Nigeria to Tchad (1) – How Nigeria became reduced to a borderline by Emmanuel Iduma

Boywe, Jos (by Ray-Daniels Okeugo)

I regret that the inconvenience of travelling has hampered my intention to write daily; I am guilty of assumptions, thinking that as long as I have a computer, fingers, and a table, writing would be a continuous, even if tedious, affair. But, things change. I admit that it is difficult in the face of inconsistency to hold onto my rules. What we are seeing on this project is bound to tweak our subjectivities (even objectivities); we might emerge with big scars of seeing – those scars that result from injuries sustained while being enmeshed in the lives of others.

Let me begin from the end of Jos. We were soaked in Jos for about 30 hours. We decided, upon entering the town, that it would be great foolery (this might not have been the word), to pack our things and leave the next morning, to subdue Jos into a transit town. There was more beauty, we agreed, to be seen. And so, the morning after our arrival, we packed our cameras and headed off to see the town, to make photos, to engage in Jos’ reality. Of course, there were photos to be made; by going to the Terminus Market and the Museum, we became exposed to a photogenic town.

Opposite, Jos (by Jumoke Sanwo)

Yet there is the question of moreness, as I had noted previously. Is Jos more than what we saw? Is Jos more than what I perceived – a quiet, leave-me-to-myself town? Are there possibilities, other than the one that says something is about to happen? I find Jos very interesting, engaging; and I find that there are many wonderful people. The people we met, whose lives intersected with ours in many ways, were people who could have been met anywhere else. Jos did not have the attitudinal singularity that Lagos, for instance, has. There was a willingness for exchange – and it is very unfortunate that the openness of Jos has been breached, taken for granted, subdued so that it takes several minutes to see the open arms of its residents. As such, the openness is there to find, but hard to find.

I should mention how Tom and Jumoke were arrested by mobile Policemen and bailed by a soldier – how the soldier laughed with them and identified with their work. And then, how Nana and I walked around Terminus Market looking for Dictaphones – Ray had predicted that we would not find Dictaphones, that Abuja was more ‘developed’ than Jos. There was a general declaim against Ray’s declaration, given how eager we are to decry every attempt to generalize. But upon walking the market, even getting directions from Richard Ali, we found no store that sold tape recorders, not to speak of Dictaphones.

Bight of Benin, Jos (by Kemi Akin-Nibosun)

I should also mention how Tom and I walked around the town, back to the house where he had lived as a student in Jos. It seemed a spiritual journey for me; I seemed to become one with the town, drawn to the several existences of the people who did not seem in flight, who seemed at rest with what was on in their lives. We bought grilled stick-meat, as low as 20 naira (I bought three sticks).

Our driver, my namesake, used the opportunity that came from our decision to stay an additional day to do minor repairs on the bus. By dusk, he had not returned. Emeka and Ray called his phone several times without a response. And so, it was decided that we find another bus, so that we would not be stranded. At the moment when the new bus was arriving, Emmanuel was also driving in. Confused, Emma stuttered that he had been asleep, and that when he had tried to call Emeka, he had been told that he could not make the call, which was the ground on which he based his assumption that Emeka had ‘blocked’ his calls. It was hilarious, to say the least, and we laughed hard. Meanwhile, we were faced with a new dilemma (somehow we are always faced with dilemmas): there was a new bus, which had the bold lettering on its body – Donated by the Borno State Governor. The advantage the bus/driver had over Emma was his knowledge of the road to Gamboru; Emma had never been to Maiduguri.

Resolving the dilemma was quite difficult. We were concerned about the lettering on the new bus, given reports that buses with political letterings were often victims of attacks. But we chose the Borno-lettered bus because we became confident of the driver’s competence and expertise, and because, well, there is nothing like absolute security, or absolute risk.

Were we tense when we crossed the Boko Haram state? That would more likely be a no. Or is it wrong to call Maiduguri a ‘Boko Haram state?’ While we moved, I scanned the town for vestiges of bomb blasts, any detail that would typify the danger that the state had become. It was difficult, I confess, to find. Perhaps we were only moving superficially; we were lost in the transiency of driving on major roads – I wish we had crossed the minor roads. I wish (do I?) that we had travelled on roads where roadblocks did not appear every 100 metres. But this might have been dangerous, foolhardy, who knows.

