Lagos to Abuja: Images

Nigeria - Tchad-Sudan. Yaba, Lagos (by Jumoke Sanwo)

At Work. Yaba, Lagos (by Jumoke Sanwo)

The Taste of Life. Yaba, Lagos (by Uche Okpa-Iroha)

Dotson Rentals. Iwo Road, Ibadan (by Uche Okpa-Iroha)

Call Plumber. Gaduwa Estate, Abuja (by Uche Okpa-Iroha)

Nna Olopa. Ojuelegba, Lagos (by Ray-Daniels Okeugo)

Hidden Treasure. Gaduwa Estate, Abuja (by Ray-Daniels Okeugo)

Vendor. Gaduwa, Abuja (by Chidinma Nnorom)

Goods Only. Iwo Road (by Emeka Okereke)

Veiled Walk. Iwo Road,Ibadan (by Emeka Okereke)

"Echo" Pool. Garki, Abuja (by Chidinma Nnorom)

"The Unknown Lies In". Garki, Abuja (by Chidinma Nnorom)

Busy Shadow. Asokoro, Abuja (by Chidinma Nnorom)

Ghost Market. Lokoja, Kogi (by Uche Okpa-Iroha)

The Suya Man I. Lokoja, Kogi (by Amaize Ojeikere)

Along Lagos-Ibadan Expressway. First Stop II. The Sky and The Earth Beneath Series (by Amaize Ojeikere)

"I have a cure". The Sky and the Earth Beneath Series, Abuja (by Amaize Ojeikere)

Driving in the Sun. Abuja (by Kemi Akin-Nibosun)

The Sun Has Set on IB - The Sky and The Earth Beneath Series, Abuja (by Amaize Ojeikere)

Abuja: A Thoroughfare?

IB 2011 Participants during the training session (by Tom Saater)

Today was premised on things-are-coming, the feeling that comes from imagining the future. When I woke, for instance, I told myself the obvious: The journey has begun, and today is the tomorrow I thought of yesterday. Okay, I lie. I could not have thought so eloquently as soon as I woke up. We slept a maximum of four hours apiece, and even that was luxurious – Emeka slept only two hours (I caught him dozing later!)

We had an appointment at the National Hospital Abuja, a training session for emergencies and first aid. Unoma had arranged for the session with the gracious assistance of Dr Wole Olaomi, Head of Trauma and Head of Surgery at the National Hospital, whom she had met at Ile-Ife, where they had both been invitees of my friend Damilola Ajayi. Our breakfast was hurried for this reason. Uche and Amaize prepared scrambled eggs; there is, really, nothing like scrambled eggs made by men who know how to make scrambled eggs!

Our National Hospital stint requires great elucidation given how important safety is, and how there is no point, for us, in trying to prove a point in the conflict areas in which we are headed. Dr Wale Olaomi taught us basic and practical ways of saving saveable victims. The distinction is important, he pointed out, and I must point that out too. The problem with dealing with trauma is too much emotion, which is a general human deficiency anyway. Logic, Dr Olaomi says, dictates that a First Aider decide whether the victim is worth the effort or not. My heart is saying this cannot be possible – I have lived in several vicarages, I believe in miracles. Yet my head told me Grow Up, not everything can be saved.

Thinking in retrospect, writing this, the fact that not everything can be saved jumps to me as a major lesson from our first session with Dr Olaomi. The First Aider must assess the situation, the scene, and the victim. Such messiah (permit me) must think of personal safety. It is like saying, I cannot die while trying to keep others from dying. This, again, negates everything I have thought about altruism. Being a First Aider is premised on voluntariness, the whim of a Good Samaritan, and yet we were told the virtue of wanting-to-help is not enough. Why, I ask, do you seek to save when you cannot seek to lose yourself in the process? But these things are too heavy in my mind, too hazy, and I prefer to learn and pray God forbid.

For the interested reader, I summarize the principles into four: Act on time; protect yourself; assess the situation; and sort your patient. I hope it is always this simple.

