Hunger in Nigeria - Essay Example

Hunger (First Draft) When the President of Nigeria and his wife received and accepted gifts in 1989 for the naming ceremony of their fourth child, the sources of those gifts were in question. “The rush by transnational corporations, traditional rulers, and the wealthy in the country to present gifts to the President and his wife under the guise of presenting gifts to the newborn baby, was merely an excuse to strengthen ties and ensure that they were noticed against the future” (Ojo 167). His hand idly lay against his empty belly. Another hand reached upward to wipe the moisture from his eye as he looked out from the doorway, his eyes scanning across the street. The sounds of children playing were interrupted by the noise of shouting that occasionally erupted from one place or another. He swallowed before stepping out into the dirt of the street, the scents and the crust of the poor part of the city having no affect on him as he had lived within it his whole life. The growl in his belly, on the other hand, is a pain one can never get used to feeling. He began the search for food, for a resource from which to gain his meal for the day. The result of colonialism within Nigeria has displaced the cultural sense of survival, creating urban centers where once the natural order of society provided for itself. Urbanization has taken shelter and food from cultures that once knew how to work their land and use their resources in order to provide for themselves. Now, the cities are filled with generations who struggle still to adapt and to pull themselves out of poverty. He closed his eyes for a moment before moving through the city. He thought about a woman he knew who might give him a meal if he talked nicely to her. He hadn’t gone to her in a long time, but she had given him food before when he had happened by when she was cooking. He had to cross the city a bit to get near her home, but it was worth it if he got a cooked meal. He moved quickly from place to place, waving at those he knew until he was stopped dead in his tracks for a moment. He looked up and saw the office of a lawyer that he knew, a man who had bought his way into the graces of the mayor of the town. He saw the son of the mayor going into that office, with his clean white shirt and black trousers, not to mention the shiny black automobile from which he had emerged. “Lagos, the current capital city and perhaps the most important urban settlement in Nigeria, if not on the West African coast, typifies a case of urban development in a rural context. The settlement has grown from a 19th century fishing and agricultural settlement to become a late 20th century metropolitan centre” (Baker184). The mayor’s son walked into the office, the whirring of the fan creating a small breeze through the open door. He ran his hand down his neck, bothered that his father had sent him on this errand, his life interrupted by this chore. He grinned for a moment thinking of the women from the night before, their lithe bodies undulating to the music, his throat filled with the drink that made his eyes glassy and filled him with a wildness that he could not express without it. He blew out a small bit of air and focused on the office door in front of him. “I have it, I have it” he said, knowing that his position in the city was dependant upon giving this tribute to the mayor, the power of that man enough to give him access to what he needed to sustain his business. He fumbled around with a key to a drawer for a minute until it popped open. He pulled out a big envelope and surreptitiously filled it until it was full. He locked the metal clasp on it had and handed it to the mayor’s son, his sweating fingers leaving a mark upon the paper. The mayor’s son sneered then turned and left the office, still annoyed that his sleep and his day had been interrupted for such a task. “In today’s Nigeria corruption has become a problem with implications for development planning, power positions, and balances, the constitution of civil society and the future 0 democracy. Today, virtually no Nigerian believes in hard work or that hard work pays” (Ojo 167). He walked up to the shining black automobile, his fingers reaching out to touch the hard finish. He was transfixed by the beauty and power that the automobile held, his hand running over the finish now in order to drink in the wealth that it represented. The boy, in his poverty, had no way to comply to the needs of those in power, to give to them what they desired in order to rise above his place in this life. He knew that no matter what he did, without resources that shiny black automobile might as well be a rock on the moon, desired but unreachable. The dull ache in his belly was indistinguishable from the hunger he felt, the desire to have the things he could see, even touch, but never own. The mayor’s son didn’t care much for anything that stood in his way, the standards of his life measured only by the extent to which he experienced pleasure. He looked at the paper envelope, bulging with cash and knew he could not steal it without raising the anger of his father who indulged his life and would most likely give him a good handful for having collected the gift. He hit the accelerator with a punch, not seeing the boy who stood so clearly in front of him as he roared forward. He thought about the smooth belly of the woman that he currently desired most and knew he would see her