Monday, 30 January 2017

The New Africa - in Black and White

"It doesn't really mean anything when you take a step back and look at the bigger picture."

The voice, distinct and clear, belonged to a Lupita Nyong'o lookalike and it cut through the rising hubbub of the venue.

Her group, smaller, but much more spirited than ours, was a smorgasbord of dandy characters.

"Never buy into the idea that one individual cannot make a difference, talk less when we are discussing about the world's most powerful individual," said the guy with the Einstein haircut.

Eavesdropping has always been one of my many social flaws, but today, I was literally on fire, with my blazing ears. The mind-numbing topic on my table left me with no choice.

Besides, the whole world is talking about the choice made by the American electorate a few months ago and very few topics have captured global attention as this particular outcome. Never has the idiom; between the devil and the deep blue sea, rang so true.

The venue was now filled to the brim. As the conversations bumped into each other and laughter and discourse filled the air, I suddenly remembered the real reason for my presence here.

"So, tell me about this guy of yours then," I said, elbowing my friend.

"Ah yes, you are going to love him. Let me just get this thing up and running," she said, as she fumbled with her tablet.

She was right. The piece of work she was sharing with me was not only engaging, it was endless in beauty.

Oh, did I mention I was in Lagos, Nigeria?

I love coming back every now and then, to explore the new energy flowing in from the new class of returning Diasporas, who have abandoned Western comforts for the raw dynamism of Africa's biggest economic hub. Their brewing optimism combined with the resident creative bravado of the locals, has produced a vibrancy unseen here for a long time.

"He goes by the alias Logor, and is a fabulous creative talent. This recent work is ample evidence. Now, the world needs to know what is happening here."

Ten minutes later, still mulling over a credible strategy and a viable offer to move negotiations forward, an impeccably dressed gentleman joined our table, shaking hands vigorously with my friend as he sat down. It turns out he is also here to see work of other emerging talents, with the sole aim of returning to London, with a few clients on his register.

"This is the new economic Wild West, but there's no one dying. All the blood is on canvasses, in images and print," he quipped.

My friend nodded in agreement; "five years ago this artist was selling his pieces for two hundred and fifty dollars tops. Today, his pieces are going for five thousand and that is one of the modest ones. It's the only thing bucking the trend!"

"Maybe Trump will buck the trend," I whispered.

Admittedly, it was a clumsy return to the original conversation, but one that allowed me attempt distraction from a subtle bidding war. My debonair rival, was outstripping me with every nod as he flicked through the chunky portfolios.

"I really hope so," he replied, with his head still buried in the goodies.

"When you can have Obama's Vice-President calling Africa a nation, maybe a change of direction wouldn't hurt. For an individual with African blood running their veins, Obama has been an abject letdown, It was a golden opportunity for Africa, one that I believe will take a while to return. A Trump presidency cannot be any worse, in my humble opinion. Remember, there has been no better friend to Africa in the White House, than George W Bush!"

It took a while for his words to sink in, but when they did, I did sympathise with his position. Here we are in a venue that could well be anywhere in the world, with superb ambiance, highly educated and sophisticated clientele. An Africa, with the fastest accelerating economies, and the Africa they never show on television.

In today's Lagos, with all its challenges, business is brisk and products of  local citadels of learning and the Ivy league, jostle for contention, whilst bouncing ideas around with jocularity. A cheerfulness etched with a steely tinge of unerring professionalism. This scene is replicated across many African cities and still, the rest of the world has not been let into the secret.

I begin to wonder whose job it is to make it happen.

Looking through Logor's monochrome pictures, it is as clear as black and white.

Thursday, 5 May 2016

5 Reasons I believe Trump will be the next POTUS.

And just like that, Donald John Trump, the one-time ‘presumptive’ buffoon in the Republican presidential line-up, is now the presumptive nominee, in what can only be matched by Leicester City FC’s capture of the English Premiership league crown. Unless some grand scheme is concocted to trip him on the home strait, Trump is already home! It is indeed a stunning outcome.
The GOP establishment - like some pompous millitary brass, which has forgotten to inspire its soldiers into a willing and friendly unit - has completely lost touch with the grassroots, and are now in essence facing a revolution, which could sweep the party away if unity is not the keyword.
That is what I call a Republican problem….it is a troublesome one, but not as big or potentially damaging as the bigger issue…the American problem. Well, what is that then, I hear you ask?
It is the problem of dealing with a Trump presidency. This is an ending even the likes of Hilary Clinton (first credible female candidate or not) and the full combined forces of some savvy Republican heavyweights, appear unable to stop.
Here are 5 reasons why the Don will soon be the King.

