Four months after the Nigerian Government declared a state of emergency in three North Eastern states, international media coverage is zoning in on the atrocities committed by the militant terrorist group Boko Haram, companies and aid agencies are increasing their security measures, and the red no-go area on the FCO travel advice map is bleeding further across the country.
Life in the northern half of Africa’s most populous country is rarely observed by those on the outside: the louder, wealthier, Christian half of the country, often eclipses its (materially) poorer, Muslim cousins in the north. The majority of ex-patriate Nigerians you might come across (and the diaspora is significant in size, with estimates ranging from 3 to 17 million) will be of Igbo or Yoruba descent – ethnic groups in the south east and south west regions respectively, where higher levels of education and English language, coupled with the seat of the country’s oil-wealth, lead to more emigration opportunities.
So the Nigeria we hear about – from writers such as Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche, and the late great Chinua Achebe, in TV series such as Lost, from comedians such as Andi Osho, and musicians such as Bloc Party’s Kele Okereke or the Lighthouse Family’s Tunde Baiyewu – is that of the south.
So it’s easy for the rest of the world to write off the half of the country with less of a voice as dangerous, scary and unstable. Meanwhile, Northern Nigerians go about their daily lives, in the only way they know how: with joy, laughter and optimism.
Coping with an ever-present threat
Although the state of emergency is limited to the three states where the Islamic terrorist group Boko Haram (whose name means ‘Western Education is sinful’ in Hausa, the predominant language of the North) have focused their attacks, the effects of this instability are felt throughout the northern states. On a recent return visit to Kaduna State, for me the increase in police and military checkpoints on the roads was undeniable. There is no longer a curfew – unlike the troubled neighbouring state of Kano – but there is an awareness of the risks of being out at night.
That’s true: being out and about or travelling at night in Nigeria is dangerous. Being in a public place, particularly after Friday prayers, can be dangerous. Even going to the market can be dangerous.
But then the Nigerian barometer for risk is different from that in the heavily health-and-safety-saturated West. Death was already more present in this developing country than in my own before Boko Haram took to arms, although not – as we might imagine from prominent media images of the all encompassing “Africa” – as a result of drought or famine (a Nigerian colleague of mine was confident in his assertion that in Nigeria – where the rain falls heavily each year and the ground is fertile – no-one is starving).
Instead, it’s because of a web of more complex problems facing a developing, post-colonial country: a combination of poor and under-regulated roads; a piecemeal, expensive and inconsistent healthcare sector; rampant gangs of armed robbers on highways and in homes; a corrupt government (and hence police force and military) which rarely has the safety of the citizen at heart. And so, Northern Nigeria – which has received far less investment in infrastructure than the oil-rich south – has, in some respects, assimilated the recent deaths from terrorist bombs and Boko Haram shootings into the already full tapestry of daily death.
While being driven home from a restaurant in Kaduna City at around 10pm – long after dark and a total no-no for any ex-pat working for a company or aid agency – it occurred to me that, although my host seemed totally calm about the situation, it might be a little risky. I listened into the conversation between her and a friend, and managed to pick up from the little Hausa I know coupled with arm gestures that they were deciding which route to take and ruling out a certain road on the basis that “akwai bombs” (“there are bombs”). It was all very matter of fact, no panic or anxiety – just a practical consideration.
That’s not to say that the threat and danger doesn’t register here. When I asked an eleven year old whether he liked living in Nigeria, he said he would prefer to live in the UK. (He has never visited the UK, but this doesn’t usually get in the way of most Nigerians telling British people “I love your country”.) When I asked why, he said “Because of security. When we went to Dubai, I looked out of the window at night, and there were people walking around – just walking around, and it wasn’t dangerous. But here you can’t do that.”
Work-life balance
What characterizes Northern Nigerians is a curious mix of thrusting capitalism and laid-back inactivity. Before I first went to Nigeria, I watched the BBC series ‘Welcome to Lagos’ (another example of the South bias in the media). The message I received loud and clear was that Nigerians are entrepreneurs at heart, who will spot even the tiniest opportunity and turn it into a commercial viability. So imagine my confusion when I first tried to get an achaba (motorbike taxi) and the driver, sleeping draped over his bike, just shook his head at my request. He told me he didn’t want to go that far, and wouldn’t even enter into negotiation about the price: at that moment, he was tired and didn’t want to be driving across town, regardless of the fee.
A southerner once explained to me – using a stereotype which I have since heard from other Nigerians – that the Hausa people (the predominant tribe in the North) are lazy. “You see them everywhere with their radios – they are some of the best informed about politics and current affairs, but they don’t get involved – they don’t do anything about it.”
Well, quite aside from the huge generalization, and the fact that levels of literacy and education in the North are far lower than those in the South, I can’t agree with that assessment. This African pace of life – which is more evident in the north than in the more westernized south – is a result of a recognition that there are more important things in life than working: Northern Nigerians know how to relax, and they know how to enjoy themselves.
That’s not to say that there is a lack of entrepreneurial spirit in the North: far from it. If you meet a northerner who has a full time job, you can pretty much guarantee this is not their only source of income. In the 18 months I worked there, I learned of my colleagues’ import businesses, farms, NGOs, consultancies, co-operatives and much more – all in addition to the full time jobs they were doing very well in. Many people had three or four different projects on the go, different sources of income, quite apart from their main employment. This portfolio approach to earning money – and life in general – is a manifestation of the optimistic entrepreneurial Nigerian who sees opportunity at every corner and never settles for her lot in life.
