If you're going to be racist...

... at least get it right.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-africa-12030051

Now, if you didn't read the article, it gives a report of a recent incident in which some disappointed football fans in the Republic of Congo took to the streets and attacked Chinese-run businesses, after TP Mazembe were beaten 3-0 by Italian club Inter Milan.

The Fans were unhappy with the Referee's decisions and thought he lost them the game. They naturally took to the streets and attacked all the businesses operated by his fellow Chinese men. Perfectly normal reaction; I mean, who wouldn't take to the streets in a violent rampage after their team lost a match? Just one little problem. The referee was Japanese, not Chinese.

Dear disappointed fans, at the very least have the decency to find out which race you're hitting out at before going buck-wild on their property. I for one would feel pretty stupid if I stormed through several organizations and damaged their possessions, only to find out that the instigating incident did not involve their countryman at all.


Now that the renegades have run roughshod over several Chinese businesses, I doubt any one of them is going to walk up to any of the offended parties to apologize for their "mistake".

"Err, sorry about that mate. I thought the ref was Chinese. My bad, old chap -You orientals all look alike, you know. Case of mistaken identity, that's all. No harm, no foul and whatnot. Well then, Cheerio!"

Yeah... not likely.


This incident is not only an example of ignorance, but is also indicative of a subconsious negative sentiment the Congolese people are harbouring towards the Chinese, whose various copper mining businesses operate within the Republic.*

* Now this could spiral into an argument about neo-colonialism via business operations and how the black man should control his own resources, which in turn could spawn an argument about the inability of the black man to create commercial success for himself, because he had the chance to do so long before the Chinese set up shop, which can further spiral into past colonialism which arguably set the black man back several centuries... and I don't want to go there.

My point is that in a world where black people give white people (and other races) stick for lumping Africans together in one big puddle of oily racial muck, the reverse is also the case, and can have more severe consequences than just upsetting a couple of "Africans". Luckily, no lives were lost in this incident, but this could have easily not been the case.

This once again brings me to a point I often make; where there is division, there can be - and a lot of times there is - conflict. It almost makes me think that the answer to the almighty "Why are we here?" question is "to somehow live in perfect peace, despite all our racial, religious, cultural and ideological differences." Maybe that actually is the answer, and not 42 (follow the link if you didn't get that). Wow, apart from being quasi-psychic, I may just have answered the ultimate question. I never cease to amaze myself.

Now on that self aggrandizing note, I leave you all to enjoy the rest of your day, with hope that tomorrow brings a day free of racism - or, at the very least, jocular racist statements directed at the right races (and at someone who will not punch you in the face for said joke). Oh, and Merry Christmas! - Or "Happy Holidays" to the appropriate parties. See what I did there? Just call me Mr. Politically correct. (Oh darn, I thought I was done singing my own praises. Ok, I'm going now)


- Pat II



* On another note, there's a typo under the picture on the BBC website. Good eye I have, aye? (darn, more self aggrandizement. It hurts to be this amazing!)

Lens is the Word

The word Lens; Now this App is a seriously awesome piece of work. I even had a bit of trouble believing it was legit at first. I'm not by any means an Apple fanboy, but I've gotta say, the iphone's versatility greatly encourages creativity, and this app is just one example of several amazing creations out there. Its about five dollars for each language package (English to Spanish is seperate from Spanish to English), but it is probably worth it for anyone who travels a lot, or anyone who would want to read Spanish literature.

I do have a few questions though - For one, how well does it deal with other styles of text - radical italics, different serifs, etc. I also dont know how well it would deal with written words, as hand writing varies greatly.

There's also the problem of how it deals with incorrectly constructed sentences and misspelled words though... built-in autocorrect, maybe?

Either way, It seems like a decent app. If it comes with a japanese to English package, I'm buying me an Iphone for Christmas!

- Pat II

What they sayin'

This video is a perfect example of how gangstaness/blackness takes meaning away from a song. You hear the lyrics when a brutha spits it, and you say "damn thats tight!", but when you take it apart, word for word, you see just how crude a song can sound.

Nothing against the song or its artistes. I'm just saying, in the words of Outkast, "lean a little bit closer". Its fun to actually listen to a song, and not just hear it. Then, and only then, can you truly know what they sayin'.

Below is the original version.

Resposes to Responses: Article on Women in Nigeria

After reading my previous blog entry, a few people had some things to say. A friend of mine (named Dez) was particularly vocal, saying that Nigeria had bigger fish to fry:

He said, and I quote:

"I think Nigerias problems are WAAAY bigger than any gender issue or role based confusion.
Not to take anything away from this but its like worrying about a flat tire when your engine transmission is toast. How easy is it for ANYONE to make ...it in Nigeria regardless of gender?