Hafsat and make beliefs

There was a lady from the National Emergency Management Agency, Hafsat Shuaib. She worked us through a session on Cardio Pulmonary Resuscitation. Of course, this session required simulations, which began with Amaize being asked to act as a conscious victim, who could hear the rescuer, and who responds to questions. He was chosen for his weight, the idea being that a heavier victim was more difficult to control. We were showed how to cover wounded areas, take care of the neck, keep a victim in a recovery position, place on a stretcher (or makeshift stretcher), and move to an ambulance. The key word was ‘improvise.’ Our journey will take us to uncertain places, conflict zones. There is no reason, despite our love for this place called Africa, to play down the fact that trouble exists in the spaces we are travelling to; it will be foolhardy to act otherwise. And given that we cannot extinguish the possibility of danger, we had to prepare for unforeseen contingencies. As such, our training sessions became necessary and cogent.

I was Hafsat’s second choice. There is a photo Tom made of Hafsat’s mouth separated from mine with a tube (unfortunately, everyone forgot the name of the tool at the time of writing – unserious students!) He has promised to publicize the scandal, saying she was kissing me! Geez! I am scared of the implications – there is a girl I have my eyes on.

In the third session, Dr Olaomi worked us through dealing with bleeding. By this time, God forgive us, most of us were carried away by hunger.

Hafsat delivering CPR to Emmanuel (by Tom Saater)

Hunger is a necessary evil

Hunger made us forget to take a photograph with Dr Olaomi and Hafsat. I must question why as humans  we need to go hungry, why we come to a point when our stomach twitch in anticipation, in revolt, and our heads make a U-Turn, saying I cannot process information…  FEED ME!

We had a group photograph with the signpost of the National Hospital as a background. And then we headed for food.

Over dinner, we discussed photographers in Nigeria, photography networks, and making money. There were Nigerian photographers generally considered to be arrogant, and gain-seeking.

I should point out that our conversation began after our meal.

Abuja: Wide and Wide

Rem Koolhas would find no ‘close’ in Abuja. There is Close in Lagos, with its explosive human bodies, compulsive survival lifestyle, and possibility of everything and anything. But Abuja, as I have seen, demands less fraternity.  There is a wide gulf between have and have-not, able and unable, who-is-who and who-is-not-who. In Abuja, a person cannot be both.  Options readily present themselves: live in the city centre or in the suburb. Drive in a car or take a taxi. Pay a rent of 40 million naira or own your house outside the main city. Own eight houses in Asokoro or own nothing.

I know this is obviously true of many other Nigerian cities. But in Abuja it is stamped with such obviousness that in one instant a person can see whether the city suits or is repulsive to such a person.

Unoma’s house in Asokoro, where we spent an hour after our meal, typifies the constant attempt to define and individualize. She was asked by Uche if she worked at the nearby Embassy of Hungary, to which she responded that she worked from her house. To work from one’s house is, I believe, the basic definition of artistic freedom. To make one’s house art, as Unoma has made hers, is a rare achievement. There are reasons to make this unattainable; life in wide, unfeeling spaces snuffs creativity, summarizes life into two great gulfs.

There is a plan to make photos tomorrow at the National Mosque, as suggested by Amaize and corroborated by Tom. The idea was borne out of the fact that the throng of worshippers who will gather for the Eid el Kabir festival will suffice as worthy subjects. What we see might make my assumptions of Abuja fall apart. I am hoping that when Unoma sees this we would have a conversation on Abuja life.

I am hoping that I will see Abuja in new light after this brief stay. And I am wont to think that perhaps Abuja is a thoroughfare for us, and we might not see as residents would.

IB 2011 team at the National Hospital (by Lucy Azubuike)

Abuja ! by Emmanuel Iduma

Nigeria - Tchad by Jumoke Sanwo (Day 1 IB 2011)

It was easy to believe, with the way we set out, that at the other end of the road a festival awaited us. Jude Anogwih did not help matters; he flagged down a Nescafe retailer and paid for coffee for everyone (later, while in the bus, we received an encouraging SMS from Jude. He is a sweet guy!). Then there was loud music, a lady who interviewed us from the Nigerian Television Authority (who said we had to begin our suffering right there), and the filming of our entry into the bus. Thinking of this in retrospect, I have come to believe that our journey to Abuja was a festival, a celebration of the first lap of our journey, a celebration of the beginning of a long, unpredictable journey.

