To The Little Boy in Karu
Dear Little Boy on the bicycle,
How are you?
You might be all grown up when you get to read this, but I will write to you all the same. You don’t know me, but I think I know you. I saw you this morning, on my way to work. You were in your old school uniform, the green checked shirt that has seen better days and forest green shorts that looked weary. I watched your sandal-clad feet, with no stockings, already dusty and dirty from your journey and I wondered if it would be worth it. If all these sacrifices will be worth it. I wondered about all this while held up in the oppressive traffic at Karu, sitting prettily in the front seat of the grey Highlander. Did you see me? There were three children in fancy school uniforms in the back seat, peering through the tinted back window, at the outside world, like visitors at a zoo.
I couldn't help but notice the seat of your bicycle, wrapped in different fabrics, like a poor woman's baby wrapped in swaddling clothes.
Your bicycle seems to have a story, having lived a long life. It looked to me as though she is not just a mode of transport but a companion. I watched the way you worriedly caressed her like a concerned father, even in your frustration putting her chain back in place. It was unclear whether your worry was from affection or the fear of being late to school.
Little boy, do you like going to school? Do your teachers even show up? What is your favourite subject and what do you dream of being as an adult? I have so many questions, little boy. I want to know how far you ride each day, to and from your school. I have concluded that your house must be far from school because of how dirty your feet looked, and how sweaty you were this morning.
Do you have siblings? Are your parents literate or are they investing in your education with hopes that you will be successful and lead them out of poverty?
I know you go to a government school, the ugly green colours of your uniform told me that. What I do not know is what class you’re in, how well you speak English and how often you go to school. I do not know how old you are, because though you look 10, the reddish hair on your head speaks of malnourishment so you might be older.
The Federal Government and Central Bank of Nigeria have placed a ban on cryptocurrency. Another drama, another day, same country.They are constantly crippling the efforts of innovators and crushing tech startups with their ceaseless bans on things they can simply regulate. I don’t know what this will mean in the next two years, but Crypto you see, is the future. And as we know, for this country, problem no dey finish… but we go dey alright.
I have a few words of advice to you, as a senior Nigerian youth. One who has seen the harsh reality of our future.They will tell you that we are the leaders of tomorrow, but tomorrow doesn’t come in this country. So you have to take charge of your destiny my boy. Computer science might seem like gibberish to you, it's highly likely that there is only one computer in your school. Do all you must to know how that machine works, find where you can learn it inside out. It will give you an edge to be computer literate wherever you go. You are not as helpless as your situation might make you think. My words may seem patronising, but the possibilities and opportunities before you are endless. Nothing can stand in the way of a determined soul.
I do not agree that your future is only full of toil on the farm, or heavy lifting in the lumber market, selling cashew nuts in traffic, or a clerk’s job at the very best. There is so much more, but first, you need to believe it. The reality you see, of empty bellies at night, mosquito bite marks in the day and tattered and torn clothes, doesn’t mean that is your lot in life. Lie lie! There is more.
Everyone has their curve to success, but you must know that a positive outlook and resilience are key elements to anyone’s progress. You have to choose to be more than a statistic figure, a demographic. That title placed on you,a child from low income and poor families, it reeks. Throw it off like the lice-ridden, filthy and stench-filled obstruction it is.
You might wonder how I know this. Why I am so sure. It is because my father was just like you. A poor boy in some forgotten village somewhere in Bauchi, trekking 8km with bare feet daily, to go to school. It seemed like a stupid venture to many of his “hardworking” contemporaries at the time. Even after repeating a class for poor performance, he kept going. Never backing down. That has made a difference in my entire family. The last of the four of his children is rounding up his first degree in the university.
So Little Boy, when you lose hope or it gets hard to pursue that education when you trade food for books and play for lessons; I want you to know that an entire generation depends on your success. And you will succeed. I hope to see you soon, knowing Abuja is not so big. Godspeed.
