Murtala Mohammed

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Warri to Lagos, passing chaos alongside the road. Through the marks of civilization, wooden frames empty and others filled with various dallies of cheap Chinese junk, together sheltered with the tatters of canvas stretched overhead. They were empty, so empty it's worth mentioning again: They were empty, derelict, dry like a Mojave ghost-town with their rotting planks of siding.

Further, deeper into society; structure-free, a ranting behavior. Markets line the uneven curbs, congregating near potholes a foot and a half deep. Traffic slows to an imbalanced creep. One tire falls in, a jolt, a sway; the whole cabin lilting, rocking back and forth as the other tires follow. The location of the squatters and stalls are strategic.

Joseph Mojume supplied the cultural facts. "They use to be indoors, all the goods of the merchants within shops. But the shoppers couldn't see. No electricity, no lights. Kerosene lamps weren't enough."

This resulted in an exodus of supplies; food and junk moving outdoors to line the streets. Fruits and breads, fried dough and cassava collecting dust, dirt, exhaust, the scent of diesel, bacteria and waste.

"Do they leave them out at night?" asked Kendra Thornbury. Her eyes stared with the rest of the pairs, both inside and outside the bus. Ours saw the stacks of Fanta and Coca-Cola, the bottles of Eva water, cartons of eggs under the afternoon heat, and the hangers of secondhand clothing.

"No," Jo informed. "Each day the merchants pack out, then pack in. It's a lifestyle."

Traffic caught us in a standstill. Ahead, workers in jumpsuits and hard hats attempted to prepare the roadway. Earthmovers weaved around blaring horns like a worm around a swarm of ants. We watched the Motor Parks load, unload, load, and sit—waiting for the inevitable hours until full. Cars were parked on the sides of the road; an empty petroleum can atop its roof, Nigeria's for sale sign. A tree is a rare welcoming sight.

Back out in the country, we find more monstrous potholes. There, lepers, beggars and squatters convene on our air-conditioned ride as we slow. They tap at our windows, calling Ma'am and Messta, messta! One woman, wrapped in desperate rags, attempted to crack our windows with her large bamboo crutch after we failed to comply. We left, and they return to their roadside squat, waiting, searching—nothing.

To the sides of us, rusted gears, chasses, carriages, and cabins are scarred black. They are the remnants of violent wrecks, charred at the impact with metal and asphalt. It's a dreary sight, not just the burned, crushed, dismantled big rigs, lorries, and passenger vans, but all of it: the people, the state—the condition, the situation of Nigeria, its government and political officials, including all the despoiled bureaucracy of the multinationals and the locals of the Niger Delta. And we were here for just two weeks! Two fucking weeks!

Our time was minimal. We saw a portion, a minute slice of Nigeria, of Africa.

When flight plans were cleared, stressed-over and smoothed out, we stepped through the security gates at Murtala Mohammed International Airport Lagos, breathing a sign of relief. We were alive. We were safe. We were clear, onward, free of Nigeria.

Yet here I am, small, minuscule like the wedge of humanity we witnessed as Global Citizen Diplomats. What does that mean? Does it mean to feel this pain? This hopelessness? Does it mean that with this experience I can buy gasoline, cartons of oil, shovel food in my mouth, and breathe a deep lung-full of clean, pure mountain air and think, "Shit, at least I've been there, done that."?

I am now in India as I finish updating my journals from Nigeria. And I cry when I think of my experience. I weep for the pain, the suffering, the disease of a land so beautiful, of a people so full of life that I feel selfish, like I've wasted my whole life over what? It is hard not to absorb Africa and not want to be sucked into it for good. It is hard not to wish everything that I ever had for these people, because I know...I know they would cherish it more than I.

A popular song sings to my ears as I sit and wonder:



It feels hopeless, a nihilist among many others, "The world is meant to be broken." But maybe it already is, and that's why I'm here? That's why we're here?

I remember the basketballs and the footballs (soccer balls) I brought the locals, even my little stupid "complimentary" cards with e-mail and address; and I remember how the young and the old looked at it with the reverence of chocolate mousse on a midnight veranda overlooking the Thames. They loved it, and in a way, it was pocket-change to me.

[Ha] No, I am grateful—extremely grateful—to the individuals whose lives I have crossed within Nigeria. Indeed, we did just that; we came together, weaved like two butterflies within a garden of roses, and then departed. And I am grateful to the US delegates, including our leaders (as well as the Nigerian delegates) for their strength, their zest for life with all characters across the board having been laid out and played with the finesse of a maverick. It was beautiful, painful, and the question still lingers as a cornerstone in the twilight of a muddy graveyard: Where do I go from here?

Nigeria is a work of humanity. All of humanity needs to be renovated. Poverty, disease, HIV/AIDS, racism, hatred, greed, environmental destruction, political nuisances, pollution, terrorism... And now within the southern foothills of the Indian Himalayas, I take the time and space to step back and see what this wedge of humanity can do about it. Where do I go from here-this planet earth—and what we can do together to renovate our consciousness and evolve with what we have within our hearts? I find myself back at a grassroots connection.

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