Unpredictable, well, because, we set out behind schedule – few minutes before 10.00am. While setting off, Amaize warned the driver that the normal route would be heavy with traffic, advising that he go through Epe. He did not listen. We, who started out late, soon found ourselves trapped in Lagos traffic, which stretched into Ibadan.

I should point, right away, that we arrived our place of abode in Abuja at 1.45am. So, I am charged with the responsibility of telling what occurred between 10.00am and 1.45am. I find that it is easier – given how tired I feel while writing this – to make markers of the journey. I am hoping that this recording will create snapshots of the journey, for even the most able of eyes cannot see it all.

Sanni: Heedless driver

The bus, a blue Hiace bus, hired from a company which travels Lagos to Accra, had evangelistic adverts on its windows, and we grumbled that it would be impossible to make photos from the windows. But this was to be the least of our worries, as the driver soon proved very James Bond, slamming his brakes, making surprising moves. At a point, I felt I was being thrown into a pothole.

Jumoke and I were most vocal in our complaints. There were several excuses, which we were not going to accept – the roads, we were behind schedule. We argued that Sanni was a bad driver. His colleague, Charlie, repeatedly asked him to oblige us. He did not. After nightfall, our complains stopped.

Sanni had his way.

Which leads me to an interesting fact – Sanni and Charlie are Ghanaians, from Northern Ghana, and they spoke Hausa. Well, Charlie said it was pidgin Hausa, second to the one spoken in Nigeria. We mimicked their accent. I am hoping this does not become our ‘exchange habit’; we would certainly encounter more accents. Aside the improbability of being able to mimic each accent, there is the question of propriety – who wants his speech pattern mimicked, anyway?

The Guy who studied Mass Com

Ibadan, as always, was flung across seven hills, like broken china in the sun. The dirt of the town has always struck me as a leech-like feature. Who can predict when Ibadan will be separated from her dirt? Today’s Ibadan was really broken, and the people seemed in flight, tottering and grasping for some essence, which I presume arose from the coming holidays.

Ibadan slowed us down.

We stopped – Uche, Emeka, Amaize, Chidinma, and myself – to make photos on the road, while the car crawled at snail speed. (I am already making photos!) Uche and Emeka were at his best, squatting, running, bending. Which was why it was easy for a guy to accost Emeka, for reasons which I did not understand, speaking in a language that was equally imperceptible, declaring that he understood what we were doing, for he had studied Mass Communication. His peers, with cigarettes between their fingers, rusty voices, and reddened irises, advised us not to mind his words. I wondered what had led him to this point, where accosting strangers had become fashionable, cogent, rewarding.

There was another guy who winked at me twice while I made (or thought I made) photos. I took his wink in good faith; work had begun.

     Uche on the move. Iwo Road, Ibadan by Emeka Okereke (Day 1, IB 2011).

The Akara misdirection

I thought I knew the Ife-Ibadan expressway so well that I could be sure of the Akara joint. And just like me, Emeka and Jumoke could not tell which was the right joint, so that we ended up in a joint that promised akara in seconds, but had nothing ready.

It would not be until Akure before we found something to eat.  That would be our last misdirection; thank heavens.

The Diary Room, Questioning Art

One thing led to the other.

There was a long conversation between Uche and Jumoke on God and Christianity. Really, the conversation was too long to reproduce; it went the same way all God talks go – there’s a person who is not living the full Christian ‘life’ (Jumoke), and there are others advising her to push her spirituality (Uche and Amaize).

A few hours later, Amaize requested that the cameras come on, he wanted us to make a video recording. It is useful to point that Uche had already borrowed the idea of Big Brother’s Diary Room, such that we get to bare our mind in front of cameras daily, as we progress in the journey.