1. Trump is a phenomenal salesman:
Electioneering is fast becoming a form of grandstanding. Candidates offering a magical version of reality that can never be delivered and gathering more followers than Kim Kardashian in the process. This has increasingly been the case in the USA, especially in this last round of party campaigns.The person with the sweetest patter and most stirring, albeit unrealistic message, often wins. Trump was born to do both.
2. Hilary is a Clinton:
Please don’t make me explain why this is a problem.
3. Trump supporters are fired up, rebels with causes, and will come out en masse to vote:
Nothing propels a presidential candidate towards 1600 Pennsylvania faster than determined supporters who will suffer rain, sleet or snow to cast their vote. We only need look back at how Obama came to office.
4. Clinton’s Dodgy Emails:
Unless there are some very dark and dastardly items in The Donald’s private inbox, the issue of HRC’s unscrupulous email palaver will still come back to haunt and damage her campaign. This is where Trump’s lack of governmental involvement will boost, rather than knock his presidential bid. Mrs Clinton has too walked too many official dark corridors and once the light starts to shine on her activities, it will be difficult for her not to buckle.
5. Benghazi:
Nuff said!

Monday, 15 June 2015

One Red Night - Part 2

The doctor’s words came flooding back to me.

“You may experience shortness of breath, pain in your neck, arms, chest or even jaw. In general, it will be a feeling of discomfort and the best thing to do is alert anyone nearby
and desist from any activity which may exert you further.”

I was convinced the symptoms were spot on, so I reached to Barry (you will have to read Part 1 to understand), who was two seats away. As it turned out, it looked like everyone in my section, including my only hope, Barry, had similar symptoms. It was going to be a collective heart attack, how horribly romantic, I thought. With my last ounce of energy, I reached into my bag and squashed the Marlboro Lights packet.

My friends always told me cigarettes would kill me, but I never thought it would be so public. I glimpsed up at the scoreboard:


One minute to go in the first half and we, previous four-time winners of this competition, were three-nil down?

My Nokia 6310 kept humming as a flood of messages came in. Checking them was a redundant exercise, as I could almost mention the origin of every last one of them. My gloating and over-celebrating during the qualification stages had caught up with me. My work colleagues in Norwich - mostly non-Liverpool fans – had in the tradition with that part of the world, been measured in their reaction to my excesses. This was their opportunity to unleash and they did.

The rest of the derision predictably, came from my Manchester United (I have to wash my mouth out now), Arsenal and Chelsea (oh boy, did let me have it!) mates. The traffic was so much, the blue light on the Nokia came on so many times, the battery went flat. At least this was my excuse for not replying. I have never stopped asking myself what it would have been like, had Facebook being as popular as it is today.

Anyway, half-time went like a blur and the stadium rule of serving no alcohol ensured the pain could not be dulled. I looked across to Barry and ran my hand across my throat. He responded using another hand signal - the universal ‘calm down’ gesture. I sighed heavily and held my head in my hands, as the choruses of the Milan fans swept across the arena. I began to mentally tally the financial costs.

The closer the figure got to two thousand pounds, the more depressed I felt. A strange feeling descended on me, as my seat began to feel like a pod isolating me from everyone (I later found out from a spiritual guru in Norfolk that this was a state of transcending from reality into delirium) around me. I am almost certain if hadn’t been the unexpected roar from the wall of Liverpool fans behind me, my descent would have been final.

“Four-three, we’re gonna four-three, we’re gonna win four-three,” rang out breaking any Guinness Book of World records for decibels recorded in a sporting event. My pod shattered into insignificant little pieces, as I stood up and roared into life. Barry and the other people sitting in our ‘sandwich brigade’ section, sprang into action, stumping the stadium’s foundations into a rippling rumble that seemed to travel across to the Milan fans, quietening them in the process. It was clear they had never seen confidence like this.

The fully suited guys behind me definitely hadn’t and their uncontrolled exuberance, when Steven Gerard rose like a phoenix from the ashes, to bury Arne Riise’s brilliant cross in the 53rd minute, betrayed their initial corporate swag. If I had thought that was over the top, what occurred over the next five minutes was absolute mayhem!

