The Death Of Commonsense By Okey Ndibe

There was this fascinating loafer of
a student during my secondary
school days. We half-mockingly
called him “Ogbu Oge.” The moniker
is best translated as “killer of time.”
“Ogbu Oge” dawdled, whiled away
time, spent hours drinking, chasing
women, or getting into other kinds
of trouble. The only thing “Ogbu
Oge” did not have time for was to
study.
As you can imagine, he was not the
most brilliant of students. His
grades, predictably, were failing
ones. But “Ogbu Oge” was also
resourceful in other, surprising
ways. On its face, the name we gave
him (if memory serves me, it was
our then geography teacher, a Mr.
Eze, who first coined it), was
unflattering. But the guy lent a half-
heroic tenor to the name. He happily
adopted the name, even reveled in it.
In fact, when you called him “Ogbu
Oge” to his face, he made it into a
complete sentence by responding,
“nwe plans.” In other words, he
asserted that he who kills time has
plans!
Part of “Ogbu Oge’s” plans lay
outside of his school days. In the
end, he had sense enough to realize
he was not cut out for the
disciplined rigor of academic life. He
never bothered to apply to any
university or polytechnic. He went
straight from secondary school into
business, taking with him all the
wiles, guiles and slight
“bookishness” he’d acquired.
But “Ogbu Oge” also left a lasting, if
dubious, impression as a student –
and he did it in a history exam. In
this exam, the history teacher had
asked, “Why did the Songhai Empire
fall?” Our time-killing friend wrote a
short, succinct answer: “Because of
their carelessness.”
That answer established “Ogbu
Oge’s” lore. Visiting Calabar two
weeks ago, I spent time with a
former schoolmate. As we ate “bush
meat” and quaffed palm wine, we
also reminisced about “characters”
in our secondary school. Inevitably,
the inimitable “Ogbu Oge” came up.
We both remembered that
memorable answer of his to a
question about the Songhai Empire
– and we roared and roared with
laughter.
Afterwards, I had the opportunity to
meditate on that unusual,
uncanonical response of “Ogbu
Oge’s.” No teacher with his head
screwed on right would give a
student credit for that answer. Even
so, I had to admit that there was at
least a hint of creativity to the
response. If you boiled it down,
“carelessness” is a major reason –
perhaps the major reason – imperial
nations collapse. “Ogbu Oge’s”
answer, then, was informed by a
measure of commonsense – a kind
of applied native intelligence.
As I traveled in Nigeria two weeks
ago, it suddenly struck me: Nigeria
would be a much better-run space if
the country’s so-called leaders
brought even a smidgen of
commonsense to statecraft. For
Nigeria’s problems are both large
and small, macro and micro. And
even if our leaders were incapable of
tackling the complexities of the
major crises (unemployment,
infrastructural underdevelopment,
the dominance and persistence of an
informal economy), they ought to be
able to address the more minor
problems.
Instead – from the presidency all
the way to local government levels
– Nigerian “leaders” appear bereft
of ideas for solving even the most
basic of problems. Nigeria’s tragedy
does not lie simply in the inability of
its “leaders” to engage in serious
thinking about wrestling with
complex issues. The greater tragedy
is the death – and dearth – of
commonsense in the ranks of those
who parade as political leaders.
Nigeria fails woefully at the big
issues of nationhood; it also fails,
sadly, in the small things.
Nigeria has progressively become an
assault on the senses, a veritable
eyesore and a place that stinks like
hell. Let me illustrate.
During my recent visit, I spent time
in Lagos, Calabar, and Anambra. I
also traveled by road through
Ebonyi, Abia, Imo and Enugu States.
I came away with the impression of
a country that had become a vast
dumping ground. Often, the
landscape was marred by the
carcasses of decrepit buses and
trucks imported into Nigeria from
Europe, North America and Asia.
