The other day I was watching Amistad for the second time since I first
watched it when it hit movie theatres in 1997. After I watched the movie the
first time, my passion to embark upon a mission to realize the seemingly
unending fantasy of African mental emancipation and physical unity, received
a renewed impetus and sense of duty. Not just for selfless or fulfilling
reasons but also for selfish reasons. I was consumed by a desire to preclude
that magnitude of injustice from ever befalling any of my descendants; no
matter how many generations removed they were from me. I wanted to guarantee
my children's status as Lions in the jungle of human interrelationships; to
never be preys to their predatory environment. And the only way I could see
fit to secure their freedom was to channel my efforts toward forging a
united front amongst my people in order to prevent such a dastardly calamity
from reoccurring. Whether I will ultimately succeed is an entirely different
issue. But like I said, that was the first time; this time things were
different.
This last time, I felt a different set of emotions, a yearning for home,
warts, maladies and all. Besides the obvious discomfort and emotional frenzy
that consumed my entire being at Spielberg's vivid scenes of slave capture
and the middle passage, I was again overwhelmed by Djimon Hounsou's potent
portrayal of Cinque, and the underlying significance of his quest for the
freedom to return to his native land. All through their tortuous ordeal, the
surviving slaves of the Amistad were united in their unflinching desire,
symbolized by Cinque's defiant aura in the face of palpable threat to life,
to return to their native lands. This was reinforced on numerous occasions
but his passionate demand in the courtroom; "give us free", captured this
steadfast sentiment with the depths of its poignancy and its utter
conviction in and confirmation of the rights of man (and woman for that
matter). At that point, my yearning for home, rigged elections, ravaging
armed bandits, non-existent infrastructure, stupendous wealth in the midst
of abject poverty, and all, could not have been stronger.
Last Saturday I celebrated with my cousin on his successful completion of
the requirements for the MBA degree from a reputable Pennsylvanian
university. The shindig at his house afterwards attracted quite a few of his
friends and underscored the current reality within the young Nigerian
expatriate community in the US. One which has gone relatively unheralded
within the mainstream of the Diasporan discourse. When compared with the
raging topics of the day such as election 2003 and its aftermath, the
insecurity and ethnic strife, the uncertainty paralyzing the polity, and the
ever-present fear of the unknown in terms of Nigeria, post-May 29, it
receives few remarks and cursory statements if it is at all mentioned.
The gradual but growing reverse brain-drain from the Diaspora to the
homeland of young African (especially Nigerian) intellectuals is a departure
from what became the norm in the past couple of decades, and mirrors events
that occurred just prior to independence in the late fifties and continued
into the early sixties, and those that transpired at the outset of Nigeria's
second experiment with democracy in 1979. Since those two epochs in our life
as a nation, the balance has been in the Diaspora's favor as increasing
numbers of young and not so young Nigerian intellectuals and
non-intellectuals sought better lives and living conditions abroad, to the
detriment of the Nigerian economy and society as a whole.
These Nigerians, who could have lent their expertise and resources to
fanning the embers of development in our beloved country, were instead
induced to contribute their sweat and labor to another man's land, and
reduced to remitting peanuts to the motherland in the form of foreign
currency and other forms of material aid to relatives still trapped in the
home country. I say peanuts because in comparison to the resources that they
were pumping into the western world's economies, their financial aid to
their relatives did little more than lend material succor and a possible
reprieve from the savage hands of poverty and ultimately death. It did
little or nothing to drive entrepreneurial endeavors or private-sector
growth (small and large scale) which are the engines driving the dynamics of
economic expansion on the road to industrialization and ultimately, economic
parity on the international level. This is not to say in any way that these
able and determined compatriots were wrong or right in their Diasporan
accomplishments or their remittances to their relatives and loved ones, I am
simply analyzing the issues from a socio-economic angle.
Africa has suffered tremendously because as an evocative illustration of
the slave trade era during which the Amistad debacle occurred, we are living
in an age when a great percentage of our able-bodied men and women, a great
portion of the crème de la crème of our society, is trapped far away from
our motherland, contributing their best and brightest ideas to foreign
lands. Instead of our children and society reaping the fruits of our labor;
an alien economy and society are enjoying the rewards of our endeavors, this
is in addition to the forced labor of our heroes past.
Today's slavery is not bondage of the physical dimension; it is slavery
of limitations in the geographical sense. We are damned if we drop
everything and go home, (we will be foolish to even try), because though we
are damned if we stay here, contradictorily, our infrastructure and our
society cannot withstand or even remotely accommodate a general return of
all professionals in the Diaspora. Our economy and our society will be
shocked into a crash; not because of excess manpower or a drain on scarce
resources, but because we have still not gotten our political act together.
Before any society can dream of moving forward or advancing in relation to
its environment, it must first come to terms with its existence as an
articulation of the collective will of its citizens.
If injustice, polarity, and unbridled ethnic jingoism are allowed to
prevail, then we can all proceed to our tents like the proverbial children
of Israel and completely forget about any semblance of cohesion and unity of
thoughts and actions. Of course the misguided and often times inimical
policies of the myopic Status Quo, as custodians of African political
independence, contributed immensely to this rapid Diasporan initiative. The
dispersal of millions of Africans into the Diasporan anomaly, only led to
more bleeding of an already anemic situation and an escalating catastrophe
in relation to economic and ultimately societal parity with the rest of the
world.