soon, her skin, silken and glowing in the lights of the club where he would find her. Politics in Nigeria, as in many cultures, is defined by the amount of money that one has in order to afford to run for office. In each region, if you move into the district you will always be a stranger. Even in a city such as Lagos, one is considered a migrant until the day they die, no matter how many years one has spent living there. However, with enough money, anything can be bought. The mayor’s son walked into his father’s office, his jacket pouching out where he held close the envelope under his arm. He stopped and looked at his father, a bit of disdain clearly crossing his lips. He had grown up with the corruption, seen things that no child should see and heard things that no child should ever hear. His reaction had been to shield himself, to envelope himself in drink and women. His anger frothed at the surface, his money buying forgiveness and taming anyone who would oppose his deeds in the search for pleasure. Where his father had sought power, he had sought delight, distraction, and forgetfulness. He threw the packet on the desk and turned on his heels to walk out the door, his back being the only comment he would offer his father. In April of 2003 the elections took place for the national assembly, the governors, and the President. President Obasanjo won by a landslide 62% of the vote. It was well and widely known that voting irregularities and outright rigging of the elections had occurred, but no one found it to be unusual. Even the United States willingly accepted the outcome of the election (Smith 118). The boy walked the streets his arms crossed over his belly. He thought about the shiny black car and held himself even tighter, the pain in his belly gnawing at him. He walked down the street to the woman’s house who had always given him food for a conversation and a smile, but something suddenly struck him as being wrong. He didn’t see anyone or anything moving along the street, but there was the evidence of construction being done in this area. He opened his eyes wide, seeing that all of the hovels and the apartments were gone, their skeletal structures, where there was a skeletal structure, empty and with more space than building. His heart fell. The picture of the mayor was erected near the heart of the construction, his face the size of a small building, ready to devour the boy as he stood there in the waning sunlight. The corruption of the local police departments has created legitimized place for a group known as the Bakassi Boys who rule the cities through sanctioned vigilantism. They are armed with guns, machetes, and charms, ready to defend the average citizen, however, it is suspected that these groups are used by local politicians to enforce their corruption. Her interest had waned. The mayor’s son was furious, dragging the girl out into the alleyway, his friends opening the door and closing it so no others could follow the two. He threw her to the ground, behaving in a way to which any thug could relate, taking what he wanted and thrusting his fist into her body when she resisted. The boy sat in his dark corner, his hunger forgotten as horror crossed his face as he witnessed the violence. He stood up, the eyes of the mayor’s son finding him as he got off of the girl, her body beaten and bleeding, her life seeping onto the cold ground. He stood up and looked at the boy, not recognizing him from earlier. Then he heard some commotion, a group of men coming, a patrol who frequented the area and took justice into their own hands where the police would not. “What did you do!” the mayor’s son cried out “You killed her!” They descended upon the boy, his hunger now filled with fear, his body held within their hands and his future swiped away. The mayor’s son had a sneer on his face, the boy’s face filled with shock. One of the men who held him gave the mayor’s son a look of disgust, while another gave him a knowing smile. They forced the boy to his knees, his eyes raised to the mayor’s son whose only commentary was his back as he turned and walked back into the club, his buddies slapping him on the back and waiting for the next round of drink. A sharp crack was heard and the silhouette of the boy fell to the side and onto the ground, his blood mingling with the girl’s. Works Cited Baker, Jonathan. Small Town Africa: Studies in Rural-Urban Interaction. Uppsala: Scandinavian Institute of African Studies (Nordiska Afrikainstitutet, 1990. Print. Center for Law Enforcement Education. Nigeria: The Bakassi Boys, the legitimization of murder and torture. Human Rights Watch. 14, 5 (2002): 2-45. Ojo, Bamidele A. Nigeria's Third Republic: The Problems and Prospects of Political Transition to Civil Rule. Commack, N.Y: Nova Science Publishers, 1998. Print. Smith, Daniel J. A Culture of Corruption: Everyday Deception and Popular Discontent in Nigeria. Princeton, N.J: Princeton University Press, 2008. Print. Clients Name Name of Professor Name of Class Date Hunger (Second Draft) When the President of Nigeria and his wife received and accepted gifts in 1989 for the naming ceremony of their fourth child, the sources of those gifts were in question. “The rush by transnational corporations, traditional rulers, and the wealthy in the country to present gifts to the President and his wife under the guise of presenting gifts to the newborn baby, was merely an excuse to strengthen ties and ensure that they