The structure of northern society
Northern Nigerian culture is robustly, stubbornly, faithfully hierarchical. Any given Northerner, at any given moment, in any given gathering, will know whether he is higher or lower in the social hierarchy than the man standing next to him. Hierarchical status must be honoured and maintained, not only through the rightful respect being paid to those above you (meetings and ceremonies can take hours to get started while the roll call of everyone who is anyone attending is read out), but also through maintaining the appropriate living standards. A big man must have a big car. A big man must stay in an expensive hotel when he is in town. A big man must wear big clothes (literally – the babariga is what high status Northern men wear: a garment characterised by its obvious excess of fabric hanging, balanced, from the shoulders and entirely impractical if trying to do anything physical or manual (which is, of course, exactly the point it is trying to make)).
Traditionally, northern society has functioned through the people at the top of the hierarchy providing for those below. It is culturally expected of every person to give to those of lower social or economic status, whether they request your support or not. And for years, things tripped along quite nicely like that. Then came globalisation, a desire for more – and more expensive – material things, and a broken and corrupt public sector in which those at the top are siphoning off such a huge proportion of public wealth into their own pockets that the remainder trickling down to regular employees is woeful.
To illustrate just how inequitable Nigerian society is, here are some examples: a Nigerian senator earns £720,000 per year – that’s 280% of Barack Obama’s salary; a civil service director’s annual salary barely reaches £5,000; and, in those states which have set a minimum wage, the lowest paid workers would earn £850 – per year. (To give you some idea of cost of living, a VSO volunteer is given a living allowance of roughy £145 per month (equivalent to a salary of £1,740) which is only supposed to cover non-rent costs.)
a Nigerian senator earns £720,000 per year – … a civil service director’s annual salary barely reaches £5,000; and, in those states which have set a minimum wage, the lowest paid workers would earn £850
So the old model of people at the top giving to those beneath them – perhaps more necessary than ever in such an imbalanced society – begins to buckle under the strain of trying to maintain one’s own living standards with an increasingly inadequate salary, as well as more frequent and more demanding requests for support from your dependants, who also want all of the mod cons for their new home, or a fancy wedding. The idea of saying No to any such requests (or even letting a beat pass when someone who reports to you at work announces they are getting married) is absolutely abhorrent to a Northern Nigerian.
The upshot? Corruption seeps down to every level, into every part of Nigerian life, in order to be able to maintain this social norm. If your salary is barely big enough to cover your own outgoings, when the need arises to give a wad of cash to someone else, what are you going to do? It’s a complex, endemic problem which has no clear solution, but nonetheless it’s important (and perhaps encouraging) to recognise that corruption isn’t always motivated by personal greed.
Perhaps it is this deeply ingrained social structure – in which everybody can expect to receive both support from above in the hierarchy, and demands for money from below – which has bred the curious combination of a sense of entitlement (or ‘laziness’ as my southern friend would have it) and keen capitalism among Northern Nigerians.
Happiness
A few years ago, Nigeria came top of one of the many ‘Happiest Country’ rankings. You could almost hear the developed world going, “Nigeria?! What – that place where they’re riddled with corruption and keep sending us scam emails asking for money? The place where oil workers keep getting kidnapped? Where there’s no drinkable tap water or constant energy supply? Really?!”
But I can believe it.
Everything is taken in a Nigerian’s stride. And everything is up for being the subject of hilarity. A few years ago, still green and afraid of everything in this supposedly terrifying country, I was in a car with a couple of Nigerian colleagues which was stopped at a police roadblock. The officer, rifle held prominently before his chest, peered menacingly into the car and clocked my face. “Have these men kidnapped you?” His face broke into an enormous grin and both he and my fellow passengers burst into fits of belly laughter. A weak smile and shake of the head from me and we were ushered through, the laughter still ringing out behind us.
Nigerians have both a unique and beautiful ability to see the funny side of everything, and a stubborn, verging on foolish optimism in which will cease for no man, woman or terrorist group. And so it is with Boko Haram. NTA recently broadcast a programme which had me doing a double take. There on the screen were bright, enthusiastic, intelligent young people – of secondary school age – calmly, and in detail, explaining to the camera their winning entries in a design competition. One had designed a farm-waste management system which also helped to generate biofuel; another had made a prototype for a solar-powered oven using mirrors; yet another was showing off a hugely detailed model which clearly had something to do with agriculture, but which was too complicated for me.
At the bottom of the screen ran the headline informing us that these students were from secondary schools in Maiduguri. Maiduguri! The capital of Borno State in the far North East of Nigeria, the centre of Boko Haram’s reign of terror and the current state of emergency, the scene of bombs, unrest and retaliatory killings for the past three years. These students had spent the best part of their adolescence surrounded by fear, death and unrest, and yet here they were, bright-eyed, proudly demonstrating their environmentally friendly energy solutions. One thing is for sure: Northern Nigerians are not a people to be underestimated.
Originally published on the Urban Times.
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[…] So it’s easy for the rest of the world to write off the half of the country with less of a voice as dangerous, scary and unstable. Meanwhile, Northern Nigerians go about their daily lives, in the only way they know how: with joy, laughter and optimism. Read More… […]