Why I Stopped Celebrating Nigeria’s Independence Day
It was right in the middle of another busy afternoon in the early fall of 2011. Summer was over and I was adjusting to the realization that nine to five can extend past that, especially if you fall into the “corporate slave” category. Like every other day, I was multi-tasking like a hamster on a wheel, spinning from thoughtless correspondences to meaningful editorial transcripts. It was during my energetic routine that the frantic SOS messages littering my phone screen caught my eye.
The numbers were international and domestic which was a red flag. It meant something dire was happening or had already happened. When you spend your life vacillating between two vastly different time zones, you become adept at separating bullshit from legit. As I calmly read my cousin’s words, I could hear my desk phone ringing. My immediate reaction was to get up and swiftly walk away.
I could feel the accusatory glares coming from my managers as I briskly passed them by. Yes, I was doing the unthinkable, but all I could hope for was that my feet would be able to function long enough for me to make it to the copy room. This was a designated haven that provided some sense of privacy for anyone who needed to make the type of calls that a cubicle couldn’t contain. It immediately became the backdrop for one of the most stunning episodes of my life.
My mother’s younger brother, my uncle, had been kidnapped. He had been taken by a gang of tribal outlaws who were spreading like a virus across the eastern part of Nigeria, an area heavily populated by most of my Igbo relatives. He was driving back to his resident town after a business trip when he was cornered, forced out of his vehicle and led by gunpoint to a dense area in the middle of nowhere, in stark darkness, to join his fellow captives.
A year before, I had heard nightmarish accounts of people being randomly taken against their will, brutally tortured, even mutilated, while their desperate relatives worked feverishly behind the scenes to come up with the cash needed for their freedom. If the amount was paid in full, the story ended relatively well, but if fruitless negotiations came into play, the likelihood of reaching a mutually beneficial agreement was slim to none. That meant your loved one would pay the ultimate price.
As I tried to collect my thoughts while deciding whom to call first for a coherent update, my imagination ran rampant. I was being tormented by the images of my beloved uncle writhing in pain after being kicked in the gut or repeatedly slapped in the face with the butt of the gun. I could picture the foul-smelling horror nest housing my uncle and his roommates, erected by these dimwitted local boys, whose restless dispositions had evolved into a ruthless animalistic desire to terrorize anyone who fit their narrow-minded idea of privilege. Being wealthy “Naija style” isn’t just about how bloated your bank account is, but rather the ability to enjoy the basics on a regular basis.
Running water, constant electricity and eating at least two meals a day is proof that you’re living large in Nigeria. The boys holding my uncle were hungry, bitter ,and incorrigible. They had become victims of societal warfare, of a government that has perfected the art of punishing its citizens by rewarding them with a lifetime supply of specialized junk that, regardless of effort or best intentions, yields no results.
Now these destitute ruffians were taking out their frustrations on my uncle and time was of the essence. The police are never any help because they only respond to monetary compensation. This was a business deal that could go horribly awry if any of the players screwed up. After several attempts, I reached my mother and, despite an incredibly shaky connection, I was able to get all my questions answered. The kidnappers wanted an insane amount of money and my family members were rallying to ensure that the demands would be met in a timely fashion.
It would involve shelving our dignity and pride by borrowing from friends who would undoubtedly brag about the part they played in securing my uncle’s freedom for generations to come. I wanted so badly to be able to promptly provide the level of assistance needed to swoop in and tear my uncle away from his captors. These are the times when being reminded of one’s financial limitations can wreck you.
I felt inadequate, listening through my tears, as my mother laid out the strategy that had been concocted the night before. Once the money was collected, it would be delivered to the assigned location, and my uncle’s life would be saved. There was nothing I could do but pray and wait. I had already been praying — the waiting part was going to be an excruciating exercise in patience.
As I returned to my desk, I felt alone and victimized. How was it that almost everyone around me had inherited a life that guaranteed their secured humanity and I had garnered a birthright that would unavoidably haunt me for the rest of my life?
I was jolted me out of bed in the middle of the night when my phone started ringing like a clanging church bell. It took two days for my uncle to be released. He was on the other end of the line assuring me that he was fine and all was well. He sounded like he was in good spirits; he had survived the beatings like a champ. I was relieved and grateful. I was also confused and emotionally spent. Everyone else I spoke to including my cousins seemed to have put our short-lived nightmare behind them, but I was still having a hard time processing the fact that a member of my family had been subject to such an unthinkable plight.
Sure, this wasn’t the first time we had been through the ringer. We had endured our share of armed robberies and home invasions. And after each victory, it was always back to business as usual, almost as if none of the terrifying events had transpired. But I wasn’t willing to accept this latest freak show as normal. This had been an unwelcomed ride to hell and back and I was sick to my stomach.
I was sick of being tied to a country that shamelessly celebrated its independence on October 1st of every year while my level of paranoia remained at an all time high, constantly anticipating the fate of my loved ones. I am not the only Nigerian living abroad who suffers from this all-consuming degree of anxiety. It is part of our makeup and we have learned to accept the preposterous nature of our existence. Being independent shouldn’t translate to being trapped in a maze of worry and elusive opportunities. But for my countrymen it does.
As another Independence Day rolls by, I continue to bear the reality that comes with recognizing my heritage. The images of the flag and coat of arms do nothing more than remind me of what it really means to be a compatriot. It means that I have to accept that more than 200 schoolgirls can vanish without a trace. I have to acknowledge that bribery and corruption will continue to dictate the national forecast. And I have to face the consequences that come from a lawless climate that breeds contempt for who we are and what we are known for. In short, I am unable to celebrate Nigeria’s Independence Day until further notice.
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Cover photo AP Photo/ Sunday Alamba