were noticed against the future” (Ojo 167). He crouched low for a moment, his hand idly laying against his empty belly. Another hand reached upward to wipe the moisture from his eye as he looked out from the doorway, his eyes scanning across the street. The sounds of children playing were interrupted by the noise of shouting that occasionally erupted from one place or another. He swallowed before stepping out into the dirt of the street, the scents and the crust of the poor part of the city having no affect on him as he had lived within it his whole life. The growl in his belly, on the other hand, is a pain one can never get used to feeling. He began the search for food, for a resource from which to gain his meal for the day. The result of colonialism within Nigeria has displaced the cultural sense of survival, creating urban centers where once the natural order of society provided for itself. Urbanization has taken shelter and food from cultures that once knew how to work their land and use their resources in order to provide for themselves. Now, the cities are filled with generations who struggle still to adapt and to pull themselves out of poverty. He closed his eyes for a moment before moving through the city. He thought about a woman he knew who might give him a meal if he talked nicely to her. He hadn’t gone to her in a long time, but she had given him food before when he had happened by when she was cooking. He had to cross the city a bit to get near her home, but it was worth it if he got a cooked meal. He moved quickly from place to place, waving at those he knew until he was stopped dead in his tracks for a moment. He looked up and saw the office of a lawyer that he knew, a man who had bought his way into the graces of the mayor of the town. He saw the son of the mayor going into that office, his clean white shirt and black trousers showing his Westernized modernity, not to mention the shiny black automobile from which he had emerged. He was envious and jealous of the way in which the mayor’s son had access to that which he did not. “Lagos, the current capital city and perhaps the most important urban settlement in Nigeria, if not on the West African coast, typifies a case of urban development in a rural context. The settlement has grown from a 19th century fishing and agricultural settlement to become a late 20th century metropolitan centre” (Baker184). The mayor’s son walked into the office, the whirring of the fan creating a small breeze through the open door. He ran his hand down his neck, bothered that his father had sent him on this errand, his life interrupted by this chore. He grinned for a moment thinking of the women from the night before, their lithe bodies undulating to the music, his throat filled with the drink that made his eyes glassy and filled him with a wildness that he could not express without it. He blew out a small bit of air and focused on the office door in front of him. “I have it, I have it” he said, knowing that his position in the city was dependant upon giving this tribute to the mayor, the power of that man enough to give him access to what he needed to sustain his business. He fumbled around with a key to a drawer for a minute until it popped open. He pulled out a big envelope and surreptitiously filled it until it was full. He locked the metal clasp on it had and handed it to the mayor’s son, his sweating fingers leaving a mark upon the paper. The mayor’s son sneered then turned and left the office, still annoyed that his sleep and his day had been interrupted for such a task. “In today’s Nigeria corruption has become a problem with implications for development planning, power positions, and balances, the constitution of civil society and the future 0 democracy. Today, virtually no Nigerian believes in hard work or that hard work pays” (Ojo 167). He walked up to the shining black automobile, his fingers reaching out to touch the hard finish. He was transfixed by the beauty and power that the automobile held, his hand running over the finish now in order to drink in the wealth that it represented. The boy, in his poverty, had no way to comply to the needs of those in power, to give to them what they desired in order to rise above his place in this life. He knew that no matter what he did, without resources that shiny black automobile might as well be a rock on the moon, desired but unreachable. The dull ache in his belly was indistinguishable from the hunger he felt, the desire to have the things he could see, even touch, but never own. He was startled when the engine started and had to jump out of the way as the mayor’s son pulled forward, uncaring that a human life stood between him and his destination. The mayor’s son didn’t care much for anything that stood in his way, the standards of his life measured only by the extent to which he experienced pleasure. He looked at the paper envelope, bulging with cash and knew he could not steal it without raising the anger of his father who indulged his life and would most likely give him a good handful for having collected the gift. He hit the accelerator with a punch, not seeing the boy who stood so clearly in front of him as he roared forward. He thought about the smooth belly of the woman that he currently desired most and knew he would see her soon, her skin, silken and glowing in the lights of the club where he would find her. Politics in Nigeria, as in many cultures, is defined by the amount