Tuesday, 31 May 2016

CELEBRATING VISIONARY LEADERS - Prof Ambrose Alli

Taking a look back at history, we see persons who by today's assessment, can be considered to be african legends. One of such person is PROFESSOR AMBROSE FOLORUNSHO AIGBOKHAEBHO ALLI (1929-1989)

BACKGROUND
Ambrose Folorunsho Alli was born in Idoani, Ondo state on 22 September 1929 but his father hailed from Emuado quarters of Ekpoma, Edo state. In his childhood he moved between Oka-Odo, Ekpoma, Owo, Efon-Alaye, Benin City and Asaba, where he completed his secondary education in 1948. He attended the School of Agriculture Ibadan (1948) and the School of Medical Technology, Adeoyo Hospital Ibadan (1953–1960) where he gained an MBBS. He served as a house office at the Adeoyo hospital from 1960 to 1961. He went to the United Kingdom for a post-graduate course in neuropathology at the University of London (1961–1966), gaining a D.C. Pathology degree. Later he studied at the University of Birmingham from 1971 to 1974.

He was a lecturer at the University of Ibadan (1966–1969) and was senior lecturer at the Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria (1969–1974). From 1974 to 1979 Professor Alli was head of the department of pathology at the University of Benin, Benin City

POLITICAL CAREER
Ambrose Alli was a member of the constituent assembly that drafted the 1978 Nigeria constitution. He joined the Unity Party of Nigeria (UPN) and ran successfully as UPN candidate in the Bendel State governorship election of 1979. His main thrust as governor was to increase educational opportunities. He established over 600 new secondary schools, and abolished secondary school fees. He also established four teachers training colleges to supply staff to the new schools, as well as several other higher educational institutions. In 1981 he laid the foundation of the Bendel State University, which is now named the Ambrose Alli University, Ekpoma. Other reforms included abolishing charges for services and drugs at state-owned hospitals and eliminating the flat-rate tax. His administration carried out massive construction of roads to open up the rural areas.

As Governor, he always wore sandals, joking that he was so busy working in Government House that he never had time to buy shoes for himself.

LATER CAREER
When Ambrose Alli was rigged out of office by NPN in 1983, he retired to his family house where he rendered free medical services to students and other natives. After the military government of Major-General Muhammadu Buhari took power, he was sentenced to 100 years in prison by a military tribunal on a bogus charge of allegedly misappropriating N983,000 in funds for a road project. He was later freed when the Esama of Benin, Chief Gabriel Igbinedion, paid a fine to the government.

Ambrose Folorunsho Alli died on his birthday on 22 September 1989, at the Lagos University Teaching Hospital in Lagos. An annual Distinguished Leadership Lecture was later established in his honour

Professor Alli passed away at LUTH on 22/09/89 his 60th birthday. He was married to Rosemary Alli, a Briton and had four children. But for the vision of this notable son of Edo many Edolites nay Nigerians would not have been educated today.

Little wonder the Hon. Rev Father Theophilus Uwaifo summed it up in his funeral oration for Prof. Alli in 1989 that "ONLY TWO GOVERNORS HAVE RULED BENDEL STATE, PROFESSOR ALLI HERE LYING DEAD AND OTHERS".

[Source Unknown]

MODERN SLAVERY - IT'S TIME TO STOP THE BLAME GAME AS A PEOPLE

They call the Third World the lazy man’s purview; the sluggishly slothful and languorous prefecture. In this realm people are sleepy, dreamy, torpid, lethargic, and therefore indigent—totally penniless, needy, destitute, poverty-stricken, disfavored, and impoverished. In this demesne, as they call it, there are hardly any discoveries, inventions, and innovations. Africa is the trailblazer. Some still call it “the dark continent” for the light that flickers under the tunnel is not that of hope, but an approaching train. And because countless keep waiting in the way of the train, millions die and many more remain decapitated by the day.

“It’s amazing how you all sit there and watch yourselves die,” the man next to me said. “Get up and do something about it.”