In terms of relationships I think you just need to find the person on the same page as you. If you are female and wanna spend day and night cooking and cleaning then you can find the kind of guy that wants a house wife. If you wanna spend day and night hustling then you can find the kind of guy that wants a hustler . If you are more in the middle (and so on). There is no "right" or "wrong" role for women or men. There are just arbitrary constructs people with opinions put forward."





Astute observations, yes - My response is as stated below:








Just to clarify, this isn't a forum for debating gender issues and their place in society. Each gender has their strengths and weaknesses, and we are here to complement each other. This is simply commentary based on my observations, as well as some of my opinions. If you don't agree, that's okay (but you can still go and hug transformer).

@ Dez - astute observations as always. one thing though - I did mention a general perspective. I quote - "discrimination in itself would always have existed in society. As long as there is division, there can be conflict and discrimination." once we are different in any way (sex, race, religion, sexual orientation, tribe) there is room for opposition and oppression. I was just putting things into context for the pertinent issue. Of course there are greater problems, but that doesnt mean the little ones dont exist. To put my 'discrimination' point into perspective, I'll cite a timeless joke by Emo phillips:




Once I saw this guy on a bridge about to jump. I said, "Don't do it!"




He said, "Nobody loves me."



I said, "God loves you. Do you believe in God?"



He said, "Yes."



I said, "Are you a Christian or a Jew?"



He said, "A Christian."



I said, "Me, too! Protestant or Catholic?"



He said, "Protestant."



I said, "Me, too! What franchise?"



He said, "Baptist."



I said, "Me, too! Northern Baptist or Southern Baptist?"



He said, "Northern Baptist."



I said, "Me, too! Northern Conservative Baptist or Northern Liberal Baptist?"



He said, "Northern Conservative Baptist."



I said, "Me, too! Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region, or Northern Conservative Baptist Eastern Region?" He said, "Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region."



I said, "Me, too! Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region Council of 1879, or Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region Council of 1912?"



He said, "Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region Council of 1912."



I said, "Die, heretic!" And I pushed him over.

So yeah, the society probably has bigger problems than the oppression of Northern conservative baptists of 1912 by Northern conservative baptists of 1879, but the fact is that that man still got pushed over the bridge because of it. lol. that joke is hilarious btw.

Just to top things off - my introductory sentence stated that I was prone to coincidences-. The day after I wrote this piece, a lady friend of mine in the gym was being hit on by an older (much older) man, and later came to me (unprompted) bewailing the general attitude of men towards women in the country - objectifying them and making it seem like they are unable to do things without a man's help. I then referred her to my writeup. Shameless plug, I know, but I hereby declare myself quasi psychic. lol

Enjoy your day folks




- Pat II

Women in Nigeria - commentary on Chimamanda Adichie's Financial Times article

I tend to be prone to coincidences; whenever I ponder a topic, something usually happens the next day that teaches me more about said topic. When I learn about something for the first time, the next week I see that same thing all over the place. Maybe I’m quasi-psychic, or maybe it’s just my ignorance preventing me from seeing what I should be seeing until I learn about it. Either which way, I digress. This week’s “coincidence” was a discussion I had with my sister about discrimination against women in Nigeria, and the chauvinistic nature of our society. This discussion was impeccably juxtaposed with our discovery the following day - a Financial Times excerpt written by Chimamanda Adichie, on, you guessed it, being a woman in urban Nigeria.

The day we discovered the article (before we had read it) my sister and I saw a woman in an E/S-class Mercedes Benz and I went “Oya, who bought it for you?" (Tongue in cheek, of course). By sheer coincidence (or was it?) Adichie uses this very example in her article, decrying how women are seen as unable to earn a luxurious living on their own.

While the current state of affairs is unfortunate, the fact remains that there is no smoke without fire. Nigeria has been a patriarchal society for a long time, and the man has often done the bread winning. Several men who have attained vast wealth (notwithstanding how they came across it) often spend it on their spouses, or their girlfriends. Because of this, a high rolling chick is more often than not assumed to have another "source of income" - More so, if the girl is young - it raises eyebrows.