of money that one has in order to afford to run for office. In each region, if you move into the district you will always be a stranger. Even in a city such as Lagos, one is considered a migrant until the day they die, no matter how many years one has spent living there. However, with enough money, anything can be bought. The mayor’s son walked into his father’s office, his jacket pouching out where he held close the envelope under his arm. He stopped and looked at his father, a bit of disdain clearly crossing his lips. He had grown up with the corruption, seen things that no child should see and heard things that no child should ever hear. His reaction had been to shield himself, to envelope himself in drink and women. His anger frothed at the surface, his money buying forgiveness and taming anyone who would oppose his deeds in the search for pleasure. Where his father had sought power, he had sought delight, distraction, and forgetfulness. He threw the packet on the desk and turned on his heels to walk out the door, his back being the only comment he would offer his father. In April of 2003 the elections took place for the national assembly, the governors, and the President. President Obasanjo won by a landslide 62% of the vote. It was well and widely known that voting irregularities and outright rigging of the elections had occurred, but no one found it to be unusual. Even the United States willingly accepted the outcome of the election (Smith 118). The boy walked the streets his arms crossed over his belly. He thought about the shiny black car and held himself even tighter, the pain in his belly gnawing at him. He walked down the street to the woman’s house who had always given him food for a conversation and a smile, but something suddenly struck him as being wrong. He didn’t see anyone or anything moving along the street, but there was the evidence of construction being done in this area. He opened his eyes wide, seeing that all of the hovels and the apartments were gone, their skeletal structures, where there was a skeletal structure, empty and with more space than building. His heart fell. The picture of the mayor was erected near the heart of the construction, his face the size of a small building, ready to devour the boy as he stood there in the waning sunlight. The corruption of the local police departments has created legitimized place for a group known as the Bakassi Boys who rule the cities through sanctioned vigilantism. They are armed with guns, machetes, and charms, ready to defend the average citizen, however, it is suspected that these groups are used by local politicians to enforce their corruption. Her interest had waned. The mayor’s son was furious, dragging the girl out into the alleyway, his friends opening the door and closing it so no others could follow the two. He threw her to the ground, behaving in a way to which any thug could relate, taking what he wanted and thrusting his fist into her body when she resisted. The boy sat in his dark corner, his hunger forgotten as horror crossed his face as he witnessed the violence. He stood up, the eyes of the mayor’s son finding him as he got off of the girl, her body beaten and bleeding, her life seeping onto the cold ground. He stood up and looked at the boy, not recognizing him from earlier. Then he heard some commotion, a group of men coming, a patrol who frequented the area and took justice into their own hands where the police would not. “What did you do!” the mayor’s son cried out “You killed her!” They descended upon the boy, his hunger now filled with fear, his body held within their hands and his future swiped away. The mayor’s son had a sneer on his face, the boy’s face filled with shock. One of the men who held him gave the mayor’s son a look of disgust, while another gave him a knowing smile. They forced the boy to his knees, his eyes raised to the mayor’s son whose only commentary was his back as he turned and walked back into the club, his buddies slapping him on the back and waiting for the next round of drink. A sharp crack was heard and the silhouette of the boy fell to the side and onto the ground, his blood mingling with the girl’s. Works Cited Baker, Jonathan. Small Town Africa: Studies in Rural-Urban Interaction. Uppsala: Scandinavian Institute of African Studies (Nordiska Afrikainstitutet, 1990. Print. Center for Law Enforcement Education. Nigeria: The Bakassi Boys, the legitimization of murder and torture. Human Rights Watch. 14, 5 (2002): 2-45. Ojo, Bamidele A. Nigeria's Third Republic: The Problems and Prospects of Political Transition to Civil Rule. Commack, N.Y: Nova Science Publishers, 1998. Print. Smith, Daniel J. A Culture of Corruption: Everyday Deception and Popular Discontent in Nigeria. Princeton, N.J: Princeton University Press, 2008. Print. Clients Name Name of Professor Name of Class Date Hunger (Final Draft) When the President of Nigeria and his wife received and accepted gifts in 1989 for the naming ceremony of their fourth child, the sources of those gifts were in question. “The rush by transnational corporations, traditional rulers, and the wealthy in the country to present gifts to the President and his wife under the guise of presenting gifts to the newborn baby, was merely an excuse to strengthen ties and ensure that they were noticed against the future” (Ojo 167). He crouched low for a moment, his hand idly lying against his empty belly. Another hand reached upward