The Kano Emir’s Palace, Places and Non-Places

 

I have recently been thinking through cityscape, city life and design in a beautiful combination of the art, literature, and landscape architecture. Marc Auge’s book Non-Places provides the basis for my thinking about the Kano Emir’s Palace as an anthropological place and its standing as well as other places of modernity in the city. 

It is hard to think of another place in Kano aside the Emir’s Palace that can serve as a public square and cultural center, a place where people can go and reconnect with the essence and spirit of the city in moments of pain or laughter. I understand the sentiment to think of other places like Gidan Makama and Gidan Ɗan Hausa as cultural centers, but they are different from the Emir’s Palace. Gidan Makama can be considered as the wider Emir’s Palace, it however does not meet the definition of a free public square.  

Both Gidan Makama and Gidan Ɗan Hausa are cultural centers. They serve different but related functions to the Emir’s Palace. They are symbols of tradition; they are places of cultural value; they are tourist attractions and house artifacts. One problem is they maintain elements of super-modernity. They impose restrictions for entry based on fees and ticketing and the demand for proof of innocence. Hotels, bars, cafés, restaurants, museums, and amusement parks – places of super-modernity or non-places – require proof of innocence at the entrance and leaving. They cannot therefore qualify as open spaces that embrace public life on spontaneity. It is public place vs exclusive place. On occasion, Gidan Makama and Gidan Ɗan Hausa host public events, but those events are on different character and purpose. Often, the events are organized and require entrance fees. They can’t host large, city-wide gathering with briskness and spontaneous burst of life. Emir’s Palace, for one, is where people go to commemorate and share. 

Emir's Palace, Kano 2024
Credit: High Click Media

Someone suggested that even Emir’s Palace is not completely accessible to the public except you know someone on the inside who can facilitate your access. The idea of public space is not uncommon in Kano, but the idea of cultural center as public square is not easily fathomable even though the people have been practicing this culture as a habitual pattern of life since time immemorial. Emir’s Palace is a public monument. It is a place that pre-existed any living person and would survive them. You are left in awe and respect of the place because of the history it carries. It is the tangible expression of permanence for everyone to experience.

All roads lead to the town center. Ancient cities maintain a town center. Traditionally the seat of royalty or a site of revolution or political establishment, town center provides active social life for the residents. It overlooks an open space. Around the center are other cultural buildings like the town hall, the court, the mosque and other buildings of civil and cultural authority. Raise your vision from the gate of the Emir’s Palace to the south, in the horizon you can see Municipal Council building, Gidan Makama museum and the court. On the other side to the north stands the Kano Central Mosque and Gidan Shettima. You cannot have bars, cafes and restaurants lining up the street of the Emir’s Palace. It is a cultural thing. In ancient times travelers to the city relied on the hospitality of their hosts through their duration of stay rather than on commercial services of hospitality industry and the people had their own way of hanging out with friends. 

The area of the Emir’s Palace is a swathe of giant museum of tangible and intangible heritage that harks back to memory and nostalgia. The Emir’s Palace area has administrative mood, festive and trading activities around it. Friday is a big mini event. The day has a rhythmic revelry in which residents deck out in their finest. It provides a chance to meet and greet. It is a day of warmth and spontaneity. Happy moments are commemorated on Friday, including causal visits as well as lovers’ meeting late evening at the town square. Town center is traditionally where the market square is held. Traces of that can be seen on Friday around the edges of the Kano Central Mosque.

Kano Central Mosque, 2024
Credit: High Click Media

In the morning you would see the emir’s subjects milling about the Palace, going in to pay homepage to their ruler. It is a chance for people to catch up, where exchanges between friends happen. Once it is noon people have already begun to converge for Jumma’at prayer. Children would save through the week to have money to pay for bike ride and play games at the square of the Central Mosque. Old women would proceed to visit patients, pay condolences to friends, and see their relatives. Ƙofar Fada is where itineraries intersect and mingle. 

These were the rhythms of everyday life around Gidan Sarki in the olden days. This is why Friday cannot be a fully working day in Kano. Older people prefer to pray Jumma’at prayer in the Central Mosque than anywhere else even though Jumma’at mosques sprung up almost every inch of the city. They would rather brave distance and any form of discomfort than commit the sacrilege of praying Jumma’at elsewhere. Some would stay behind and go back home only after Asr prayer.

