ViewPoint Campus Magazine

500 More Widows And Divorcees For Mass Wedding The Kano State Hisbah Board says it has concluded plans to marry off another set of 500 widows and divorcees in the third batch of its mass marriage program.

Comic Actor Victor Osuagwu Set To Wed Longtime Partner Of 13 Years Victor Osuagwu and Roseline have been together for 13 years and have four children together but they didn't really officially get married, though he paid her dowry a while back, and rumours are that there might have been a court wedding.3

BREAKING NEWS!!! Nollywood Actor Enebeli Elebuwa Is Dead Nollywood veteran actor, Enebeli Elebuwa is dead. The actor, as we learnt, died last night at his Indian hospital.

Her dark skin shines in the sunrise
And glows in the moonlight
You can see the glints in her brown eyes as she smiles
Her sparkling white teeth can be seen from miles.

Their heads turn as she walks queenly on the street
They gaze from her crown to the toes of her feet.

Precious Jacobs!
I have seen her!
The golden maiden of Africa!

Style Personalities can be complex. During the month of February, we’re talking all month long about the characteristics that define your style personality.
Last week we explored the vast substance of expressive and reserved style personalities.
We talked about Lady Gaga being an “expressive” personality. When thinking about reserved personalities, sometimes the word ‘reserved’ conveys a negative approach to style. It’s not.
Women often overlook whether it is in business or home is what is their true style personality. In business you might experience taking “personality typing” by taking tests such as Meyers-Briggs or DISC but don’t think to consider that these too help is define our ‘style’ personality.
Characteristics Of A Reserved Style Personality

Quiet
Hesitant
Calm
Gentle
Coy
Shy
Modest
Serene
Romantic comedic actors are perfect examples of this. Think Reese Witherspoon, Sandra Bullock, Meg Ryan, and Julie Roberts for example.
What Clothes Does She Wear?

The personality characteristics that define reflect in her clothing. What do you think she is most comfortable in? Tight, constricting fabrics or easy flowing, soft fabrics? Do you think that she would enjoy loud colors or light, more delicate colors?
As a woman understands and embraces her true personality more and more, she is more willing to search out the fabrics, colors, patterns and lines that will support her style personality.
When I talk about the ‘reserved’ personality types I define these types:
Feminine (Romantic)
Sporty
Traditional (Comfortable)
Bohemian (Artsy)
I think you can get a sense of what types of clothing these women might be attracted to. Fibers must ‘feel’ good to them. They are “feeling” people.
Getting Dressed Just Got Easier

Next time you wonder if something works for you, ask yourself how the fabric feels. If you are a reserved style personality, sometimes scratchy fabric just won’t work. Clothes must be comfortable on you.
You have a heightened sensory awareness to fabric and if it doesn’t ‘feel’ good you won’t wear it not matter how good it looks!
Sometimes you might sense that in business a reserved personality might be passed over, but you’ll see in your next post how it’s all about balancing out your core personality with a complementary one!
Until then….
“Look Good, Feel Great and Have FUN Doing It!”

Posted By Gold Jaja.........

I have met Chinua Achebe only three times. The first, at the National Arts Club in Manhattan, I joined the admiring circle around him. A gentle-faced man in a wheelchair.