The chasm between Africa and the rest of the world can no longer be
considered a "gap" or a "divide"; in fact that is not even an issue for
discussion, the issue at this late juncture should be whether we are even
headed in the same direction. We might as well preclude a possibility of
parity in our lifetime; we should instead concern ourselves with attaining
some form of alignment in terms of direction so that ultimately our progeny
(perhaps a century from now) might stand a remote chance of reducing the
divide, forget bridging it for the foreseeable future.
The one thing that has to occur that will ignite our technological
revolution is simmering just beneath the surface. The young Nigerians that I
met were all united in their determination that development and economic
growth had to transpire independent of the largesse of government. I did not
see the corrupted notions of Nigerianism in their intelligent faces; instead
I saw an amazing disavowal of the idea that government largesse in Nigeria
is an orphan, to be raped and pillaged at will in the absence of responsible
adult supervision. I saw instead a steadfast belief that the engine for
growth lay in their hands and in their know-how. I saw a determination in
their demeanor that would make the fanaticism of fundamentalist terrorists
seem trivial in comparison.
In all spheres of the economy and society, predominantly in the
technological arena, I saw a dream that once was Nigeria, and I believed it
because I realized its potency and certainty went beyond mere peppersoup
talk. I did not hear any nonsense about national cake and ethnic
parochialism, I did not notice any camouflaged machinations or dubious
intentions; instead I saw a genuine desire to utilize their acquired
knowledge to expedite the process of industrialization in Nigeria. Maybe
they were splendid actors and jobmen, but I doubt that.
I suddenly realized that unlike my graduation ceremony some years back at
the height of the tech bubble, no one was talking about six and even seven
figure offers from blue chip companies and Wall Street tech darlings, nobody
hinted at staying on at lucrative careers in the Diaspora while plotting
their next move, instead everyone was rushing back home to join in what has
become a CIT bonanza. Perhaps it was instigated by the stagnation of the
American economy, perhaps it was encouraged by the lay-offs and shrinking
opportunities for qualified graduates in God's own country, whatever the
case, these young men and women were going back "home". Going to contribute
their quota to their country's development, to lend their expertise to a
burgeoning (though creaking) growth in the Nigerian IT sector, to add their
voices to the liberalizing marketplace of ideas in the Nigerian experience,
to increase the diversity of opinions and know-how which the Nigerian
economy direly requires.
Though I was apprehensive of the infrastructure that will have to support
such a technological growth and skeptical of the government's commitment to
creating the enabling environment, I was enamored by the optimism that I saw
on the faces of my fellow compatriots. I was buoyed by young, energetic,
optimistic, talented Nigerians; fearful of the unknown, skeptical of the
current dispensation (political and otherwise), anxious because of the
reality; but sanguine enough to stake their Diasporan security and
tranquility, on their cautious optimism (perhaps misplaced) and the dream
that the rabid chaos and degeneracy of Nigeriana 2003 will not consume them.
The half-fuller will argue that the "Wild Wild West" frontier in America
was tamed by prospectors and entrepreneurs willing to stake a claim on their
harebrained chances and dreams. The half-emptier will argue that Nigeria is
a beast like none other, ravenously devouring all that lies in her way,
including optimistic young intellectuals. But despite all the indicators,
despite all the indices, despite all the trepidations, I am still hopeful
because those same indicators, those same indices, and those same
palpitations, suggest that our society should have collapsed decades ago.
The durable spirit, the vibrant resilience, the undying belief that we will
prevail keeps me going. Perhaps these young hopefuls will fail in their
endeavors, but ultimately the sacrifices that they make right now, though
some of us might view them as lunatics, will ultimately determine what kind
of future we bequeath to succeeding generations. Not only as a testament to
our commitment and belief in the anomalous reality of our beloved country,
but as a reminder that east or west, home is best.
It is funny how a combination of seemingly disparate events can congeal
into the poignant though erratic articulation of an anomaly within Africana.
I watched Amistad and then went to a graduation after-party, and all I got
was a lousy dose of reality. I watched Cinque, and I understood him
completely. Not because I realized the evil of physical bondage, but because
I recognized the import of the slavery of my geographical location.
I am getting tired; I have to head home, sooner than later. My father and
I had an interesting conversation though; some days back he appealed to me
to entertain the idea of coming back home. I laughed out loud, not in
derision you see, but because it seems that for once, I was thinking ten
steps ahead of him. Perhaps I can use my new found strategic thinking when
we sit down to play the next chess match, perhaps I will win, but I must
confess that it felt good to be finally beating him to the punch. I told him
I would think about it, with the stifled sounds of laughter in my throat, I
kept a straight face and told him that we shall see.
My medicinal dosage of the topsy-turvy reality of the trickling reverse
brain-drain from Diaspora to homeland has shocked me out of my stupor; I
just might pack up my bags and go home to my fatherland. Excuse my explicit
words, but to those who still care to remember, Andrew ain't checking-out
shit, he is checking-in, in short, he is going back home.