In a space of three hundred seconds, the Liverpool section of the stadium had been transported from the depths of hell into first-class seats in heaven. There was now nothing corporate about the suited guys around us. Their jackets and ties were off, as they joined in the song and bounce, which had now consumed the match. A solitary ambulance drove around the stadium track, stopping in front of the Milan section. Apparently, like one usually sees in a boyband concert, some Milan fans had been overcome. It had been too much for some of them. 

Saying that, it now appeared the euphoria had spread to our section. The man-mountain decked in all red in front of me, was already in tears; “it doesn’t matter what happens now, I have seen the greatest football match of my lifetime and I have been watching Liverpool for over forty years,” he said blubbering uncontrollably.

Carried along by the rejuvenated fervency, an almost celestial version of “You’ll never walk alone” exploded into the air. Every note delivered perfectly and impeccably aided by those who clearly did not know the words, but felt they would be missing out by not joining in. By the time we had come down to earth, Djimi Traore had erased the memories of a disastrous personal performance from the first half, by clearing Andrei Shevshenko’s goal-bound shot. Minutes later, Dudek, the Liverpool goalkeeper denied the Milan striker again, when he produced what can only be described as an extra-terrestrial double-save, in what was a particularly horrific night for the Ukranian.

It was now apparent to all watching here in the stadium and the millions across the world; the Milan players and fans were shrinking right before our eyes. They started to sense they had snatched certain defeat from the jaws of what had seemed like certain victory.

With Shevshenko left to turn the tide in their favour, it was never going to happen. As Dudek raced towards his team mates, I couldn’t honestly account for the next thirty minutes. Suffice to say, I lost almost all the contents of my pockets in my rabid celebrations, but thankfully, not my passport and the banknotes secured within. In truth, it was a moment where loss was redundant. It was a moment that gave me more than I could have hoped for. It was a moment to start responding to those texts. What I could have done for a charger…..

An hour later, in the food halls of Istanbul Airport, we meandered through waves and waves of Milan fans. They were inconsolable and for most of the time, some of us managed to be magnanimous. If it had been us, we know how we would have felt. The Ultras were a different thing entirely though….in a bizarre close of an almighty loop, we have brushed past some of the same group we had encountered earlier.

Unlike the average Milan fan, their look of disappointment had a slightly different tilt to it. Their eyes seemed to be saying; somebody has to pay. It was impossible to avoid them and lethargy had begun to descend. As I contemplated our next move, I could see Barry folding his backpack to make a pillow.

“Baba, are you going to sleep with all these goons around us? We might never have the chance to wake up bro,” I said with genuine concern.

“Kanmi, I have a meeting in Switzerland in ten hours and I am tired. After all you have seen tonight, do you not believe in miracles? And even if anything happens, can anyone or anything take this day away from you,” he asked as he began to lay down.

I contemplated his sentiments for a few seconds and began nodding and smiling. It was time to  make my pillow.

Wednesday, 27 May 2015

One Red Night - Part 1

“You get down here,” the taxi driver growled, in his best English.

My co-occupant and I looked at each other mysteriously. Was this a weird Turkish joke specially designed to wind up all football fans on this special day or was the serious look on the driver’s face, a valid clue to our predicament?

As we grudgingly exited the taxi, my cultural instincts kicked in. The co-occupant I refer to is slightly older than myself and also had the special status of having been my senior at both secondary school and university levels. As in we went to the same educational institutions. It was only courteous I suppressed my rising irritation, do the Nigerian thing and give way to his ‘superior’ knowledge.

“Baba Barry, can you believe this toe rag,” I asked, my emotions betraying my intent.

“It’s okay Kanmi, just let’s get to the game without any hassle,” he replied justifying my belief that he had to be in charge of all decision-making on this trip.

My nerves had clearly been frayed by the preparation for this football match. As we stood listening to a group of Liverpool fans, who had been equally dumped at the hurriedly assembled roadblock, the economic ramifications of the trip had finally caught up with me. I reached for the comfort of my Marlboro Lights and commenced to puff my nervousness away.

Barry, noticing my Tyson-like head movements, winked at me. I nodded back reassuringly, wincing as the cigarette alerted me to the fact I had held on to it for too long. A sudden burst of noise diverted me from the pain.

“We are Liverpool,” bellowed the now self-chosen leader. His ruby face, full of Scouse pride broke into a big grin as he ushered us forward - flags in hand and scarves on shoulders - into what can only be described as a march. We stomped the freshly laid tar proudly and seemed to be literally walking through a valley of hope, bordered by newly created mounds of sand, enforced, to pave way for the road to the brand spanking stadium.