Brawny, fully bald-headed, with intense, steely eyes, he was as cold as they come. When I first discovered I was going to spend my New Year’s Eve next to him on a non-stop JetBlue flight from Los Angeles to Boston I was angst-ridden. I associate marble-shaven Caucasians with iconoclastic skin-heads, most of who are racist.

“My name is Walter,” he extended his hand as soon as I settled in my seat.

I told him mine with a precautious smile.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“Zambia.”

“Zambia!” he exclaimed, “Kaunda’s country.”

“Yes,” I said, “Now Sata’s.”

“But of course,” he responded. “You just elected King Cobra as your president.”

My face lit up at the mention of Sata’s moniker. Walter smiled, and in those cold eyes I saw an amenable fellow, one of those American highbrows who shuttle between Africa and the U.S.

“I spent three years in Zambia in the 1980s,” he continued. “I wined and dined with Luke Mwananshiku, Willa Mungomba, Dr. Siteke Mwale, and many other highly intelligent Zambians.” He lowered his voice. “I was part of the IMF group that came to rip you guys off.” He smirked. “Your government put me in a million dollar mansion overlooking a shanty called Kalingalinga. From my patio I saw it all—the rich and the poor, the ailing, the dead, and the healthy.”

“Are you still with the IMF?” I asked.

“I have since moved to yet another group with similar intentions. In the next few months my colleagues and I will be in Lusaka to hypnotize the cobra. I work for the broker that has acquired a chunk of your debt. Your government owes not the World Bank, but us millions of dollars. We’ll be in Lusaka to offer your president a couple of millions and fly back with a check twenty times greater.”

“No, you won’t,” I said. “King Cobra is incorruptible. He is …”

He was laughing. “Says who? Give me an African president, just one, who has not fallen for the carrot and stick.”

Quett Masire’s name popped up.

“Oh, him, well, we never got to him because he turned down the IMF and the World Bank. It was perhaps the smartest thing for him to do.”

At midnight we were airborne. The captain wished us a happy 2012 and urged us to watch the fireworks across Los Angeles.

“Isn’t that beautiful,” Walter said looking down.

From my middle seat, I took a glance and nodded admirably.

“That’s white man’s country,” he said. “We came here on Mayflower and turned Indian land into a paradise and now the most powerful nation on earth. We discovered the bulb, and built this aircraft to fly us to pleasure resorts like Lake Zambia.”

I grinned. “There is no Lake Zambia.”

He curled his lips into a smug smile. “That’s what we call your country. You guys are as stagnant as the water in the lake. We come in with our large boats and fish your minerals and your wildlife and leave morsels—crumbs. That’s your staple food, crumbs. That corn-meal you eat, that’s crumbs, the small Tilapia fish you call Kapenta is crumbs. We the Bwanas (whites) take the cat fish. I am the Bwana and you are the Muntu. I get what I want and you get what you deserve, crumbs. That’s what lazy people get—Zambians, Africans, the
entire Third World.”

The smile vanished from my face.

“I see you are getting pissed off,” Walter said and lowered his voice. “You are thinking this Bwana is a racist. That’s how most Zambians respond when I tell them the truth. They go ballistic. Okay. Let’s for a moment put our skin pigmentations, this black and white crap, aside. Tell me, my friend, what is the difference between you and me?”

“There’s no difference.”

“Absolutely none,” he exclaimed. “Scientists in the Human Genome Project have proved that. It took them thirteen years to determine the complete sequence of the three billion DNA subunits. After they

were all done it was clear that 99.9% nucleotide bases were exactly the same in you and me. We are the same people. All white, Asian, Latino, and black people on this aircraft are the same.”

I gladly nodded.

“And yet I feel superior,” he smiled fatalistically. “Every white person on this plane feels superior to a black person. The white guy who picks up garbage, the homeless white trash on drugs, feels superior to you no matter his status or education. I can pick up a nincompoop from the New York streets, clean him up, and take him to Lusaka and you all be crowding around him chanting muzungu, muzungu and yet he’s a riffraff. Tell me why my angry friend.”

For a moment I was wordless.