Between Maiduguri and Gamboru Ngala there is a small desert. Small because it is not as sandy as otherwise, and our air-conditioned bus let in some dust through its vent. I have scarcely seen such vastness in my life; I had the feeling that we needed to grasp/grab that vastness, and that our exploration was incomplete otherwise. Even making photos did not suffice, for photos sometimes stops shot at reality, at the point where reality has a 3D flick.

When we arrived Gamboru Ngala (I had misspelled as ‘Gambaru’), Jumoke made a significant remark – how before now, the people we were seeing had not been part of our reality. I analyzed her comment, and it had the force of profundity. We, as humans, artists, whoever, must recognize that what we think as our reality is often one-sided, that our eyes only see what it sees, that our seeing cannot be over and above our capacity to see. And then, with this realization, it becomes necessary that we take on an ignorant humility, the longing to extend our capacity to see; and then, when we are humble to see new realities, and with our capacities for seeing extended, the world takes on new shapes, standing on our fingertips.

Gamboru Ngala reduced Nigeria into a borderline. I had the feeling that the town was declaring, with such confidence and shamelessly, “After the desert, yes, you'll always meet me.” For instance, a man, claiming to be a security man, approached us, flaring up very easily when he felt Emeka was misunderstanding him. And then there was the one-man Bureau de Change, who was keen on ripping off our cash, given his monopoly and our uncertainty that we would find a place to exchange when we got to the border.

We got two Peugeots to take us right into N’djamena. How could we know that this was not to be? That in the final analysis, it comes down to money – how much can be made, how much should be spent? One useful lesson I have learnt, looking back: things are not simply simple.  

Emmanuel in a Conversation with Jumoke on her project "Photo 4 U"

Photo 4 U project II, Abuja (by Jumoke Sanwo)

Emmanuel Iduma: So basically I'll like to know what your project is about, what you will like to do, simply.

Jumoke Sanwo: My personal project is called 'Photo for you' and it is basically me going around photographing people and also having them have a copy of the photograph taken. Because, usually when you go out on this kind of project you find that you photograph people but then you leave them and they don't have any copy or any image to remember the process. So, what this project is all about is just about sharing instant images with people and I am doing this by using a Polaroid camera which is like an instant camera. The plan is actually to take people with the instant camera first and after that is developed I take them afterward with the digital camera holding the picture that was taken with the instant camera. And this will probably be the pictures that I will showcase for exhibitions or things later, but at the same time sharing the image by giving them a copy of the picture that was taken.

So I started the project on 8 November by going around; I went to a village called Durumi, and it is a village in Abuja where there are predominantly workers, mechanics, food vendors, farmers, and things like that. I started the project with them, because I intend to do 45 pictures which depict our journey. It is like 45 pictures, 45 people on this trip.

I got two subjects today. The first person I photographed was a mechanic who repairs tricyles, what we call 'NAPEP' (Keke NAPEP). I approached him and told him that I would like to photograph him and he obliged me. I did first a Polaroid of him after which I had him pose for a digital shot of that and as I was doing this, this lady (second subject) saw what I was doing and approached me and asked me what I was trying to do. I explained to her what the project was about and she said she'll like to pose as well. I took her on.

Seriously, the effect was amazing; I actually wish I wanted to do a lot more because every other person was interested in being photographed. Unfortunately, because I have limited exposures to work with I just told them that I will take their photos using a digital camera and just showed them the picture. So that basically is it.

Photo 4 U project I, Abuja (by Jumoke Sanwo)

Emmanuel Iduma: I am equally interested in where this project is going. One of the things that is interesting to me is that this is a trip across certain parts of Africa – I mean the trip that is instigating this project or the trip in which you will be fulfilling this project. At the end of our journey, when you've given 45 people these pictures, what kind of thing do you think will be happening in this space called Africa as regards those people? If you had the luxury of giving a million people these pictures, what do you think you would have achieved? And then, what do you think is the lesson we can learn from this project as a group of people who exist within this space?