Twenty minutes into the walk and with several blacked-out Mercedes whizzing past us, it slowly began to dawn on us. We had not only drawn the short straws, but there was now the distinct possibility we may need them to aid our liquid consumption, on what was turning out to be more of an endurance event. And by that I mean endurance test of our adoration for our football club and worse still, a lack of endurance in the physical stamina department.

To make things worse, we had begun to attract spectators, as the local people had walked up the mounds and used them as a vantage point, to view what must have looked like the Great Red Walk. Of course, in typical friendly Liverpool style, we waved at our audience and soaked in their reciprocal applause, but for most of the time, their bemusement was overwhelmingly evident.

Another fifteen minutes down the never-ending trail, and we had started to ignore the gathering lines of the crowd. There was only a finite amount of time one’s niceness could last in such searing heat and besides, we had started to notice small groups of the Rossoneri. That special nervous energy, driven by sports rivalry, had taken over the air as the evening began to give way to the dark. Everyone in our group had a different reaction. Most let out odd noises, whilst others increased their pace for what we now knew was the last leg. Barry cracked his knuckles noisily, as I reached into my pocket and bizarrely stroked my ticket for comfort.

Now hot, clearly bothered and after what seemed like an age, a few bottles of water began to surface. As it turned out, the weather was not the only thing we had to douse… what could only be described as an accident waiting to happen, we had somehow ended up in the entrance for the Milan fans! Of course, like with most of these things, it never just rains. In fact, in this particular case, it was pouring Ultras.

All bedecked in Brigate black t-shirts and menacing stares, ensuring the wisdom of this Turkish journey began to immediately drain from some of our faces. A few expletives and a coordinated gingerly U-turn through the tiny path they had now created for us, we found our way past the drama with a cacophony of aggravated Italian ringing in our ears.

An awkward silence enveloped us for the next few minutes, as we wearily found the Liverpool entrance. A warm and frenzied embrace of the Scouse Army was waiting for us, with Chorus after chorus of ‘You Will Never Walk Alone’ ringing into the sweaty night.

Finally, we sighted the bowl of the stadium.

Emerging out of the dark, and emitting a radiant blue light towards the sky, it felt as if we had finally arrived at a long-lost spaceship. A spaceship designed just to take us
home. Simultaneously, the much-loved UEFA Champions League anthem launched triumphantly and welcomed us to the arena.

Our group, now bonded by an hour of sweat, aches and fears, huddled and bounced in anticipation. It was on……

This piece is to commemorate the 10th year anniversary of Liverpool’s UEFA Champions League victory in Istanbul. WATCH OUT FOR PART 2.

Thursday, 14 May 2015

The Unquenchable Fire in the Belly...

It can be difficult…this writing palaver. Like an unfulfilled childhood ambition, it pokes continually at one’s resigned frame, asking the same questions on repeat.

This in turn, births an all-consuming belief most writers possess. A self-assuredness which convinces you, sitting behind your desk and tapping away at your keyboard, that you will eventually somehow, someday, make a difference.

All this, achieved without any political authority, economic influence or a warfare arsenal.

Just you and your chosen weapons of words, getting ready against all hope, to touch base with the implacable dictator, the unfeeling elite or the ordinary person on the street, who has completely tuned out, traumatised by a desperate bid to survive their overbearing conditions.

Staring at a blank piece of paper and urging your scrambled thoughts, to line up in an eloquent format and obey your quest to make some sort of contact. For if what one writes, had no impact on one’s intended audience, could one then still confidently call oneself a writer?

How does one avoid the cardinal sins of; using several words when one would do or indulging in verboseness, when succinctness will suffice? You see what I did there?

Should a writer’s emotions be dripping from their paragraphs, or is restraint a key driver in conveying a message the audience can relate to? Why even bother about relating to one’s audience?

Is engaging with the audience, a requisite for a serious writer? Is it in fact, just a form of lazy pandering or an indispensable trait for any wordsmith true to his or her craft?

Must all writers be serious? Even the ones who satirise for a living? Is a deadpan delivery more effective than parody, when the issues at hand, are of a - shall we say - more sombre nature?

Why all these questions?