“Please don’t blame it on slavery like the African Americans do, or colonialism, or some psychological impact or some kind of stigmatization. And don’t give me the brainwash poppycock. Give me a better answer.”

I was thinking.

He continued. “Excuse what I am about to say. Please do not take offense.”

I felt a slap of blood rush to my head and prepared for the worst.

“You my friend flying with me and all your kind are lazy,” he said. “When you rest your head on the pillow you don’t dream big. You and other so-called African intellectuals are damn lazy, each one of you. It is you, and not those poor starving people, who is the reason Africa is in such a deplorable state.”

“That’s not a nice thing to say,” I protested.

He was implacable. “Oh yes it is and I will say it again, you are lazy. Poor and uneducated Africans are the most hardworking people on earth. I saw them in the Lusaka markets and on the street selling merchandise. I saw them in villages toiling away. I saw women on Kafue Road crushing stones for sell and I wept. I said to myself where are the Zambian intellectuals? Are the Zambian engineers so imperceptive they cannot invent a simple stone crusher, or a simple water filter to purify well water for those poor villagers? Are you telling me that after thirty-seven years of independence your university school of engineering has not produced a scientist or an engineer who can make simple small machines for mass use? What is the school there for?”

I held my breath.

“Do you know where I found your intellectuals? They were in bars quaffing. They were at the Lusaka Golf Club, Lusaka Central Club, Lusaka Playhouse, and Lusaka Flying Club. I saw with my own eyes a bunch of alcoholic graduates. Zambian intellectuals work from eight to five and spend the evening drinking. We don’t. We reserve the evening for brainstorming.”

He looked me in the eye.

“And you flying to Boston and all of you Zambians in the Diaspora are just as lazy and apathetic to your country. You don’t care about your country and yet your very own parents, brothers and sisters are in Mtendere, Chawama, and in villages, all of them living in squalor. Many have died or are dying of neglect by you. They are dying of AIDS because you cannot come up with your own cure. You are here calling yourselves graduates, researchers and scientists and are fast at articulating your credentials once asked—oh, I have a PhD in this and that—PhD my foot!”
I was deflated.

“Wake up you all!” he exclaimed, attracting the attention of nearby passengers. “You should be busy lifting ideas, formulae, recipes, and diagrams from American manufacturing factories and sending them to your own factories. All those
dissertation papers you compile should be your country’s treasure. Why do you think the Asians are a force to reckon with? They stole our ideas and turned them into their own. Look at Japan, China, India, just look at them.”

He paused. “The Bwana has spoken,” he said and grinned. “As long as you are dependent on my plane, I shall feel superior and you my friend shall remain inferior, how about that? The Chinese, Japanese, Indians, even Latinos are a notch better. You Africans are at the bottom of the totem pole.”

He tempered his voice. “Get over this white skin syndrome and begin to feel confident. Become innovative and make your  own stuff for god’s sake.”

At 8 a.m. the plane touched down at Boston’s Logan International Airport. Walter reached for my hand.

“I know I was too strong, but I don’t give it a damn. I have been to Zambia and have seen too much poverty.” He pulled out a piece of paper and scribbled something. “Here, read this. It was written by a friend.”

He had written only the title: “Lords of Poverty.”

Thunderstruck, I had a sinking feeling. I watched Walter walk through the airport doors to a waiting car. He had left a huge dust devil twirling in my mind, stirring up sad memories of home. I could see Zambia’s literati—the cognoscente, intelligentsia, academics, highbrows, and scholars in the places he had mentioned guzzling and talking irrelevancies. I remembered some who have since passed—how they got the highest grades in mathematics and the sciences and attained the highest education on the planet. They had been to Harvard, Oxford, Yale, Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), only to leave us with not a single invention or discovery. I knew some by name and drunk with them at the Lusaka Playhouse and Central Sports.

Walter is right. It is true that since independence we have failed to nurture creativity and collective orientations. We as a nation lack a workhorse mentality and behave like 13 million civil servants dependent on a government pay cheque. We believe that development is generated 8-to-5 behind a desk wearing a tie with our degrees hanging on the wall. Such a working environment does not offer the opportunity for fellowship, the excitement of competition, and the spectacle of innovative rituals.