Chimamanda Adichie
“Good evening, sir. I’m Chimamanda Adichie,” I said, and he replied, mildly, “I thought you were running away from me.”
I mumbled, nervous, grateful for the crush of people around us. I had been running away from him. After my first novel was published, I received an email from his son. My dad has just read your novel and liked it very much. He wants you to call him at this number. I read it over and over, breathless with excitement. But I never called. A few years later, my editor sent Achebe a manuscript of my second novel. She did not tell me, because she wanted to shield me from the possibility of disappointment. One afternoon, she called. “Chimamanda, are you sitting down? I have wonderful news.” She read me the blurb Achebe had just sent her. We do not usually associate wisdom with beginners, but here is a new writer endowed with the gift of ancient storytellers. Adichie knows what is at stake, and what to do about it. She is fearless or she would not have taken on the intimidating horror of Nigeria’s civil war. Adichie came almost fully made. Afterwards, I held on to the phone and wept. I have memorized those words. In my mind, they glimmer still, the validation of a writer whose work had validated me.
I grew up writing imitative stories. Of characters eating food I had never seen and having conversations I had never heard. They might have been good or bad, those stories, but they were emotionally false, they were not mine. Then came a glorious awakening: Chinua Achebe’s fiction. Here were familiar characters who felt true; here was language that captured my two worlds; here was a writer writing not what he felt he should write but what he wanted to write. His work was free of anxiety, wore its own skin effortlessly. It emboldened me, not to find my voice, but to speak in the voice I already had. And so, when that e-mail came from his son, I knew, overly-thrilled as I was, that I would not call. His work had done more than enough. In an odd way, I was so awed, so grateful, that I did not want to meet him. I wanted some distance between my literary hero and me.
Chinua Achebe and I have never had a proper conversation. The second time I saw him, at a luncheon in his honor hosted by the British House of Lords, I sat across from him and avoided his eye. (“Chinua Achebe is the only person I have seen you shy with,” a friend said). The third, at a New York event celebrating fifty years of THINGS FALL APART, we crowded around him backstage, Edwidge Danticat and I, Ha Jin and Toni Morrison, Colum McCann and Chris Abani. We seemed, magically, bound together in a warm web, all of us affected by his work. Achebe looked pleased, but also vaguely puzzled by all the attention. He spoke softly, the volume of his entire being turned to ‘low.’ I wanted to tell him how much I admired his integrity, his speaking out about the disastrous leadership in my home state of Anambra, but I did not. Before I went on stage, he told me, “Jisie ike.” I wondered if he fully grasped, if indeed it was possible to, how much his work meant to so many.
History and civics, as school subjects, function not merely to teach facts but to transmit more subtle things, like pride and dignity. My Nigerian education taught me much, but left gaping holes. I had not been taught to imagine my pre-colonial past with any accuracy, or pride, or complexity. And so Achebe’s work, for me, transcended literature. It became personal. ARROW OF GOD, my favorite, was not just about the British government’s creation of warrant chiefs and the linked destinies of two men, it became the life my grandfather might have lived. THINGS FALL APART is the African novel most read – and arguably most loved – by Africans, a novel published when ‘African novel’ meant European accounts of ‘native’ life. Achebe was an unapologetic member of the generation of African writers who were ‘writing back,’ challenging the stock Western images of their homeland, but his work was not burdened by its intent. It is much-loved not because Achebe wrote back, but because he wrote back well. His work was wise, humorous, human. For many Africans, THINGS FALL APART remains a gesture of returned dignity, a literary and an emotional experience; Mandela called Achebe the writer in whose presence the prison walls came down.
Achebe’s most recent book, his long-awaited memoir of the Nigerian-Biafra war, is both sad and angry, a book by a writer looking back and mourning Nigeria’s failures. I wish THERE WAS A COUNTRY had been better edited and more rigorously detailed in its account of the war. But these flaws do not make it any less seminal: an account of the most important event in Nigeria’s history by Nigeria’s most important storyteller.
An excerpt from the book has ignited great controversy among Nigerians. In it, Achebe, indignant about the millions of people who starved to death in Biafra, holds Obafemi Awolowo, Nigerian Finance Minister during the war, responsible for the policy of blockading Biafra. He quote’s Awolowo’s own words on the blockade – ‘all is fair in war and starvation is one of the weapons of war. I don’t see why we should feed our enemies fat in order for them to fight harder’ and then argues that Awolowo’s support of the blockade was ‘driven by an overriding ambition for power for himself in particular and for the advancement of his Yoruba people in general.’
I have been startled and saddened by the responses to this excerpt. Many are blindingly ethnic, lacking in empathy and, most disturbing of all, lacking in knowledge. We can argue about how we interpret the facts of our shared history, but we cannot, surely, argue about the facts themselves. Awolowo, as de facto ‘number two man’ on the Nigerian side, was a central architect of the blockade on Biafra. During and after the war, Awolowo publicly defended the blockade. Without the blockade, the massive starvation in Biafra would not have occurred. These are the facts.