But here I must interject. Young women are not alone in this plight. Young, rich males raise eyebrows as well. While it may not always be openly mentioned (though sometimes it is), there exists a "chopping his father's money" stigma – a label attached to young men whose parents are of substantial means. The son is assumed to live off his father’s wealth, and is implicitly accused of not earning a dime in his entire life. This, to an extent, can be true. The structure of Nigeria makes it harder for young men to gain complete independence early. High costs of living alongside relatively low employment salaries mean that young men are dependent for a longer period of time than in other countries. While some delinquent sons exist, there are several young men working, and working hard, regardless of their parents’ wealth. But still, they are given the label of “carefree rich boy.”

On the flip side (yet again), albeit several young men are attributed this label, society accepts it as a norm, and turns a blind eye. The son is the heir after all, and all that money is his to claim in the long run, right? “So we might as well just treat him right”, society says. He gets the salutes, the “oga we dey hail oh!” and “we dey your side”. The daughter, on the other hand, is distanced, and does not merit the same respect the freeloader son does. She is just another girl who will soon marry a man and become his property. If she’s lucky, that man will be rich and only then will she become a “Madam!” (Note the exclamation mark.) She will still, however, be branded as a man’s acquisition. She will be a reflection of his wealth and authority - nothing more. (The mere fact that the phrase goes “chopping his father’s money “ is prejudiced in itself. Why is it not “his parents’ money”? )
Anyway, here are some points of call for me: Discrimination against women is global, and only recently did it wane in America. Perspectives are still heavily skewed worldwide in favour of men, but times are changing; countries across the globe are becoming more enlightened, and I believe Nigeria will soon follow suit. We tend to copy a lot of things, so here’s hoping we can emulate some beneficial culture as well.

In my opinion, discrimination in itself would always have existed in society. As long as there is division, there can be conflict and discrimination. If women were the higher power, mark my words there would be men writing these anti-oppression articles instead. Complaints of abuse would clutter newspaper editorials with stories of how “that woman stares at my butt at work”, or how female police officers waylay unfortunate men on the highway, inquiring as to whether they had “anything for the girls”. The internet would be awash with male forums and blogs telling of their gender’s enduring suffering, and men’s rights propaganda would litter the streets - assuming that women would let men speak out. For all we know, had they held the reins of power from the get-go, women would still be discriminating against men today, possibly with a stronger hush policy. We all know how adamant women can be, after all. Maybe it’s for the best things turned out the way they did.

All jokes aside, men lucked out genetically. Patriarchy began in ancient times, mostly because of the foundation of humanity, which was hunting and gathering. Men were more physically suited to these tasks, and ended up as the workers/breadwinners, while females took care of children and the households. With such a deep rooted foundation which spanned several millennia, it's not surprising that it has taken the world an equally long time to change its outlook. This prehistoric social structure is the very reason why some male supremacists, (if I may deem them such), argue that feminists are trying to defy natural law – something that has been encoded into our genes from the dawn of time. They believe that women are meant to be subservient and let men do the work.

While this perspective is highly skewed, I firmly believe in the latter part of the statement; that men should do the work. Let me qualify that; women should be cared for, while men work for them, especially (if not exclusively) in the case of marriage. I personally believe that men should work for their spouses. They must till the earth, sweat, and spoil their women with the rewards of their labour. Women are supposed to be cared for because they endure a pain men can never even fathom; childbirth. Women carry the living extension of a man’s being for nine months. Sure, the woman provided half the chromosomes, but she’s the one doing the heavy lifting for almost an entire year. And in Nigerian society, it is likely that the man will want her to do this four or five times. That’s four to five years of carrying a living being within her body. And it does not end there. Each child comes with it at least eighteen years of worry, high blood pressure and stress (it can be a lot more than eighteen years). From the cradle to high school to university, it is the mother that dotes over her child. When the child is sick, the mother is equally sick with anxiety. When the child leaves for school, she frets that her baby will come back with bumps and bruises. When the child matures and leaves for university, she frets that her child is leaving her and going into a world full of influences over which she has little or no control. The mother’s exertions scarcely go unnoticed, but often go unappreciated. The man may claim to worry about his child (and don’t get me wrong, he probably worries), but there is no way he can emulate a mother’s emotions - the feelings projected towards a being birthed from her very own body. Because of this, the married man must do her right. He must work his heart and soul out; ensuring that, save for the concern felt for her offspring, the wife/mother will have no other stress added upon her head. And if such stress inevitably arrives, he must give his all to lighten the load.

However, just because men should work for their women does not mean that females should be restrained in their efforts to make it on their own. Chimamanda’s gripe is especially with the attitude of society towards younger women who have no spouses, and hence no reason not to make the most of their careers and their lives. Young ladies are seen only as potential wives, not as women with potential. Even when they succeed in professional circles, they are ostracized. Strong women are categorized as bitchy, and successful ones in the corporate world are often characterized as being aggressive and manly.