Even the grounds near the domestic
wing of the Lagos airport had their
displays of grounded, rusted
planes. On roadsides, highways and
streets, one saw piles of refuse:
banana and plantain peels, orange
rinds, and the ubiquitous plastic
wraps that contain what Nigerians
call “pure water.” It all makes for a
shameful sight, as if Nigeria had
been set up as a metaphor for pure
ugliness.
The infestation of plastic wraps in
Nigeria is a national calamity. Why
hasn’t anybody thought to ban the
use of these plastic sachets to sell
water? Or why has no state
government taken the initiative to
provide trash bins where these
plastic wraps can be discarded? If
there is any state government in
Nigeria that boasts a modern waste
disposal plan, I’d like to learn about
it.
As I traveled by road from Calabar
to Anambra, I saw numerous places
where heaps of rubbish had been set
aflame. This crude incineration
appears the default method of waste
“treatment” in Nigeria. Don’t we
have bureaucrats with enough
knowledge to warn state
governments that such approaches
to waste disposal cause
environmental degradation and
health hazards? Or is it the case
that our governors are too focused
on what next to steal to spare a
thought for the terrible impact of
these toxic bonfires, many of them
set next to populous markets or
residences? One also wonders
about the issue of open gutters in
Nigeria. Many of these gutters are
filled with rank, brackish water –
and they’re often right next to food
stalls and residences.
I walked around Murtala Muhammed
International Airport in Lagos, once
one of the proud edifices of Africa.
Today, the airport is a shambles.
The air-conditioning in the
departure gates was fitful at best.
But the airport’s busiest area, the
check-in corridor, was a small oven,
with a jostle of drenched, sometimes
stinky bodies. Many of the faucets,
spigots and basins in the toilets are
broken, the floors wet. I walked the
length of the arrival hall looking for
a trash bin, but saw none. Not one.
That meant that a passenger with
tissue paper to throw away was
easily tempted to drop it right there
on the floor, or to leave the airport
building and toss the paper outside.
Is it rocket science to know that a
public place like an airport requires
trash bins? What would it take to
place such bins in any airport? Does
Nigeria need a World Bank loan for
the purpose? Do we need a
presidential committee to study the
issue, and another presidential
committee to study the
recommendations of the first
committee? What accounts for
Nigeria’s woeful failure in areas
where the application of
commonsense ought to guide people
to the right decisions or solutions?
Lately, Nigeria has become
notorious as one of the few
countries where demand for private
jets is rising dramatically. What do
we say about ourselves when our
fellows mop up private jets, but we
cannot put a single trash bin in our
airports much less fix the toilets?
How do we advertise ourselves to
outsiders when we buy up Rolls
Royces, Bentleys, Ferraris and
Lamborghinis, but our highways are
gutted, rutted slow ways? How come
we build mansions in our cities, but
must hide these architectural
marvels behind elephantine walls
because our individual greed had
snatched food from a multitude of
mouths and forced our youths to
make a living as armed robbers or
kidnappers – or to die as suicide
bombers?
In the midst of the gloom that’s
Nigeria, I also saw glimmers of
hope. Governor Fashola of Lagos
State is making palpable, positive
changes. Lagos streets looked
cleaner and greener than I’d seen
them in many years. Oshodi was not
the bedlam I remembered, even
though I spied a man in the white,
flowing gown of an Aladura
worshiper spraying the concrete
road divider with his pee. Before
arriving in Calabar, I had been told
to expect a city as well-kept and
groomed as the best spots in
London. It was hype, of course.
Even so, I saw clear evidence of a
city whose appearance has been
dramatically improved. My host told
me that violent crime was rare in the
city. One night, we met some friends
at a fish restaurant, leaving after
midnight.
In many cities around the world, to
be about late at night is no big deal.
But in Nigeria, where armed robbers
often own the night, it’s an
extraordinary feat. Calabar’s relative
quiescence is proof that people
respond to their external
environment, that a beautiful
address inspires beauty in the
hearts of a populace. It’s the kind of
benefit that’s likely to accrue to
Nigerians if more of their leaders
applied this equipment called
commonsense.
Please follow me on twitter @
okeyndibe.
( okeyndibe@gmail.com )