Abidjan '99A Journey through Disbelief Sanya Osha (bio) Click for larger view View full resolution Looking for relief and new possibilities, a lecturer at the University of Ibadan travels to Cape Town, but the route is anything but direct. BY 1999 the massive exodus out of Nigeria had attained a crescendo. In that auspicious year, the military handed over power to civilians after decades of military rule. The citizenry was weary from being browbeaten for years by military adventurists. In the 1980s the brain drain commenced, emptying industry, academia, and medicine of the finest minds. I belonged to a writers' collective nominally headed by the irreplaceable Harry Garuba, a poet and popular lecturer at the University of Ibadan, who decamped to the KwaZulu-Natal province of South Africa to take up a teaching post in 1998. Harry eventually made a considerable impact as a distinguished professor of African studies and English literature at the University of Cape Town. The civilian dispensation in Nigeria did not assuage societal fears regarding possible military coups d'état, civil strife, and general uncertainty. But my professional circumstances, on the surface, looked good. I had taken up a lectureship at the University of Ibadan where I had initially met Garuba. Immediately, I was bombarded with work and expectations. It was difficult to breathe regularly. There was a haste and frenzy about everything on campus. Obviously, the sense of national malaise and unease filtered into all spheres of life, including my own little corner of the world. I needed some kind of relief, and an opportunity to visit Cape Town, South Africa, for an academic conference cropped up. It was to be my first visit to Nelson Mandela's country, which during the time held aloft the African flame. Perhaps Cape Town would change my perspective on things, open up possibilities undreamed of. There was desperation even in those early days of human flight to the South African Eldorado. The South African High Commission then located at southwest Ikoyi, Lagos, was teeming with applicants and all sorts of desperados. People were tense and edgy, as if they were fleeing a war zone. I saw a slightly corpulent celebrity evangelist, Uma Ukpai, looking like a corrupt senator in resplendent flowing robes of azure and silver embroidery. The trendy automobile that brought him swerved dramatically to a halt, deposited him like a feudal despot, as he polished his manicured fingernails and picked his teeth. He was quite a sight. What a charmed existence, all in the name of God. Ukpai did not expect to endure the hurly-burly of acquiring a South African visa. He had minions working on his behalf. The visa application process was further complicated by the fact that South Africa was hosting an international sports event, which meant that a deluge of athletes, sport administrators, political hangers-on, and groupies suddenly all needed their visas on short notice. Those of us who weren't part of that crowd were duly relegated. I traveled a number of times from Ibadan to Lagos, hoping to pick up my visa, and each time was told it wasn't ready. On the day I was to travel, it still wasn't ready. I had given up hope on embarking on my first South African journey. I was exhausted and disillusioned by the constant to-ing and fro-ing without success. I stood dripping with sweat among the last batch of visa hopefuls outside the gates of the embassy underneath the blazing sun. The gates swung shut, as if for the final time, and then a few minutes later opened [End Page 21] again. An embassy official, a stout lady, called out my name. I was immobile, lost in quiet despair and despondency. Then she called out my name again, and I snapped out of my reverie, incredulous at the unexpected turn of events. Was it still possible to travel? I had to meander through unpredictable traffic jams in order to reach the congested airport at Ikeja. My mad dash for the airport had to happen during the rush hour, with all kinds of workers and commuters heading back home after a possibly joyless day. How was I...
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