Jumoke Sanwo: What I think I will achieve from this project is that [I hope that] by this simple action, I have made this person a happier person. I just realize that in life simple things make people happy, things that you don't even think that matter... And I think that if I had the opportunity to do a million pictures it is, first of all, for history. If they look at the pictures taken over a couple of years, there is a record that this guy existed at some point in Abuja, in Durumi village, and he was a mechanic. Secondly, what I intend to do is to tell a story of Africa, but I am not exploiting this people. I am not making them look malnourished, I am just taking photographs of them and giving them their pictures. It is just a simple thing. I hope that, yeah, if possible, I will like to do more of this. You will realize that across the continent – which is where we are getting to at the end of 45 days – we are all the same. 

Photo 4 U Project V, Abuja (by Jumoke Sanwo)

Photo 4 U Project IV, Abuja (by Jumoke Sanwo)

You can refer to Jumoke's blog for a more intimate and detailed take on her subjects during the  Invisible Borders road trip : jumokeshotme.blogspot.com

Those Who Seek Exceptions Will be Safe (by Emmanuel Iduma)

"Many Have Gone" Forest/Jos Road, Plateau State (by Emeka Okereke)

There are those who consider us foolhardy, judging that we are insecure from far-flung distances. They speak of the insecurity of our journey without having travelled the roads we are travelling – and the gist is that there are more people who are on this side of the those-parts-are-insecure divide than those who are on the other. But we find that we cannot be more secure than security, that all it takes is a decision to move, that the tale we are telling is compellingly relevant, that it will be foolhardy to turn our backs based on the speculation of distant mediums.

I will illustrate why/how I came to the conclusion that foolhardiness lies in not making this journey. On Tuesday, while we were yet at Abuja, we went to the Jabi Motor park to hire a van that would take us from Abuja until Gambaru, the town that separates Nigeria from Tchad. We asked specific questions about the safety of travelling the route, and our respondents were surprised at our fears. We spoke to drivers who were from Maiduguri, who drove on the roads on constant basis.

Now, I am already thinking that there is no point in expending several words on this subject. Truth is, I am not so short-sighted to think that the words of our ‘respondents’ suggest that all risks that we might encounter have disappeared. Yet, I think it is important to discuss this subject, to decry the manner in which ignorance is unfolded by our country people. One speaks about Jos with so much certainty when the farthest such person has travelled is Abuja. And in Enugu, Maiduguri is spoken about with definiteness. For once, I find relevance in the ‘danger of a single story.’ Or perhaps, for the sake of individuality, I will call this the ‘danger of a single dialogue.’ The basis for this consideration is based on the annoying fact that ‘places’ and existences have been derogatorily simplified. I, like Yvonne Owuor, is “…being cautious, terrified of the convenient habit of a single story…That horrible sickness of a sustained single point of view, which never changes, cannot be allowed to change, repeated often enough so it becomes reality.”

We are, I daresay, seeking the exception to the single dialogue – that refrain being repeated by those who are too fearful to see for themselves and those who think they have seen it all. And I perceive, and believe, that our success and safety will lie in the organized effort we are making at seeing exceptions, the attempts to make the exception the general rule.

The fact that the story of Maiduguri as a lynching zone, a Boko Haram constituency, is terrifying because it is sustained and repeated so often that hearsay has become the basis of our joint conviction. Yet, I will speak little about this, despite the nagging noise in my head that wants me to negate a single dialogue with all the literary powers at my disposal.

We headed to Jos with a driver named Emmanuel, who hails from Abuja. I asked him what he thought of the changes in his hometown. He confessed that his house had been demolished a year earlier, but it was a good thing, watching your home transform before your eyes. And he said he had two wives, his voice having no shame, as it is otherwise possible, given the emphasis on nuclear families. There it is, then – we are surrounded by people for whom life is an act of the pursuit of survival and happiness; I tell the truth: those two words, ‘survival’ and ‘happiness,’ summarize the lives of people I have encountered in the cities we have crossed so far.

And while heading to Jos, it was clear to see that part of the single dialogue had become real in our heads. Our van had tinted glasses, which meant that it was difficult or impossible for someone out of the van to see through us. But when Tom tried to make a photo, Kemi and Jumoke shouted him down, saying he should be careful. There was a soldier outside the van – I should add that we gave 200 naira twice to soldiers at roadblocks, easily falling prey to their look-that-tells-I-want-money, easily falling prey to the fear of being frisked, of being detained for long hours. This, again, results from the stories told about the soldiers and police which has been aggrandized and forced into reality. 