If women don’t succeed, it’s because they are too subservient. If they succeed, they are either bitches (excuse my French), or have done” something” to get where they are. Women can’t seem to win either way in businesses - unless, of course, they start their own. In a patriarchy like Nigeria, such a thing will be an uphill task, and is almost impossible with strong backing from powerful males and females. I believe it is possible though, and I am hoping for more public support (financial and moral) in order to facilitate the ventures of young business women, who can then branch out from fashion, acting and modelling into any industry they wish. Believe you me, I am doing my part.


Till next time, I remain ever hopeful,

-Pat II

Link to Financial times excerpt: http://www.cp-africa.com/2010/12/12/chimamanda-writes-woman-urban-nigeria-financial-times/

"The Fathers have eaten sour grapes...

... and the children's teeth are set on edge." Such are the affairs of the Madoff family today as Mark Madoff, the 46 year old son of Bernie Madoff, was found hanged in his New York apartment - an apparent suicide. The decision of Madoff's son to take his own life is proof that, no matter how much money you make, there is no substitute for integrity.

Mark Madoff worked for his father in the financial company that defrauded investors of millions of Dollars, but he (assumably) and other family members have claimed ignorance, stating that they were unaware of Bernie's dubious dealings. While I find this hard to believe, considering that, as major stakeholders in the company, they must have perused several annual statements, and must have been privy to information regarding major investments, my misgivings are irrelevant in this context - Even if not directly culpable in his father's wrong doings, Mark's suicide is the embodiment of shame; despair brought upon him by the disgrace Bernie Madoff brought to the family and to its legacy.

I know that as sons and daughters, we may not always be privy to the affairs of our parentage, but we must take this message to heart- Human dignity is inviolable, and moreso is the dignity and pride of an entire family. The virture, respect, and self respect of a collective must not be squandered by the actions of just one man. The stigma carried from just one incident can scar several generations, and cases of families changing their names are not unheard of.

At the end of the day, we are only accountable to ourselves. We cannot know the intentions of anyone else, not even our closest blood relative. It is thus up to us to be true to ourselves, and to others. We each hold our legacies in our hands, but in tow with ours are those of our families, and those who associate with us. Do not dishonour yourself. Do not compromise your dignity, for in doing so, you rend asunder not only the integrity of your generation, but possibly that of many generations to come.

Till next time, I remain,

Pat II

Link:

http://uk.news.yahoo.com/4/20101211/twl-bernie-madoff-s-son-found-hanged-41f21e0.html

Lagos Rain: A short story written for a Creative writing Class

Gasping for breath, I leaned against one of the two slender pillars that demarcated the entrance to my former home. I barely made it; no sooner had I stepped under the ledge than the heavens bathed the earth with their fury. Akin to a flash flood, the rain had changed the landscape of the compound in an instant– ankle high water appeared as if from nowhere, and a sheet of rain coated the neighbourhood, extending as far as the eye could see. I had made the right choice to run from my car into the compound. Had I been a second later, my clothes would not have needed their weekly trip to the washers. I sighed - Indeed, I had chosen quite a challenging day to move my belongings.

While I was in university outside the country, my parents had built a new home, but had not moved all my possessions out of the old house. I took it upon myself to do that, but had not anticipated such weather. There was no way I would be able to carry anything from the house to the car without becoming a human sponge. I decided it would be best to wait out the storm. Fumbling for the keys in my pocket as I walked, I tripped on the third stair of the entrance, managing to catch myself before I fell. I let loose a stifled hiss, pressing my stubbed toe against the tip of my shoe in an attempt to dull the pain. Several years of absence must have made me unfamiliar with the architecture of the building, I thought to myself. But as I unlocked the front door and stepped through it, memories rushed to me, as if swept onward by the torrential downpour. In an instant, the house was familiar once more; as if I had never left.