Some Nigerians, in responding to Achebe, have argued that the blockade was fair, as all is fair in war. The blockade was, in my opinion, inhumane and immoral. And it was unnecessary – Nigeria would have won anyway, it was the much-better-armed side in a war that Wole Soyinka called a shabby unequal conflict. The policy of starving a civilian population into surrender does not merely go against the Geneva conventions, but in this case, a war between siblings, people who were formerly fellow country men and women now suddenly on opposite sides, it seems more chilling. All is not fair in war. Especially not in a fratricidal war. But I do not believe the blockade was a calculated power grab by Awolowo for himself and his ethnic group; I think of it, instead, as one of the many dehumanizing acts that war, by its nature, brings about.
Awolowo was undoubtedly a great political leader. He was also – rare for Nigerian leaders – a great intellectual. No Nigerian leader has, arguably, articulated a political vision as people-centered as Awolowo’s. For Nigerians from the west, he was the architect of free primary education, of progressive ideas. But for Nigerians from the east, he was a different man. I grew up hearing, from adults, versions of Achebe’s words about Awolowo. He was the man who prevented an Igbo man from leading the Western House of Assembly in the famous ‘carpet crossing’ incident of 1952. He was the man who betrayed Igbo people when he failed on his alleged promise to follow Biafra’s lead and pull the Western region out of Nigeria. He was the man who, in the words of my uncle, “made Igbo people poor because he never liked us.”
At the end of the war, every Igbo person who had a bank account in Nigeria was given twenty pounds, no matter how much they had in their accounts before the war. I have always thought this a livid injustice. I know a man who worked in a multinational company in 1965. He was, like Achebe, one of the many Igbo who just could not believe that their lives were in danger in Lagos and so he fled in a hurry, at the last minute, leaving thousands of pounds in his account. After the war, his account had twenty pounds. To many Igbo, this policy was uncommonly punitive, and went against the idea of ‘no victor, no vanquished.’ Then came the indigenization decree, which moved industrial and corporate power from foreign to Nigerian hands. It made many Nigerians wealthy; much of the great wealth in Nigeria today has its roots in this decree. But the Igbo could not participate; they were broke.
I do not agree, as Achebe writes, that one of the main reasons for Nigeria’s present backwardness is the failure to fully reintegrate the Igbo. I think Nigeria would be just as backward even if the Igbo had been fully integrated – institutional and leadership failures run across all ethnic lines. But the larger point Achebe makes is true, which is that the Igbo presence in Nigerian positions of power has been much reduced since the war. Before the war, many of Nigeria’s positions of power were occupied by Igbo people, in the military, politics, academia, business. Perhaps because the Igbo were very receptive to Western education, often at the expense of their own traditions, and had both a striving individualism and a communal ethic. This led to what, in history books, is often called a ‘fear of Igbo domination’ in the rest of Nigeria. The Igbo themselves were insensitive to this resentment, the bombast and brashness that is part of Igbo culture only exacerbated it. And so leading Igbo families entered the war as Nigeria’s privileged elite but emerged from it penniless, stripped and bitter.
Today, ‘marginalization’ is a popular word in Igboland. Many Igbo feel marginalized in Nigeria, a feeling based partly on experience and partly on the psychology of a defeated people. (Another consequence of this psychology, perhaps, is the loss of the communal ethic of the Igbo, much resented sixty years ago. It is almost non-existent today, or as my cousin eloquently put it: Igbo people don’t even send each other.)
Some responses to Achebe have had a ‘blame the victim’ undertone, suggesting that Biafrians started the war and therefore deserved what they got. But Biafrians did not ‘start the war.’ Nobody with a basic knowledge of the facts can make that case.
Biafrian secession was inevitable, after the federal government’s failure to implement the agreements reached at Aburi, itself prompted by the massacre of Igbo in the North. The cause of the massacres was arguably the first coup of 1966. Many believed it to be an ‘Igbo’ coup, which was not an unreasonable belief, Nigeria was already mired in ethnic resentments, the premiers of the West and North were murdered while the Eastern premier was not, and the coup plotters were Igbo. Except for Adewale Ademoyega, a Yoruba, who has argued that it was not an ethnic coup. I don’t believe it was. It seems, from most accounts, to have been an idealistic and poorly-planned nationalist exercise aimed at ridding Nigeria of a corrupt government. It was, also, horrendously, inexcusably violent. I wish the coup had never happened. I wish the premiers and other casualties had been arrested and imprisoned, rather than murdered. But the truth that glares above all else is that the thousands of Igbo people murdered in their homes and in the streets had nothing to do with the coup.
Some have blamed the Biafrian starvation on Ojukwu, Biafra’s leader, because he rejected an offer from the Nigerian government to bring in food through a land corridor. It was an ungenerous offer, one easy to refuse. A land corridor could also mean advancement of Nigerian troops. Ojukwu preferred airlifts, they were tactically safer, more strategic, and he could bring in much-needed arms as well. Ojukwu should have accepted the land offer, shabby as it was. Innocent lives would have been saved. I wish he had not insisted on a ceasefire, a condition which the Nigerian side would never have agreed to. But it is disingenuous to claim that Ojukwu’s rejection of this offer caused the starvation. Many Biafrians had already starved to death. And, more crucially, the Nigerian government had shown little regard for Biafra’s civilian population; it had, for a while, banned international relief agencies from importing food. Nigerian planes bombed markets and targeted hospitals in Biafra, and had even shot down an International Red Cross plane.