Well, it’s a lonely task….writing, that is. But one, that is guided by a certain amount of nobility, so it’s always necessary to contemplate on the ethics, as well as techniques of the art.

Very few writers for instance, write for no reason. They are always trying to change something and the wind in their sails, though abating intermittently, never stops blowing.

The fire never leaves the belly.

Writers must persevere and keep dropping their nuggets (golden or otherwise), because in the end, all it takes is a few lines to make contact. Yes, it could be a long, arduous road, but once contact is made, a shift occurs and hopefully, a new day is born or at least a new consciousness triggered.

I think James Baldwin; the late, great American writer captured it best when he wrote:

“You write in order to change the world ... if you alter, even by a millimetre, the way people look at reality, then, you can change it.” 

And that could be the hope keeping most writers going. Still hoping that; truly, one day, the pen will indeed be mightier than the sword and it would have all been worth it.

Friday, 1 May 2015

It's the Wooing Game, Silly!

"We are your servants......"

May come across like a sound-bite from a group wooing session gone wrong, but this was one of the many quotes dropped on the BBC's Question Time podium in Leeds, by the political triumvirate begging for our votes, for next Thursday. It was Nick Clegg who came out with this gem actually and it is only appropriate this piece begins with him.

Of the three men, he appears to be the one seen by most (especially the female demographic), as lazy on the eye. His meteoric rise before the last elections, owned more to this factor, than the content of his message. He stood in the middle of Cameron and Brown on that podium, looking like the youngest and most handsome brother in a very average family line-up. It was only inevitable he was to then go on and play a vital role. That was the type of society we had become at the time. Watching America vote in a cool, suave and debonair individual, guaranteed some of the lust for that golden dust, rubbed off on us.

Five years later, having been Deputy Prime Minister for all his troubles, Mr Clegg is on his last legs politically. His recent efforts in Leeds, revealed a man determined to ensure his Order of Songs is predetermined by no one, but himself. At least he would leave a good-looking political corpse.

Next on the list, is Ed Miliband. Looking more confident than ever and seeming to be the only leader who recognised the significance and danger of the size of the "undecided vote". His strategy was simple: I will listen to your question; ask for your name; answer your question by prefacing my response with: "and this is why I believe that".

It looked like it worked for a while, until the banana skin of the "over-spending" question. Worse still, at the end of his allotted 30 minutes, somehow the banana skin had morphed from its literal state into a physical one. If the bacon pictures could garner so much steam, just imagine what the images of a sprawled Miliband would have done for social media and the poor man's political future.

The red tops would have had fun too: 

"Ed falls at the last hurdle".
"Red Ed spills blood on the political dancefloor".
"Floored by the public's questions".

I could go on, but it wouldn't leave me any room to acknowledge Mr Cameron. After all, he is the current Prime Minister and the first man to occupy the floor.

The issue with Mr Cameron is simple; no one outside the Tory confraternity believes anything he says. His swerve, on the NHS issue relating to where the requisite money would be generated was in line with educated expectations. His modus operandi during this election has revealed what most of his detractors like myself, have always highlighted. 

In brief, here is a man who has been raised to believe he was born to rule, but clearly lacks the charisma, instinct and gravitas required to do the job. He has been the lottery winner in a pool of very unlucky Conservative MPs. For me, this is the problem with the Tories and it is an issue which will haunt them for a while. Of the next generation identified as potential leaders, only Boris has what the electorate want and even he, is one inappropriate joke away from a political scandal. A flaw, that being the leader, is bound to bring to the fore.

So, put yourself in the position of the unfortunate electorate, whom, like a pretty woman being wooed, has to make a decision she has to live with for the next five years and maybe even beyond.

Nick, dashing, but prone to making false promises...Dave, decent chap, but with grand delusions of being the chosen one...or Ed, not an oil painting, but utterly devoted to you, albeit, prone to the odd stumble. 

Hmmm....most women I know would probably ask for the real Nicholas, David and Edward, to please stand up. This has been the true tragedy of these elections. Most of us are literally planning to vote according to allegiances and the rest, leant on by a sense of fear. All because we cannot say we really know any of these guys. 

My guess is, as the Lady has to make a choice come next Thursday, she will go for the decent guy with the huge ego. One snag though, he will not be allowed to consummate the relationship.

Interpretation: Tory Minority government.