My friend Baffa and I walked through the downtown of the ancient city as secondary schoolers, carefree and unburdened, troubled only by our equestrian zest. After school, Baffa would come pick me up from my house. From his horse stable at Ƙofar Wambai, the famous shamakin Ƙofar Wambai, we traversed the ancient city, Dukawa through Yola to Soron Ɗinki to Gwangwazo via Gidan Sarki and back, crisscrossing the alleys and backstreets. Those were our daily destinations driven by our interest in horses, checking up on friends and their horses, exchanging the latest and hottest information about equestrian activities: durbar, the new feeding techniques and adventure, the latest and most expensive horse in town and everything else. Walking around the surrounding areas gave us a chance to experience the city. 

This layout and flow of life is replicated across villages and districts. The house of the district head is overlooking an expanse, near the central mosque, the civil office or town hall, and the court. Kano city sprawls out without carrying these traditions along. Beyond the ancient city, the town becomes endless giant chaotic quarters where residential buildings, shops and businesses compete for every inch of space in a way that makes the ambiguous sense of place acute and incoherent. The middle-income neighborhoods are just there erected without the guidance of planning theory while the low-income areas are terrible eyesores. With no effort to preservation, the ancient quarters continue to suffer gentrification. Poor residents are being driven out to the outskirts into the densely populated neighborhoods.  

Madison, WI

 

The Stock of Your Life

 I

End of year gives you a chance to take stock of your life, what happens and what does not. December is always a low-energy month. It gets you into shifting allegiance between yourself and your choices.  Slow paced, you find yourself liquid with emotion, mashed into a wet inertia. I joked to my housemate that we are running the house part time. One day you wake up and ask yourself, "what do you want"? For now, stability, anonymity, and immobility. 

Life is hard, it is really hard. Always something, always something, navigating difficulties and complexities and making trade-offs between something for something. Last year, between December 2022 through to May 2023 I listened to no song at all, shut down my main WhatsApp, listened to Qur’an 24/7, in the bus, walking to and from classes, working, cooking, shopping, everything and everywhere until I travelled back to Nigeria in May. I want to go back to Nigeria and live with my family. Suddenly, I am engulfed by a serious craving for travel to West African cities or North Africa and Mediterranean cities, not settle there but to visit different city every vacation year. 

Really, this life is crazy if you know what I mean, but this is how I wormed my way through the semester:

Open Door for refugees (ODFR), a non-profit in the City of Madison, has a tradition of organizing events for the displaced who moved to the city, including an annual Thanksgiving Dinner that started pre-COVID era. The event was held this year as well. I volunteered for the organization and led a team of volunteers for meat supply. I was happy and satisfied for the job-well-done. You get a sort of experience on how to get sponsorship and manage logistics. 

The Thanksgiving Dinner is organized for the refugee families in Madison. The families were drawn from countries across the Middle East, Asia, Africa, Ukraine and some other places that I cannot easily remember. I did a migration study class this fall. I read a lot about migration and displacement. By default, I must have a deep personal empathy with the immigrants and the displaced. Given the context of ongoing West-backed, Israeli-led genocide in Gaza, some people refused to participate in organizing the Thanksgiving event in solidarity with the Palestinians because of Thanksgiving's genocidal origin.

I feel the need to extend my solidarity to the displaced, symbolically tell the refugees that they are not alone and can find community in our shared humanity. As the migrants were mainly Arabs and some handful of Blacks from the Congo, another site of genocide, I believed that my presence will be important to them. Besides, I have a shared experience with the displaced people.  Although there are differences in our circumstances, there are also similarities that bind us. I am by myself here, no family no nothing so I know what it means to live uprooted from your culture, to be the person out of place. I can tell what it means to leave century-old traditions and transplant elsewhere. Mine is voluntary, theirs is forced displacement. 

L-R: Me, Muhammad's family (M) and Egyptian couple (R)

I met new families at the event. One from Syria. The other from Egypt. I need to make things clear here. The Egyptian family is not refugee. They are immigrants. The husband is an engineer while his wife is a homemaker. They have lived in the US for about twenty years, with two children -- a son and a daughter -- living somewhere in the US with their own families.

