The Crazy Nigerian

Don't cry for me Nigeria, the truth is . . .

There is a common belief that the grass is always greener on the other side. That seemed to be the case for any Nigerian who was fortunate enough to further their studies outside Nigeria in a European or American university. During the nineties, there wasn't any certainty about when you would complete your university studies. A three-year course could, frustratingly, become a five-year nightmare-not because you had to repeat a year but because of unexpected strikes by lecturers. The strikes were usually due to dissatisfaction with salaries. As a matter of fact, teaching jobs in Nigeria were mostly snubbed, and even some of my teachers used to threaten naughty pupils with statements like, 'IF YOU DON'T TAKE YOUR STUDIES SERIOUSLY, YOU WILL PROBABLY END UP LIKE ME'.

Luckily, my parents took my education very seriously, so they planned to send me to the United Kingdom for some undisrupted education. I was promised a one-way ticket to the UK for my A-levels; all I had to do was ace my GCSEs in senior secondary school. However, after I came through with my end of the bargain (with six A's, including English and Math) my parents put a whole new spin on things. Money was the issue, of course.

In 1997, the cost of living and studying in the UK for two years for A-levels before gaining university admission was close to 2 million naira. In contrast, studying at an accredited tutoring college within Nigeria would cost 250,000 naira-a quarter of the outrageous UK cost. My parents were ecstatic. I became erratic. I had already told all my secondary school friends that I was flying out in a few months, but now I had to eat my words, swallow my pride and digest this upsetting news from my loving parents. Since I didn't have 2 million naira stashed away in my bank account, I had no choice but to enrol at an A-level College in Lagos, where I would discover that there was a thin line between tutoring and torturing. For the next nine months, I went through the most vigorous, fast-track study programme I had ever experienced. A-level study made all my O-level education seem like child's play. I barely had enough time to socialize with classmates because the teachers kept drilling into our heads that every minute had to be spent studying . . . and study I did. My tutors expected me to attend class between 9 a.m. and 5 p.m., and to take home lessons from 5.30 p.m. to 7.30 p.m.

But it didn't end there. I was advised by one of the tutors to study in the middle of the night between 3 a.m. and 6 a.m. That was when I became closely acquainted with Nescafe's Gold Blend. I had the 'shakes' once in a while; if you had seen me then, you might easily have thought I was a heroin addict or a malaria sufferer. Thanks to my caffeine overdosing, I was a walking zombie for most of my A-level programme. A month before my dreaded exams, I fell ill with typhoid (even deadlier than malaria). At this point, I couldn't help but think that I was somehow jinxed: I came down with an illness every time I was on the verge of taking on a hefty challenge. I lost about 5 kg and looked like a walking corpse by the time I resumed class. Along with weight, I also lost virtually all my confidence ahead of the impending exam.

A day before D-day, one of tutors did something I will never forget. He called me into his office and anointed me with olive oil. As he placed the oil on my forehead and prayed aloud, I began to feel my confidence being restored. I also couldn't help feeling privileged to be selected for this sacred deed. It was only when I got outside his office and noticed a few other students with oily foreheads that I was quickly humbled. After all the threats, all the studying, all the caffeine, all the typhoid and all the olive oil, I took the exam . . . and to my surprise, I passed (just barely).

I had gotten just enough grades to gain admission to two out of my six university choices. For me, that was worth celebrating. But I soon learnt that those two universities had not reserved a place for me on my chosen course. As a matter of fact, none of the six universities had kept a place for me, because they thought I was no longer interested in them. Apparently, none of my chosen universities had received my confirmation letter-thanks to NIPOST (Nigerian Post Office). Fact: Tortoises are slow, and snails are slower, but the slowest moving thing I've ever come across in Nigeria is the mail within the Nigerian postal system.

Once I was done crying my eyes out (in private of course), I did more swearing than Eddie Murphy in Beverly Hills Cop 2. I sent emails to the universities and called their enquiries desk, but I kept getting discouraging responses like, 'That course is fully booked, I'm afraid.' My family and I had just moved out of our rented four-bedroom flat and into our own five-bedroom home. To compound matters, we hadn't gotten a power-generator set yet, so our first dinner at the new house was in virtual darkness. Coupled with my bad news, all seemed gloomy but I was in for a pleasant surprise.

A few days later, after our generator had been installed, my mum was watching the BBC news on cable television and discovered there was a process called 'clearing'. Clearing is the process by which applicants enrol in completely different second-choice courses just so they can stay in their preferred university. My mum encouraged me to call the universities whose minimum grade/UCAS scores I had met to explain my predicament. I was pessimistic, but I was already terrified about the thought of being stuck at home with Mum and Dad for a whole year, so I called. I was so glad when the nice lady at the other end told me to call back in a week, after most of the other students would have confirmed their university choice.

After calling back, I was told that the business administration course was full but there was a space on the business information systems course instead. I refused. I wanted my first choice so badly because of its diversity; I told the lady that I was prepared to sit on the floor if I had to. She laughed and told me she'd try to squeeze me in. Two months later, my dad and I were packing my bags to travel to Plymouth University for my induction . . . but there was another technicality I had overlooked. At the time I registered with the university in September, I was seventeen. The minimum acceptable age was eighteen, and students like me had to wait till they fulfilled this requirement. I wouldn't be eighteen until November. Luckily, the university took note of the year I was born and apparently assumed I was already eighteen, so it was no problem. The banks, however, told me to come back when I was eighteen in order to open a bank account. As for alcohol consumption . . . let's just say I did some warming up before my eighteenth birthday.

One of the reasons I had chosen to study at Plymouth was because it was rated as having one of the top five business schools in the United Kingdom. Also, it is located in the South West of England by the seaside, which was perfect for an Ijaw boy like me. On entering Plymouth, I soon learnt that it was a quiet and peaceful town on the verge of discovery. My university was located within Plymouth City Centre, which was the busiest part of Plymouth and the closest thing to being in London. Compared to other places, Plymouth seemed to have a lot of human traffic. Everywhere else seemed to have less foot flow.

While there were buses, people preferred to walk. I can recall images of students trudging along with dozens of shopping bags from Sainsbury's, the biggest supermarket in the city centre at the time. I also remember the distinct smell of Cornish pasties about town (the closest thing to a Nigerian meat pie). There was a full power supply, so long as you charged up your electricity key. There was also central gas and water, so long as you paid your bills on time. I saw automated teller machines (ATMs) for the first time and enjoyed making use of self-service checkouts at supermarkets. The major downside was the weather; each year, I enjoyed only two weeks of sun during summertime. The rest of the year it rained wildcats and bulldogs. But the most curious thing I observed in Plymouth was that there were virtually no black people to be seen.