Tuesday, 31 March 2015

United Kingdom of Nigeria

The uncanny parallels that merge the two countries of Nigeria and Great Britain are truly mind-boggling. The historical coming together of both entities about three centuries ago has somehow resulted in a weird morphing of the most unlikely national psyches.
Ask the average Brit on why their country deserves her first name, and you are bound to be taken back to the classroom and schooled on the fine details of Empire 101. Somewhere along the way, you will also be peppered with grandiose tales of Churchill, the unique sacrifice of the Royal Family and depending on their political persuasion; some Thatcher sound bites could also be dropped.
Next, invite the average Nigerian to the same podium, and they will "educate" you on the size, the ethnic diversity, the religious balance and the fact the country is Africa's largest economy. Of course, if you gave them more minutes on stage, they may stretch the truth and tell you how Nigerians were the people "responsible" for the anti-colonial spark that lit the continent in the 1960's and led it into the light of independence.
When all the chitty-chatter is done, none of what either group tells you will represent something for the future. They will unearth some magnificent details from history and some questionable ones from the present but in the end, they will begin to sound like that hapless job candidate. The one with the spanking CV, who mysteriously, cannot articulate how they will take your company forward...
They exude confidence and swagger, crafted on the back of past events, but lack the essential killer traits to stand tall amongst their current-day peers. It's the ultimate price paid when there is an acute lack of leadership.
Consequently, the majority of people in both countries are incredibly optimistic people, with a consummate sense of humour, which they wear like an indispensable cloak. They have to. Anything else will be a one-way ticket to Depression.
Let us take a look at recent events in Great Britain and Nigeria, as they once again share an election year.
On the African side of the Atlantic, you have a huge chunk of the population who vehemently hold on to the view only one particular individual can take the country forward. Just to garnish the mess further, not only is this person in the advanced stage of his life, he has actually had a bite of the top job a few decades ago. And yet they tell us it is "Change".
But then you realise the maturity of the farce, when the incumbent's supporters tell us their man will perform feats in four years, which he wasn't able to do in six. They call that "transformation" apparently.
Meanwhile, on the other side, you have a Prime Minister with probably the worst record of personal judgement in history. From Coulson, to Harrison, to Cruddas, to Fink, to Clarkson, to that Euro veto and so on and so forth. What makes Mr Cameron's case alarming is the fact he was always forewarned with copious evidence, which he consistently ignored. I often wonder what job our PM would have been doing today, if he hadn't gone to Oxford.
Even with all that in mind, it appears Mr Cameron is still the only candidate that "looks" like a Prime Minister. That seems to be the conclusion from the media, driven by the polls. But what else would one expect, when the other candidates are Messrs Clegg and Miliband, et al.
Mr Clegg - who my five year old once told me was David Cameron's brother - appears to share his "brother's" lack of judgement, if not his DNA. It is a crying shame; he will eventually take his party down with him to the unknown depths of the political graveyard, with the tuition fees albatross, hanging from their collective neck.
Mr Miliband is probably the only PM Wannabe I truly feel sorry for. His intellect is not in doubt and his wellmeaningness is indubitable, but when you cannot inspire people to take you seriously as a contender, how the hell are you going to arouse them to the polling stations to vote for you?
And so a few days from now, Nigerians should hopefully be going to the polls, although, there is no guarantee it wouldn't end in an April Fools debacle. Judging by the government's record, I doubt anyone out there, is holding their breath. As a female friend of mine joked; anyone who makes a false promise for Valentine's Day cannot be trusted.
Pan the camera back to these shores and although we have a few more weeks to go before voting, the drama is no less. First of all, it took a lot of high drama to get all recognised partly leaders into the televised debates and now, we have a Prime Minister who has never won an outright majority in an election, sounding off about his lofty plans to hand over the reins of his political party.
The resulting lack of quality leadership in both scenarios, means over 100 million people are about to go out and participate in redundant electoral exercises. But then I guess that's what happens when electorates do not engage genuinely in the political process and are buoyed on media guidance, rather than personal conviction. Invariably, the people will vote to keep the status quo and the politicians will massage voter egos, by saying things like; the people have spoken!
Consequently, like the thousands out there who happen to share a common love, heritage of and roots in both countries, I am staring out of my window and wondering when real purpose will return. Living in hope that some heroes will rise and save us, as we perfectly perch in the middle of what constantly reminds me of Ernest Hemingway's great quote:
"Life is like a sh*t sandwich the more bread you have the less sh*t you have to eat...."
Well, to all the power-brokers from Abuja to Westminster... more bread please.