I treaded past the furniture that was left behind, perhaps as a gift for future tenants. I paced furtively, as if not to wake sleeping spirits that lay dormant in that abandoned space. As I shuffled up the stairs, I glanced at the overhead windows; the rain poured ceaselessly, and I was again thankful that I was not outside. As I entered the family sitting room, I realized that, on this rainy day, not much had changed; neither the house, nor myself. When the sun shone, the house was an enclosure – a binding force that I would escape from once I had cut the bonds of assigned school work and household chores. But in the rain, it was the same four walls, with the same boy, now a man, standing within, idle, searching for what to do as the waters fell. Years away from my home had changed nothing. The rain itself stilled time – no, reversed its very flow. Chipped and flaky with age, the taupe paint coating the walls outside the house seemed to take new life, revived by the misty shower - The greyish brownness melding into a glossy sheen provided by nature herself. The hibiscus flowers in the garden glistened and reared their red heads- lifting them continually upwards, if only just to be beaten down by the heavy pellets falling from the skies. On the adjacent stone curb, a snail crawled, making its way towards the leafy plants, sure that no one would impede its path; no children to prod at it with sticks, forcing it back into the safety of its shell; no birds to peck repeatedly at its shell, in spirited attempts to earn themselves a meal. In the rain, the snail found its element – its freedom. These were its better days. And as the soft patter of raindrops upon zinc roofing became nostalgic orchestra, I found my soul cast backwards in time, to better days of my own. To damp days such as this, but when I was more carefree; the days when I was younger -much younger- and my only concerns were for life’s trivialities; for the entertainment I would seek out when the rain barricaded me within my own home.
The television would be my first resort- a haven of pre-recorded entertainment that would engage my senses, taking me far from the bleak wetness of the outside world. My favourite program was “Voltron“, which told the tale of a valiant robot fighting the forces of evil. I always looked forward to watching that show. But that was a pleasure accessible only when N.E.P.A saw it fit to provide us with electricity. And more often than not, the house was without supply. Today is no different; I flick a light switch up and down – as expected, there is no power. I then recall how I would often go to the basket in my room, where an assortment of toys and games lay in wait. I was never for want of activity when it rained, and staring at the gaping emptiness where the basket once lay, I was thankful for my parents, who had done so much for me. Because of them the rain brought no concerns save for when I would be free to leave the house and bathe in the sunlight once more.

With childhood long past, the rain now brings fresh qualms; I think of myself – of my car, which would glisten in the shower, only to become dusty when the waters evaporated and needing to be cleaned again. I think of the commuters, as the rain grinds traffic to a halt. They will be late returning to their homes on this Wednesday evening - and equally late to their offices the next morning. I think of the pedestrians who trudge through the grimy sludge as unpaved roads and rainwater become one, and again I am thankful. Yet I am sombre, for the rain reminds me not only of my fortunes, but of the less privileged; traders in open markets closing down their stalls, lest the deluge ruin their wares; hawkers, who brave the squall, lest they are unable to sell their goods; families whose houses threaten to be swept away with the slightest gust. And, pondering these thoughts, I contemplate the nature of the rain; refreshing the world with its bounty, but equally merciless in its descent, sweeping away everything too weak to resist it. Like a rapturous lover it caressed the earth, but perhaps at times too harshly, leaving moist engravings on its loamy pelt. The rain split my emotions, making me melancholy. Yet I always smiled whenever I gazed upon the moistened ground. It reminded me that I was alive; alive to know of the rain – to bathe in its silken showers; to fear its chilling embrace. Yes, as I straddled the line between past and present, in the place I once called home, I was indeed alive.

The siren cut into my thoughts, stopping them dead, and signalling that the electricity supply too, was once again alive. My eyes caught a glimpse of the television in the corner, which had flickered to life. Someone must have left it on as they left the house, and I would have to turn it off before I left. But before that, I would indulge my inner child once more.

It was an old television; a medium sized, grey model which my parents had owned since their days in University, where they first met. I was surprised they had not taken it with them to the new house, and promised myself to return for it later – it would not fit in the trunk of my car with everything else I intended to take with me. Reminiscence guided my fingers to the tuning knob, and it swivelled effortlessly as I tuned in to NTA 2, channel 5. It was four o’clock, and this time, fifteen years ago, “Voltron” would be airing. The static cleared, and sure as rain and taxes, “Voltron” was on television, thrusting his trusted blade in the face of bio-mechanical threats to the earth and its people.

As Voltron stuck down his final foe, I realized that amidst the action, I did not realize that the storm had waned, the thunderous cascade of water now nothing more than a misty spray. Electricity, “Voltron” and clear skies; I guess good things did come in threes. I turned off the television, perhaps for the last time, and turned towards my former room. There were several fragments of nostalgia for me to move, and the sooner I began the better. I stepped towards the door, but stopped, and took a second glance at the dusty television box.

When I stepped out of the house, I was clutching the dusty grey set to my chest, holding it tightly, as if not to lose my childhood memories; memories of rainy days and of Voltron, when the skies were dark and menacing, and when that grey television set had come to my rescue. Today, that television set was having a grey day of its own, and now I would save it. It would sit in my new room, as close to my heart as it always was. I would never forget it, and I would never forget the rain.