Tom said, and we saw, that Jos is a beautiful town. This is rarely told – a peaceful Jos – and it is disheartening. To think that the hills in sight count for nothing, the serenity, the cold, is to be shamelessly untruthful. I am hoping that in the less than 24 hours we have left in this town, we would emphasize Jos’ moreness. I am hoping that our work will not tend to condone violence, but will reinforce that there is more than violence. And who knows, we could also establish the impression that Jos is peaceful, after all.

I will not forget to mention Akachukwu Chukwuemeka, in whose house we lived while at Abuja. I have been asked to state that we fulfilled a residency there, in Weird World Studios. He is a visual artist; his house is filled with his paintings – and I speak of a large house, with two wings, complete with all the fittings and furnishings an artist will crave for. His generosity is stunning, his open-handedness. We owe him more than just the following words: Thank you!

I end with a poem:

You too can be part of our speaking

Our seeing

This temerity

Shameless rendering

Of memories, existences

Microtones, gamuts,

Journeys

I tell you this:

You too can be part

Yes, you. 

Working in a Wide City by Emmanuel Iduma

Hajiya. Zone 4, Abuja (by Jumoke Sanwo)

It is clear to me that when a day starts late it ends up being long. I cannot tell why we did not eat breakfast until about 11.30 am, and why when it was eaten there was no call for haste. Our meal was yam and a stew prepared by Uche, Kemi and Chidinma (active contribution in that order). There is a speculation that such festive breakfasts might become rarer as we move on. Or we might have no breakfasts at all. I will add that there is a missing image in the montage we have sold to a vast (un)cheering audience – this journey is not simply Fun with the capital F. It has become more tedious as we keep on, with unexpected twists in our story, like an unfolding narrative. We do not feel fun anymore.

On being flogged

We walked out at about 2.00pm, unsure of whether it made sense to decide to make photos at late afternoon, with the sun at its best, the heat at its worst. Looking back, that decision will rank as one of the best we made in Abuja, for the simple reason that after that afternoon, I saw Abuja in stark-true colours; this city has finally taken away its hood, standing bare, like a prodigal.

Kemi was chased by an old lady beggar, with a stick. We had been standing beside one of the entrances of the National Mosque – Kemi, Jumoke and I – waiting for the taxi bringing Ray, Tom and Emeka. There was a group of women beggars across the road, most of them in wheelchairs. True, Jumoke had mentioned how good a photo of the women might look, to which Kemi replied that she was interested in making a photo. Kemi had barely taken out her camera before the women screamed out to us, refusing to be subjects. I figure Kemi lost all interest in making a photo – but this did not stop one of the women, in her sixties or seventies, from attacking us.

She ran across the road, cursing in Hausa, cutting a branch from the nearby tree, advancing speedily toward us, towards Kemi. It happened so fast I was not surprised, perhaps I was flabbergasted. Of course, Kemi ran for her dear life, citing later that it was not fear but surprise that made her run. It is not a good thing, I guess, to recall being flogged by an old woman who misunderstands.

The old beggar chased us so hard that soon there was a small crowd of other Hausas. Some laughed at their kinswoman, others begged us to be on our way, some intoned that we were trouble. By this time Emeka, Tom and Ray had alighted from their taxi, and they witnessed firsthand the fray.

We were soon on our way, uninterested in any dialogue with the men who had crossed the road to come to us, speaking in Hausa. Not one of us is fluent in Hausa; it is interesting that I got an idea of what was being said. The language hoax dissolves in the face of danger – one usually understands when safety is breached, because the antagonist speaks not only with the lips, but with eyes and gestures too.

And so, today we had our first assault. I wondered what had gotten the old woman to that point where she felt she was strong enough to resist being photographed, or what gave her the guts to launch an offensive against us.

Right here, on the same street, is calm

A group of women and children were sitting a few yards from the National Mosque. I cannot tell if they were beggars or simply Muslims lounging on Sallah day.

One of Tom’s project for the journey is to give toys to kids we meet on the way and take photographs of the kids holding the toys. He proposed to the women to give a toy to one of the kids, and take her photograph. The women agreed, easily.