Ordinary Biafrians were steeped in distrust of the Nigerian side. They felt safe eating food flown in from Sao Tome, but many believed that food brought from Nigeria would be poisoned, just as they believed that, if the war ended in defeat, there would be mass killings of Igbo people. The Biafrian propaganda machine further drummed this in. But, before the propaganda, something else had sown the seed of hateful fear: the 1966 mass murders of Igbo in the North. The scars left were deep and abiding. Had the federal government not been unwilling or incapable of protecting their lives and property, Igbo people would not have so massively supported secession and intellectuals, like Achebe, would not have joined in the war effort.
I have always admired Ojukwu, especially for his early idealism, the choices he made as a young man to escape the shadow of his father’s great wealth, to serve his country. In Biafra, he was a flawed leader, his paranoia and inability to trust those close to him clouded his judgments about the ex*****on of the war, but he was also a man of principle who spoke up forcefully about the preservation of the lives of Igbo people when the federal government seemed indifferent. He was, for many Igbo, a Churchillian figure, a hero who inspired them, whose oratory moved them to action and made them feel valued, especially in the early months of the war.
Other responses to Achebe have dismissed the war as something that happened ‘long ago.’ But some of the people who played major roles are alive today. We must confront our history, if only to begin to understand how we came to be where we are today. The Americans are still hashing out details of their civil war that ended in 1865; the Spanish have only just started, seventy years after theirs ended. Of course, discussing a history as contested and contentious as the Nigeria-Biafra war will not always be pleasant. But it is necessary. An Igbo saying goes: If a child does not ask what killed his father, that same thing will kill him.
What many of the responses to Achebe make clear, above all else, is that we remember differently. For some, Biafra is history, a series of events in a book, fodder for argument and analysis. For others, it is a loved one killed in a market bombing, it is hunger as a near-constant companion, it is the death of certainty. The war was fought on Biafrian soil. There are buildings in my hometown with bullet holes; as a child, playing outside, I would sometimes come across bits of rusty ammunition left behind from the war. My generation was born after 1970, but we know of property lost, of relatives who never ‘returned’ from the North, of shadows that hung heavily over family stories. We inherited memory. And we have the privilege of distance that Achebe does not have.
Achebe is a war survivor. He was a member of the generation of Nigerians who were supposed to lead a new nation, inchoate but full of optimism. It shocked him, how quickly Nigerian fell apart. In THERE WAS A COUNTRY he sounds unbelieving, still, about the federal government’s indifference while Igbo people were being massacred in Northern Nigeria in 1966. But shock-worthy events did not only happen in the North. Achebe himself was forced to leave Lagos, a place he had called home for many years, because his life was no longer safe. His crime was being Igbo. A Yoruba acquaintance once told me a story of how he was nearly lynched in Lagos at the height of the tensions before the war; he was light-skinned, and a small mob in a market assumed him to be ‘Igbo Yellow’ and attacked him. The Vice-Chancellor of the University of Lagos was forced to leave. So was the Vice-Chancellor of the University of Ibadan. Because they were Igbo. For Achebe, all this was deeply personal, deeply painful. His house was bombed, his office was destroyed. He escaped death a few times. His best friend died in battle. To expect a dispassionate account from him is a remarkable failure of empathy. I wish more of the responses had acknowledged, a real acknowledgement and not merely a dismissive preface, the deep scars that experiences like Achebe’s must have left behind.
Ethnicity has become, in Nigeria, more political than cultural, less about philosophy and customs and values and more about which bank is a Yoruba or Hausa or Igbo bank, which political office is held by which ethnicity, which revered leader must be turned into a flawless saint. We cannot deny ethnicity. It matters. But our ethnic and national identities should not be spoken of as though they were mutually exclusive; I am as much Igbo as I am Nigerian. I have hope in the future of Nigeria, mostly because we have not yet made a real, conscious effort to begin creating a nation (We could start, for example, by not merely teaching Maths and English in primary schools, but also teaching idealism and citizenship.)
For some non-Igbo, confronting facts of the war is uncomfortable, even inconvenient. But we must hear one another’s stories. It is even more imperative for a subject like Biafra which, because of our different experiences, we remember differently. Biafrian minorities were distrusted by the Igbo majority, and some were unfairly attacked, blamed for being saboteurs. Nigerian minorities, particularly in the midwest, suffered at the hands of both Biafrian and Nigerian soldiers. ‘Abandoned property’ cases remain unresolved today in Port Harcourt, a city whose Igbo names were changed after the war, creating “Rumu” from “Umu.” Nigerian soldiers carried out a horrendous massacre in Asaba, murdering the males in a town which is today still alive with painful memories. Some Igbo families are still waiting, half-hoping, that a lost son, a lost daughter, will come home. All of these stories can sit alongside one another. The Nigerian stage is big enough. Chinua Achebe has told his story. This week, he turns 82. Long may he live.

