  Mr. Okafor's light complexion was already turning red,  one couldn't be sure if his redness was caused by the mosquitoes or bile level. He was filled with rage already but yet he wouldn't stop trying to get the generator to start. Such was Mr. Okafor's fury that he continued thrusting the generator starter but this time around with an increase in the force applied and frequency.  This he continued until the tensile strength of the starter rope failed to hold and it got shared into two. One with the generator,  curled up inside the machine and the other in the tight fist of Mr. Okafor. Realizing nothing can be done to start the generator when the rope is cut,  angrily he left to eat his dinner which must have been cold.

He was barely 5 feet away from his flat when he heard,  "Up Nepa!".  A phrase,  usually in a cheerful tone,  exclaimed in utter exhilaration by people living in that part of Lagos indicates supply of power from the power company. Mr. Okafor on hearing the sound of joy, a prickle of excitement ran up his spine. He increased his pace,  hastened up to his flat leaving Chike trailing behind.

He switched on his appliances: First the Fan,  next the T.V.  and then the Air conditioner, then he settled for his dinner. He called Chike to get him a wash hand basin and when it was set,  he said the grace before meal.
Just as he was about to dip a handful morsel into his soup,  the power supply was interrupted.  "Ndi Ara!" he yelled,  cursing the power company.

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The Door Syndrome

I grabbed the remote control and without looking at it I pressed 2-2-3.  My fingers  pushed down on the button combinations in quick succession without sending any impulse to my cranium box. 
The TV didn't respond accordingly. Instead of displaying  2-2-3 as I punched the keypad, it only showed 2-2 and then froze. Several repeated thumb movements didn't change much.
"What's wrong with this remote device again" I said in silence.

"Why will it be hanging when it handles no complex task. Is it not just a wired panel that is meant to do just one thing? Change the dial? Why is it now freezing like BlackBerry Curve?... "

I tried some old tricks of turning the remote device in different directions, North, West and East while I pressed it yet no show. I raised my hand, giving the handset some elevation and pressed it again and again still no show. Hand still up and forward, this time I pressed on the buttons with more pressure as I tilted it in acute and obtuse angles but still same story.

I knew it had to be the battery. I knew I had to replace the battery for it to come alive but I was too relaxed on the sofa to get up. If I  get up from this position, I might not find this exact spot where this sofa gave solace to me in undiluted comfort. But the clock was ticking, it was almost time for Chelsea match. I wanted not to miss the team line up and pre match interviews and analysis. So I sprang up from my comfort zone and headed for the kitchen where spare batteries were kept in the cabinet.

I met a closed kitchen door so I placed my right hand on the door knob, squeezing it to open the door, I entered the kitchen room.

As soon as I got in, I was greeted by a rat that tormented the house. Usually before now, when I bump into the rats, they run and I chase. But now the tables have turned. The rat sat on the sink, saw me coming and remained motionless with bold eyes and erected whiskers. One would think it was dead if not for the momentary swinging of its tail. I threw my hands in the air towards its direction in order to scare it out of my sight. But it didn't move an inch. I had to be armed with two formidable weapons from the kitchen arsenal, a machete on my left hand and a pestle on my right, to get the rat out of sight. Rats of these days. SMH!.

Feeling triumphant, I took some bold steps round the kitchen, stamping my feet as I matched round. Then I paused for a moment, trying to recollect what must have brought me to the kitchen before the encounter with the rat. I walked further in a circular path, wandering and wondering what brought me here. I stood still facing the wall-fan that sat at the top center of the opposite wall and rubbed my right hand on my head, trying to remember what I wanted to do in the kitchen.
"Something important brought me here, what is it?" I said to myself.
My memory was temporarily blacked out. I looked around for any clue. But found none. Nothing was cooking, the dishes were washed and I wasn't hungry.

"It must have been the door syndrome" I thought to myself.
I still have not figured out what was in doors that make people partially forget the reason why they entered into a room sometimes.
The door syndrome - Different from schizophrenia and far lesser than amnesia.
One way to regain the lost memories in a door syndrome is going back to your immediate previous location.
After a long thought, I decided to go back to the living room. Halfway into the living room, I saw the remote control on the table and then I remembered what made me visit the kitchen.

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