to wipe the moisture from his eye as he looked out from the doorway, his eyes scanning across the street. The sounds of children playing were interrupted by the noise of shouting that occasionally erupted from one place or another. He swallowed before stepping out into the dirt of the street, the scents and the crust of the poor part of the city having no affect on him as he had lived within it his whole life. The growl in his belly, on the other hand, is a pain one can never get used to feeling. He began the search for food, for a resource from which to gain his meal for the day. The result of colonialism within Nigeria has displaced the cultural sense of survival, creating urban centers where once the natural order of society provided for itself. Urbanization has taken shelter and food from cultures that once knew how to work their land and use their resources in order to provide for them. Now, the cities are filled with generations who struggle still to adapt and to pull themselves out of poverty. He closed his eyes for a moment before moving through the city. He thought about a woman he knew who might give him a meal if he talked nicely to her. He hadn’t gone to her in a long time, but she had given him food before when he had happened by when she was cooking. He had to cross the city a bit to get near her home, but it was worth it if he got a cooked meal. He moved quickly from place to place, waving at those he knew until he was stopped dead in his tracks for a moment. He looked up and saw the office of a lawyer that he knew, a man who had bought his way into the graces of the mayor of the town. He saw the son of the mayor going into that office, his clean white shirt and black trousers showing his Westernized modernity, not to mention the shiny black automobile from which he had emerged. “Lagos, the current capital city and perhaps the most important urban settlement in Nigeria, if not on the West African coast, typifies a case of urban development in a rural context. The settlement has grown from a 19th century fishing and agricultural settlement to become a late 20th century metropolitan centre” (Baker184). The mayor’s son walked into the office, the whirring of the fan creating a small breeze through the open door. He ran his hand down his neck, bothered that his father had sent him on this errand, his life interrupted by this chore. He grinned for a moment thinking of the women from the night before, their lithe bodies undulating to the music, his throat filled with the drink that made his eyes glassy and filled him with a wildness that he could not express without it. He blew out a small bit of air and focused on the office door in front of him. He walked in the door and cocked an eyebrow at the man who sat in front of him. He curled his lip for a moment in disdain, the thick body of the man sweating and making circle of dampness in the armpits of his shirt. “What do you want” the man said and the mayor’s son raised both his eyebrows at him in mock surprise. “Your gift for my father was lost, it seems, and he has sent me to collect what was promised“. The man paused for a moment, only now realizing who stood in front of him. He shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “I have it, I have it” he said, knowing that his position in the city was dependent upon giving this tribute to the mayor, the power of that man enough to give him access to what he needed to sustain his business. He fumbled around with a key to a drawer for a minute until it popped open. He pulled out a big envelope and surreptitiously filled it until it was full. He locked the metal clasp on it had and handed it to the mayor’s son, his sweating fingers leaving a mark upon the paper. The mayor’s son sneered then turned and left the office, still annoyed that his sleep and his day had been interrupted for such a task. “In today’s Nigeria corruption has become a problem with implications for development planning, power positions, and balances, the constitution of civil society and the future 0 democracy. Today, virtually no Nigerian believes in hard work or that hard work pays” (Ojo 167). He walked up to the shining black automobile, his fingers reaching out to touch the hard finish. He was transfixed by the beauty and power that the automobile held, his hand running over the finish now in order to drink in the wealth that it represented. The boy, in his poverty, had no way to comply to the needs of those in power, to give to them what they desired in order to rise above his place in this life. He knew that no matter what he did, without resources that shiny black automobile might as well be a rock on the moon, desired but unreachable. The dull ache in his belly was indistinguishable from the hunger he felt, the desire to have the things he could see, even touch, but never own. He was startled when the engine started and had to jump out of the way as the mayor’s son pulled forward, uncaring that a human life stood between him and his destination. The mayor’s son didn’t care much for anything that stood in his way, the standards of his life measured only by the extent to which he experienced pleasure. He looked at the paper envelope, bulging with cash and knew he could not steal it without raising the anger of his father who indulged his life and would most likely give him a good handful for having collected the gift. He hit the accelerator with a punch, not seeing the boy who stood so clearly in