From Day to Day: Surviving on Nigeria’s Streets

At Independence in 1960, Nigeria’s population was 40 million, a sizable percentage of which was employed. The employment to population ratio grew until the early eighties when it started to decline following the collapse of world oil prices and poor policy decisions by government. Today, estimates put the employment to population ratio at 3.2 percent. Some projections indicate that there are about 90 million Nigerians willing and able to work, but unable to find employment. This translates into a loss of about $12 billion annually through economic inactivity as a result of the demand gap created by loss of economic power.
According to 2011 estimates, Nigeria’s population falls into the following age segments: 0-14 years: 40.9% (male 32,476,681/female 31,064,539); 15-64 years: 55.9% (male 44,296,228/female 42,534,542); 65 years and over: 3.1% (male 2,341,228/female 2,502,355). Because of serious structural imbalances in Nigeria’s economy, the composition of its GDP and its manner of growth, the country’s projected growth has little positive impact on the lives of citizens. And so as the following stories show, millions of Nigerians are reduced grinding out a livelihood on the streets, with the real possibility of becoming part of a wasted generation. Government figures show that at least 100 million Nigerians lives in abject poverty.
Auwal is 27, and sells kola nuts. His heels have worn through his flip-flops. There is no accurate way of measuring the distances he walks everyday peddling kola nuts, though several miles would not a bad guess. He has a wife and children back home, as well as aged parents he has to assist from time to time. The combined value of his tray and the kola nuts he sells is about $15. He lives from his tray.

Musa Mai Tabur has a small table at the gate of the uncompleted building where he has lived for a number of years. He is not sure of his age, only that he is over 30 because he was born sometime in the late 70s. He does not have to trek long distances to sell his wares. On his table are sweets, detergents, pure water, ci******es, mosquito repellant coils and a variety of other things. He travels back home once in a while to see his family. His entire stock is worth about $40. He lives from his table.

Danjuma is a teenager. He shows absolutely no fear as he darts in and out of traffic, selling chewing gum to motorists along the highway. He is not sure of his age, and frankly cannot be bothered. Whether he gets to eat something each day depends on how much chewing gum he is able to sell. He has no table, no tray and no wares of his own. He only gets a commission on whatever he is able to sell each day. He has no dependants yet, just fighting the brutal battle to survive by selling chewing gum, come rain, come shine. He lives from meal to meal.

Ibro sells snacks. His favorite spot is just before the traffic lights where vehicles stop for a minute or two. His best customers are the harried and hungry passengers in taxis and buses who buy snacks and canned drinks for a meal on the go. Ibro is ever on the lookout for municipal authorities that may arrest him and seize his carton of snacks and drinks. He has been arrested many times before and his wares ‘forfeited’ to government. But he comes back to the same spot as soon as he can raise enough capital to stock up. The total value of his wares is about $30. He is married with a child and sends money to his siblings whenever he can. He lives from his carton.