Amaize began with Jumoke, asking about her life and artistic practice, which went without event. But when it came to Kemi’s Q and A, things changed. She made a point about the absence of an encouragement for the ‘new’ in Nigerian photography. Emeka picked on her, stating that it is consistency, not labels (of classics and new) that defined and determined the career of a photographer. We all added our voices – Amaize being the most vocal, Kemi trying to defend her claims, Tom arguing in Emeka’s support, I saying something about how this was the same argument in the literati, Jumoke being asleep, Chidinma saying nothing.

Our interesting argument livened the journey somewhat, and I agree that it was essential since the clarity of our vision as artists is ensured by the clarity of our minds.

We have ID Cards that describes/defines us as artists. This is the first time in my life I have an ID Card as a writer. I am unsure about ‘artist.’

Lokoja’s demand

We left Lokoja at few minutes before 10.00pm, having arrived an hour earlier. We had been warned of robbers working ahead. I like to use ‘working’ because, truth be told, robbery is work. It is like saying: Stop Now! Men at Work!

The mystery surrounding our stop, as Amaize pointed out, was that no telephone calls were exchanged. Our bus was flagged down by someone (?), and Sanni reversed the bus, and we joined other passengers at the Lokoja park. There was small groove – D’Banj’s Oliver Twist played thrice, and I wished I could dance with only my legs.

Lokoja, from my earliest memories of travelling to Abuja, has always demanded stops. And we heeded its call, armed robbers or not.

Abuja!

There was no fanfare. We had been offered a place to stay by a friend, Akachukwu. He is, I must note, a great friend. Hotels are expensive in Abuja. A house for free is a miracle.

There is sleep to be slept.

Did I mention that Ray made me sit beside cakes? His birthday was last week and we had to travel with cakes. Seriously, Ray, that was torture, sitting beside cakes I did not eat.

We are not as Invisible as Borders by Emmanuel Iduma

This is the first entry for Invisible Borders 2011 project. Enjoy!

IB 2011 press conference. Lagos, 03.11.2011

WWWWe are not as Invisible as the BordersWe are not aThis is the story that no news can tell.

It begins with an empty room. We are scheduled to meet by 10.30am on Monday 31st. But one of us – whose name I will not mention for sake of modesty – meets an empty room. There is too much excitement to be muffled, too much expectation to be repressed, so the empty room loses its power to make him melancholic. And that lone sentinel, that participant who comes before the others, decides that this is it or this is it, that there is no reason to be beguiled out of excitement, feverishness, even pensiveness (and by the way, in subsequent meetings, the participant still meets an empty room).

When others eventually arrive – and recall that I am telling a story that repeats itself on Tuesday and Thursday – there are handshakes, backslaps, hellos and heys, name-callings, opening of suitcases, laptops, cameras, bags. Emeka always came with a box, bigger than anything brought by any other participant, a box which remained for most of the time unopened. (I will assume that you know us by name; there are no first names shared, so Emeka is Emeka, Amaize is Amaize, etc.) In-between playing music from phones and laptops, munching snacks from the Domino bar nearby, we discussed the logistics of the journey.

As one must expect, we are not activists, war photographers, or egghead ideologists. As simple as those words seem – even as morally correct – we agreed that we had no point to prove. It is easy to want to prove a point about Africa, which has become in some sense, the world’s sick baby, sick bay, and scapegoat. Here is a project and an initiative which takes as its starting point the fact that it is needless to define what Africa is, or even, what Africa is not. And so, we said to ourselves that we were not travelling across Sudan because there were great images of ‘the real Africa’ to be made, images that embellished the fact that people are ‘suffering and smiling’ in Africa. It is not our business what war is being fought, what sides exist, who is a party chieftain. All that matters is that we are artists seeking to state, through photos, writings, and a film, that the borders that exist in Africa are invisible.