But the intelligentsia is not solely, or even mainly, to blame. The larger failure is due to political circumstances over which they have had little control. The past governments failed to create an environment of possibility that fosters camaraderie, rewards innovative ideas and encourages resilience. KK, Chiluba, Mwanawasa, and Banda embraced orthodox ideas and therefore failed to offer many opportunities for drawing outside the line.

I believe King Cobra’s reset has been cast in the same faculties as those of his predecessors. If today I told him that we can build our own car, he would throw me out.

“Naupena? Fuma apa.” (Are you mad? Get out of here)

Knowing well that King Cobra will not embody innovation at Walter’s level let’s begin to look for a technologically active-positive leader who can succeed him after a term or two. That way we can make our own stone crushers, water filters, water pumps, razor blades, and harvesters. Let’s dream big and make tractors, cars, and planes, or, like Walter said, forever remain inferior.

A fundamental transformation of our country from what is essentially non-innovative to a strategic superior African country requires a bold risk-taking educated leader with a triumphalist attitude and we have one in YOU. Don’t be highly strung and feel insulted by Walter. Take a moment and think about our country. Our journey from 1964 has been marked by tears. It has been an emotionally overwhelming experience. Each one of us has lost a loved one to poverty, hunger, and disease. The number of graves is catching up with the population. It’s time to change our political culture. It’s time for Zambian intellectuals to cultivate an active-positive progressive movement that will change our lives forever. Don’t be afraid or dispirited, rise to the challenge and salvage the remaining....

[Whichever african country you are from, replace Zambia with it. For example, Use Nigeria/Nigerian to substitute Zambia/Zambian in the article]

This article was written by Field Ruwe.  He is a US-based Zambian media practitioner and author. He is a PhD candidate with a B.A. in Mass Communication and Journalism, and an M.A. in History

Monday, 30 May 2016

WHAT YOU DID NOT KNOW ABOUT BODE THOMAS

Well for those who may not be familiar with lagos, there is a street named Bode Thomas street in lagos. Well, many may not even know about the man himself. However, there was something that happened years back that would serve us well today to learn from. It is what can be termed, a lesson on humility to learn from late Bode Thomas.
Now Bode Thomas, yes, the same Bode Thomas, whom the Surulere street was named after, died on Nov 23, 1953 in a most mysterious manner. Bode Thomas was born to a wealthy trader, John thomas in 1918. Himself, FRA Williams and Remi Fani-Kayode (Father of Femi Fani-Kayode) attended Law School in London, and they established the first law firm in Nigeria, called "Thomas, Williams and Kayode".

The law firm was established in Jankara, Lagos. Bode Thomas was an excellent lawyer, but he was also very arrogant. Because of his education, he was made chairman of the Oyo Divisional Council at one time, while the King of Oyo, Alaafin Adeyemi, (the father of the current Alaafin) was a mere member!  On Bode Thomas' first appearance in council after being appointed chairman, all council members stood up for him in deference, to welcome him, except Oba Adeyemi, who, for cultural reasons, should not show deference to anyone in public, not even his mother! Bode Thomas rudely shouted at the King "...WHY WERE YOU SITTING WHEN I WALKED IN? YOU DON'T KNOW HOW TO SHOW RESPECT?" At that time, Bode Thomas was 34 years, while the Alaafin was in his 60's. The Alaafin felt very insulted. He said "SE EMI LO NGBO MO BAUN?" (Is it me that you are barking at like that?) Bode Thomas responded by shouting some english sentences which the Alaafin didnt understand, so the Alaafin just told him... "MA GBO LO" (continue barking).

The confrontation happened on November 22, 1953. Bode Thomas got home and started barking! He barked, and barked and barked like a dog all night until he died in the early morning of November 23, 1953. Bode Thomas was the Balogun of Oyo. So, when next you drive on Bode Thomas street in Surulere, Lagos remember that man, who cut short his own life because of his arrogance and naughtiness.
Friends, no matter how high you may rise tomorrow, let us learn to Be HUMBLE!

[Source Unknown]