Tom made dozens of photos of the girl, an older girl, and a little boy, while the women cheered him, excited at the idea of being photographed.  I made photos of Tom making his photos and one of the women asked me to make a photo of her small boy. This was before Tom began to make photos of the older girl and the little boy. So, gladly, awash with elation at being considered worthy to make the photos, I obliged the woman. And Jumoke joined soon, making photos of the women.

Leaving the women, we had a conversation on how easy it is to dismiss the women and their children as poor and underprivileged. Some narrative, we argue, is lost when such categorizations are made. Too much fuss seems to have been made of poverty that it is presented in terms convenient for the lazy definer. People considered poor, like those women, always seem contented and happy.

Tom’s girl is named Aisha. We met her and her mothers right on the same street Kemi had been chased with a stick.

Lined Eyes. Zone 4,Abuja (by Jumoke Sanwo)

Do not snap me

Our journey took us to Wuse Market. Just after the point where we alight from the buses, sacks are laid out on the floor, serving as spaces to display goods for sale – children shoes, electronic appliances, second-hand dresses, shirts, trousers, and whatnot, as long as it was not edible.

While we made photos around this spot (a long pedestrian walkway leading to the market’s gate), many of the sellers, rudely or politely or a combination of both, warned us to avoid making photos of them. They shouted that they did not want to appear on television, mistaking us for an AIT and NTA crew, saying we were stepping outside our boundaries.

It happens that our ‘boundaries’ exist because these sellers feel undignified and ashamed of their businesses. There is a sense of incompleteness that is displayed on their faces. Perhaps I am wrong, but I doubt if this feeling of Less does not arise from socio-cultural ‘correctness’, the realm in which one’s job or means of livelihood determines if he/she is admissible in the league of life.

Campus Wahala. Wuse Market,Abuja (by Emeka Okereke)

What are you guys up to? / You look different

Entering the market, we were faced with a different attitude. Sort of, we were confronted with varied ideas of who we were and what we had come in to do. I recall hearing a man who saw that Jumoke was making photos of a girl’s hairstyle saying loudly in Igbo that the girl’s hair was going to be used for money ritual.

And one man asked me, quiet rudely, what ‘program’ we were representing. I was impatient. I simply told him it was not a program.

Rudeness followed us everywhere. Two men said ‘Hey, come here’ to Jumoke in a manner that said, ‘this is my territory, you’re a stranger, I call to you when I need you to come.’

A young man said to me, ‘What are you guys up to? Where are you from?’ When I made a brief explanation, he said, ‘Okay. I thought you were from Cameroon or Burundi.’ Amazing, I thought. Cameroonians and Burundians are exempted from photographing in Nigeria! More seriously, I began to think of the large visible lines that separate us in Africa, a point that has been made severally by other participants. For instance, it costs close to 400 Euros to fly from N’djamena to Khartoum, a flight that is as short as flying from Accra to Lagos. The borders are inscribed in the subconscious of many, so that in a simple conversation, its tiny vestiges come flying out.

There were those in the market who requested for photographs, thinking we were commercial photographers. I wondered how logical it was for commercial photographers to tour a market, searching for subjects, making money in the least likely places.

On a more intricate level, I wondered how/why photographs generated so much curiosity and opened-eyes. Perhaps there is a part of us that fights memory or a direct confrontation with it, a part of us that says the past did not happen, time cannot be captured, and that we must not be judged by images of our relationship with the past and consequently with history.

While we waited for Kemi and Jumoke to buy foodstuff, Tom found a young boy wearing a shirt that said ‘Vodafuck’ in bold font. The boy pulled off the shirt when Tom asked to make a photo of the shirt. Another boy held the shirt while it was photographed.

I suppose the least likely things can be found everywhere. Only that the eyes with which these things will be seen is often covered with a film of nonchalance and the absence of wonder.

There are several other happenings – Nana’s arrival (Nana Oforiatta-Ayim is the other writer, a Ghanaian, who has worked as a filmmaker); Tom’s deep interest in China’s intercourse with Africa. But we got home late, and I am too tired to be talkative. I will save the strength for tomorrow, our last day in Abuja.

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)