Jumoke asked, “What are we doing about security?” Now, understand that we have become a ‘we’, so that each person saunters within a parenthesis, and I believe this parenthesis is secure – I believe, further, that this is a very necessary arrangement. If we would succeed in this project, ‘I’ must become ‘we.’ And so, when Jumoke asks this question, eyes are lit up, given that family and friends have raised the same question (a friend said to me, “They’ve given you a camera, did they also teach you martial arts?”) For obvious reasons, our path this year is fraught with complex security problems (Jos, Maiduguri, Sudan). Of course, there was no way we could learn martial arts, or hold small arms. We agreed, also, that there was no need to hire security personnel. We would be as transparent and weaponless as, should I say, Jesus. For if we had need of security, our ‘father in heaven’ could send us a thousand legions of war angels. And really, who knows if he will!

I should mention how fit I looked in my t-shirt, but I will not. I will, instead, mention that the other guys looked fit in their shirts – Emeka, Amaize, Tom, Uche, Ray. I mention Ray last because he was searching for stick to beat me; I had complained that my singlet (customized for the trip) was too small and he had asked if I had a second body somewhere. Anyway, I should probably mention the ladies – how Jumoke entered the room during the press conference and heads turned – but it is not my thing to describe ladies. I am sorry. (I will get a word-lash from Kemi and Chidinma for this, I know).

During the press conference, concerns ranged from security to handling checkpoints. Amaize made the point that it was our policy not to give bribes at border posts, and that for this year, it will certainly be the same. There was also the suggestion that each year, we could collectively work on themes for the photographs we made, and what we wrote. Everyone disagreed with this. Uche explained the complexities of this; Emeka had warned us to be as flexible as possible, Africa being a vast and intricate landscape.

We have Jude Anogwih to thank for his tireless effort to ensure that the press conference went well.

Here we are, then. I cannot begin to tell of our mood swings – how our feelings have ranged from out-of-the-world excitement to under-the-rug uncertainty. If we had visitors on Monday or Tuesday or Thursday, at Frameworks Extra, Amaize’s office, they would see that opportunity has translated to responsibility. It might be easy to dismiss us as fun-seeking, clueless young artists. It might be even easier to ask, “what are they doing with all that equipment, anyway?” Yet, I figure it will be more difficult to understand how nervous we all are, seeing that we have history on our heels, and it has made a call we cannot refuse.

My job, dear friends, will be to visualize this adventure in words. I probably think too lofty of my craft when I say I want my writing to be like a photograph. The truth is that I want to prove that I can make photos too (I have been given a camera, yes, which Ray calls a toy – God knows I will have to fight with Ray soon). But I speak of textual photos, the image I hope that appears within these lines.

All I have tried to say, in this first post, is that we are not as invisible as the borders we would be crossing. That, we are real people with complex idiosyncrasies, a mishmash of Nigeria, Ghana, and Sudan. We will be thrown together in a bus – enduring and enjoying farts (forgive me), snores, ebullient laughter, reticence, camera clicks, video shoots and a hodgepodge of every imaginable possibility that can happen in 10,000 kilometers.

Come with us. 

Invisible Borders Road Trip Project 2011 (3rd Edition)

Invisible Borders Trans-African Photography Initiative is proud to announce the 3rd edition of the road trip project scheduled to takes place from Nov. 2 - Dec. 16, 2011.

This year’s event will involve 12 artists (ten from Nigeria and the other three from Ghana, Sudan and Ethiopia respectively) travelling about 12 000 km from Lagos (Nigeria) to Addis Ababa (Ethiopia). Participants will include few of the old members and new members from the four countries involved. There will be eleven photographers and two writers (Nike Adesuyi Ojeikere and Nana Oforiatta-Ayim) who will be writing for the blog as well as on a much broader context.

The group will make stops of about five to seven days in the capital and important cities of Nigeria, Tchad, Sudan and Ethiopia to create artistic works in collaboration with the indigenous artists in the cities, while networking within the art community. Once again, the approach will be a focus on creating works which reveal the richness of the daily living of the people and the interactions with their environment - images that usually go unnoticed in the quest for blatant headlines. But this will not deter them from exploring themes centered on socio-political discourses prevalent in the continent. 

Read more at: www.invisible-borders.com

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