Buba knows every corner of the city. On his bicycle selling ice cream and bottled water, he pedals as far as he can and only gives up when he is overcome by sheer exhaustion. The bicycle does not belong to him, nor the ice cream and bottled water. His is just to sell for a commission at the end of the day. On good days, he earns about $5, though on very wet days, he earns just enough for a meal to make up for the tens of miles he pedals daily, rain or shine. He came to the city because there was nothing to inherit from his family’s farm. Now he sends money back home to his wife and children. He lives from his icebox.
Danbala is not yet 10. His father is a security man, while his mother sells food at what construction sites she can find. The entire family lives in the one room gatehouse of the house where his father works as security man. For Danbala, school is out of the question. He hawks ci******es and matches to motorists and pedestrians. There is no pay and no commission. He takes whatever he is offered, grateful for a morsel or two from any source. His entire being is programmed to fighting the ever present pangs of hunger to which he was born and from which there is no probable escape. He lives from errand to errand.

These are real life people from a city in northern Nigeria. The names may be Emeka, Dele, Akpan or Joseph. The names may also be Talatu, Agnes, T**i or Ngozi. The cities may be Lagos, Aba, Ibadan, Enugu or Port Harcourt. The goods they sell may be ‘pure water’, recharge cards or newspapers. They wares they sell may be buns, oranges, biscuits or groundnuts: the poverty and waste of young lives remain the same.

All across Nigeria’s towns and cities are millions of under-aged children and youth in the grips of starvation and destitution. They live a brutish life, eking livelihoods from trays, cartons, baskets and iceboxes, weaving through traffic and defying death at every turn. According to Nigeria’s minister of youth development, 20 million Nigerian youth are unemployed, surviving in vile conditions on the streets, uneducated, unrecognized, unaided. They live from day to day.
What are the real issues?
Nigeria, with a population of 162 million and a landmass of 356,700 sq. miles spent nearly $10 billion to import food in 2010. Of that amount, over $4 billion was spent on wheat; over $2 on rice; close to $1.5 billion on sugar and about $600 million on fish. Yet, out of an estimated 4 – 5 million ha, irrigable area of land, only 60,000ha is irrigated. And out of about 323 dams on the country, only a few are used for irrigation purposes. Clearly, agriculture, which provides the bulk of our GDP and the largest employer, remains mostly rain-fed and therefore seasonal.

In 2011, a leading telecom company in Nigeria reported half year revenues of approximately N344 billion (on an annualized basis, that is $4.4 billion or 1.2% of Nigeria’s $378 billion GDP). However, the company required less than 2,000 permanent staff to achieve that revenue. Conversely, according figures provided by Manufacturers Association of Nigeria (MAN), total production output in the sector declined by 10% to N165.7 billion in 2010 and capacity utilization dropped to 45%. The result is that today, manufacturing employs less than 1 million Nigerians.

Addressing these issues is critical to reverse this demographic time bomb. In addition to the central issue of energy, infrastructural development must receive government attention. Road, railways, air and sea ports must be built to encourage agriculture and manufacturing in all parts of the country. Similarly, access to start-up capital must be eased because at the moment, instead of lending to the real sector, dealing in Treasury Bills seems to be most profitable activity for many Nigerian banks. Operating conditions means that it is more profitable to collect cheap deposits from retail customers and government agencies and lend same at higher rates back to the government.

No doubt, Nigeria faces serious economic crisis. Despite the unprecedented GDP and volume of oil exports in the last decade or so, unemployment continues rise; massive oil revenues haven’t translated into large scale employment opportunities for Nigerians. Government policies must therefore seek to create macro level environments that will allow entrepreneurships to flourish. Job creation efforts should entail massive infrastructural spending by the public sector to stimulate economic opportunities for growth, wealth creation, employment and poverty eradication.
The tragedy however, is that instead of facing these grave challenges, the government of President Goodluck Jonathan plans to spend a quarter of all revenues this year security, forgetting that the deterioration of security are direct consequences of corruption, poverty, cavernous inequalities and the absence of opportunity for millions of Nigerians....find out more in da maiden edition