front of him as he roared forward. He thought about the smooth belly of the woman that he currently desired most and knew he would see her soon, her skin, silken and glowing in the lights of the club where he would find her. Politics in Nigeria, as in many cultures, is defined by the amount of money that one has in order to afford to run for office. In each region, if you move into the district you will always be a stranger. Even in a city such as Lagos, one is considered a migrant until the day they die, no matter how many years one has spent living there. However, with enough money, anything can be bought. The mayor’s son walked into his father’s office, his jacket pouching out where he held close the envelope under his arm. He stopped and looked at his father, a bit of disdain clearly crossing his lips. He had grown up with the corruption, seen things that no child should see and heard things that no child should ever hear. His reaction had been to shield himself, to envelope himself in drink and women. His anger frothed at the surface, his money buying forgiveness and taming anyone who would oppose his deeds in the search for pleasure. Where his father had sought power, he had sought delight, distraction, and forgetfulness. He threw the packet on the desk and turned on his heels to walk out the door, his back being the only comment he would offer his father. In April of 2003 the elections took place for the national assembly, the governors, and the President. President Obasanjo won by a landslide 62% of the vote. It was well and widely known that voting irregularities and outright rigging of the elections had occurred, but no one found it to be unusual. Even the United States willingly accepted the outcome of the election (Smith 118). The boy walked the streets his arms crossed over his belly. He thought about the shiny black car and held himself even tighter, the pain in his belly gnawing at him. He walked down the street to the woman’s house who had always given him food for a conversation and a smile, but something suddenly struck him as being wrong. He didn’t see anyone or anything moving along the street, but there was the evidence of construction being done in this area. He opened his eyes wide, seeing that all of the hovels and the apartments were gone, their skeletal structures, where there was a skeletal structure, empty and with more space than building. His heart fell. The picture of the mayor was erected near the heart of the construction, his face the size of a small building, ready to devour the boy as he stood there in the waning sunlight. The corruption of the local police departments has created legitimized place for a group known as the Bakassi Boys who rule the cities through sanctioned vigilantism. They are armed with guns, machetes, and charms, ready to defend the average citizen; however, it is suspected that these groups are used by local politicians to enforce their corruption. Her interest had waned. The mayor’s son was furious, dragging the girl out into the alleyway, his friends opening the door and closing it so no others could follow the two. He threw her to the ground, behaving in a way to which any thug could relate, taking what he wanted and thrusting his fist into her body when she resisted. The boy sat in his dark corner, his hunger forgotten as horror crossed his face as he witnessed the violence. He stood up, the eyes of the mayor’s son finding him as he got off of the girl, her body beaten and bleeding, her life seeping onto the cold ground. He stood up and looked at the boy, not recognizing him from earlier. Then he heard some commotion, a group of men coming, a patrol who frequented the area and took justice into their own hands where the police would not. The mayor’s son recognized one who had been in the office of one of his father’s advisors. “What did you do!” the mayor’s son cried out “You killed her!” They descended upon the boy, his hunger now filled with fear, his body held within their hands and his future swiped away. The mayor’s son had a sneer on his face, the boy’s face filled with shock. One of the men who held him gave the mayor’s son a look of disgust, while another gave him a knowing smile. They forced the boy to his knees, his eyes raised to the mayor’s son whose only commentary was his back as he turned and walked back into the club, his buddies slapping him on the back and waiting for the next round of drink. A sharp crack was heard and the silhouette of the boy fell to the side and onto the ground, his blood mingling with the girl’s blood, neither one having the power to control their fate, neither one having what was needed to resist the power of a corrupt spirit. His body lay in the filth of the street, his fate now settled with his hunger no longer gnawing at his empty belly. Works Cited Baker, Jonathan. Small Town Africa: Studies in Rural-Urban Interaction. Uppsala: Scandinavian Institute of African Studies (Nordiska Afrikainstitutet, 1990. Print. Center for Law Enforcement Education. Nigeria: The Bakassi Boys, the legitimization of murder and torture. Human Rights Watch. 14, 5 (2002): 2-45. Print. Ojo, Bamidele A. Nigeria's Third Republic: The Problems and Prospects of Political Transition to Civil Rule. Commack, N.Y: Nova Science Publishers, 1998. Print. Smith, Daniel J. A Culture of Corruption: Everyday Deception and Popular Discontent in Nigeria. Princeton, N.J: Princeton University Press, 2008. Print. Read More