WHEN THERE IS NO MEANS OF LIVELIHOOD SURVIVAL BECOMES THE ULTIMATE PURSUIT My first trip to Lagos was made in the company of five others. We were members of a music group. We had big dreams, wore big baggy jeans and polos, and walked with a slight limp. We were a merry crew. I was the youngest, 19 at the time. We got to Lagos, six of us, and dispersed. We had made arrangements, before hand. Tissy, Mexzo and Grant were to stay at Victors place at Ogba. Victor, a stranger, who had never met them before, was helpless against the battalion that stormed his house. His girlfriend, a fan in Aba had convinced him to let her cousins stay at his place. These guys were hot. Theyd blow quick quick! Shed said to him. Case, staunch believer in the dream, short like MI, and I, got Ajegunle. Our neighbour in Aba, who went by the name Piro, had promised to accommodate us and link us up. He had a cool place he said. We should not bother ourselves. That night was the worst Id ever experienced in my music journey. It was a shack in a tumbled down area of Ajegunle, where mountains of refuse formed the foundation of buildings. Mosquitoes as large as flies attacked all through the night, and the heat did not help matters. By morning, I was a sorry sight. Piro fulfilled his promise and took us to Daddy Fresh the singer. We met him at a club in Apapa. He listened to our songs. He liked some, and at some, he squeezed his face. Hed cock his ears to one side and squint his eyes. Who has that voice hed say? And wed tell him. At some point he got angry at me. You! You dey rap, you dey sing, you dey patua! Which one you dey sef? I stood there helpless. Scared. He is a looming gaint, Daddy fresh and he looked more scary, with his sleeveless, and tattooed arms, as large as yam tubers. I prayed silently that hed not decide not to help us because I had decided to be a jack of all trade. How could I explain to him that I was confused myself, that I could never bring myself to focus on one thing. That rap and singing and patua were not all there was. There was yet another one, invented solely by me. I called it swahilation - The movement of sound. Daddy fresh wanted us to pay 40k for a studio session at his home studio in Ajegunle. He said hed help us get the songs in order once we did that. Hed also help us find a marketer. We did not have the money, so we went home. Depressed. Piro was waiting when we got in, expectantly. The news saddened him. Piro, good piro, he must have hoped, that these talented little boys, would be his ticket out of ghettohood. Our next port of call was Alaba. Time shall not permit me to recount our Alaba woes. It is a story I shall tell another day. Sumaxton, who wore the biggest boots among us all fared better. He was at his cousins place at an estate at Alakija or is it mile two. One day, he stumbled into Ekwe. The one we call sample, Ekwe! Ekwe loved our songs and promised to help. But he ended up driving Sumaxton around in his jeep every evening and gettin him drunk. Sumaxton, wise dude. He ran for dear life, and recounted his experience to us, when we met on one occasion. We were scattered in Lagos and broke. I could not go to my relatives. They would send me back home, back to school. Theyd not understand. Rebellion was in my blood. I rebelled still. Our quest for our dreams slowly degenerated into the quest for survival. I saw a newspaper ad for client service representatives in an insurance company, Lasaco assurance. The name sounded grand and I liked the images it evoked in my mind. Client Service Representative. Id be talking to people. And talk was my thing. I dialled the number. Inside a market in Ogba, I found the address of the shop given to me over the phone. A job agent. There was a fee. One thousand Naira. I paid. Got the letter and the next day, I was sitting with other job seekers in a lecture room at Lasaco Assurance, Agidingbi, Ikeja. I was the youngest. I sat there, clutching my dreams as Mr Tony, the trainee spoke. His soaring oratory lifted our downcast souls, we, helpless unemployed Nigerian youths. He painted visions of the future. 50 percent commision. Millions. A car. Respect. I swallowed saliva, and clenched my fists. I could not wait. Our training ended after two weeks and we were given materials to use on the field. The job required a corporate look and I had no coporate clothes. It was Piro again, good old piro that lent me a pair of trousers, a shirt, a shoe and a tie. When I set out on my first day on the field, I stopped by a UBA bank to examine myself. The trousers were so thin at the waist, then blew out from thigh down, before converging at the ankle, like a balloon. The shirt was almost twice my size. For cuff links I used copper wire. The tie was a long rope, reaching down from my neck in mockery of the whole paraphenalia that was my dressing. I was not detered. On strode I, purposefully, resolutely, intent on making my first sale that day. I walked the length and breath of Ikeja for two weeks without making a sale. The koi-koi shoes ate away at the soles, my hair got brown with dust, my face darkened from excessive sun light. My dreams began to slip away, but I clutched on to them, re-affirming them with each step under Ikejas scorching sun, believing that the next office might yield a sale. It was in this state that these words popped into my mind: When there is no means of livelihood survival becomes the ultimate pursuit And in that moment I resolved to never pursue survival. I resolved that Id rather die than be relegated to an animal existence, because I realised that survival was the enemy of dreams. You survive, but in the end, after the passing of years, your dreams die, because you did not give them your all. You spent your time, keeping body and soul together, because no one will ever pay you enough to fund your dreams, even more so when you had no sparkling degrees or paper qualification. I went home that day, and flung away those miserable clothes, then I took one of my articles to Horizon express, a now defunct weekly magazine cum newspaper. I got my first writing job there. An inspirational column. I could write whatever I wanted, and so I took on society, and poured out all my frustrations there. I was payed ten thousand every month for one article every week. I remember thinking that they were crazy to do that. I silently prayed that theyd not find out how easy it was to write those articles and reduce my pay. The economic melt down came and Horizon express did not survive, but I survived. I travelled home at the end of the year, and showed off my column to my friends. I saw the pride on my fathers face as he read. And my mother, God bless her soul, she made me a nice pot vegetable soup. It was another two years before I came back to Lagos, again armed with nothing but a bag of dreams. P.S I shared this just to say this: Always and always pursue your passion. Dont let the need to survive drive you. If you stay on it long enough, and work on your creative passion, it wont be long before it starts paying you. Just in case you were wondering what happened to my music dream, nothing happened to it. It has found expression in several other creative forms, and if God wills, in due course, all that he has hidden in me will be unveiled. I am not worried. Purpose is my main concern and whatever medium or gift that serves my lifes purpose will find opportunity for expression. Im still on a journey and like Saint Paul, I do not count myself to have comprehended. I am becoming.
Posted on: Wed, 13 Aug 2014 08:17:12 +0000
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