When I feel comfortable, I naturally engage folks in deep, fun and meaningful conversation. A little introduction here and there, I got into talks with the Syrian family. They have a son called Muhammad. His English isn’t perfect, as he is just few months in the US. Muhammad and his family spent about 10 years in Egypt. They fled their home when the war in Syria broke. Probably when Muhammad was an infant. Muhammad grew up in Egypt, schooled there for his elementary education. When they moved here, his sister completed high school. We should call this sister Fatima. 

There is some magnetic force between me and kids, an intrigue about their psychology. I am interested in their development and always wanted to leave a positive mark in their lives. I bonded quickly with Muhammad, thanks to a shared interest in soccer and my basic Arabic language. I asked Muhammad about his friends and childhood in Syria, in English where Arabic failed. But Muhammad told me he does not have friends in Syria. He has only an imagined and mythologized memory of the homeland. He was infant when they fled the country. Probably only stories of aunties and uncles. All he knew about his childhood are memories in Egypt. He played soccer with the neighborhood kids. Muhammad is at least two degrees away from his culture when his family moved to the US. This launched me into sympathy for Muhammad. Muhammad is forever different from regular kids who grow up in their original culture. I wonder if Muhammad would grow up with the same idea of the pain of migration like adult migrants. In Egypt, he was just getting to know the place when they had to move again...

Muhammad and I

Muhammad loves soccer. He loves Cristiano Ronaldo. This deepened our connection. I made an assessment that Muhammad’s English is coming on gradually. As we spoke, he corrected my Arabic; I helped him with English. Muhammad told me about a special English language program in his school that kids like him were enrolled. This might be the reason for his quick English progress. I can’t shake off a sense of uneasiness about his socializing with the kids in school.

Given his background, I wanted to know what Muhammad wanted to be in his life. I asked him in my fledgling Arabic while the rest of the crowd at the table got immersed in their own world, giving attention to us only when needed, sporadically when Muhammad wanted to confirm something from his mother for a question I asked about. Muhammad wanted to be a space driver. He said this in Arabic, which is basically an astronaut. I asked if he knew what he needed to do right from elementary school to be able to be an astronaut in the future. 

Muhammed retains much of his Arabic tradition. His favorite subjects are Chemiyya, Biologiyya, and Physiyya. This reminds me of the foundational contributions of Islamic intellectuals in the development of what is now called modern science.

Muhammed’s sister, Fatima, finished high school and is preparing for college. She wants to study computer. But computer is just a broad term. I pressed further for specifics, offering suggestions and insights. Fatima said she wants to study IT. Their mum and dad can’t speak English. I spoke to them in Arabic and translation assistance from Muhammed and the Egyptian family when my Arabic failed.

II

I have had an interesting session with my students. I taught two sections in Introduction to African Cultural Expressions. Basically, what we do in this class is explore broadly the research portfolios of the faculty in our department. It is always a pleasure discussing stuff about Africa with the young American students. Smug in their content with America as the center of the world, they exude a demeanor that shows they are ready to learn, but the knowledge should always come second to whatever is American equivalent.  

Section 001

Section 003

As usual, students will get to like the course for various reasons and to various degrees. Some students like the course because of the instructor.  You can tell by their eagerness and investment in the course, always looking forward to the next meeting, no absence, no funny attitude or excuse. They take care of everything and make sure they do not request for any excuses. 

Walking on campus also brings back memories of my college days. You can see lovebirds, serious students, the social, and those in-between. You can also, actually, see the lonely students and those who don’t really give a damn! They are indifferent. They are everywhere if you look closely.

Lastly, I went to the theatre for the screening of The Color Purple, organized by The Black Cultural Excellence. I met a lady. A soulful woman, jet black, calm, and beautiful. We sat together. I asked her story. From the start I sensed she wasn’t telling the truth, but I came to realize that her words, like herself, were authentic and original. You can tell when someone is telling the truth. You can tell when someone is genuinely interested in the conversation.

She is first year business major (the course I agreed, but the year I did not). Her family was originally from Ethiopia. She was born here and regularly visits the place of her ancestry. A heavy silence would ensue between mouthfuls of popcorn, only to be broken by one more question. 

Why are you not eating your popcorn?

I had already eaten it up.

How did you like your hair? 

Natural, black and original. 

Did you hope to move back to Africa someday? 

Yes, some time in the future, not to settle but to be shuttling between the continents. 

What brought you to the screening?

I have an essay in my African American class. I wanted to see how the movie could help.

Did you read the novel?

No, not really. 

On and on and on…until the end credits. Then, we stood up to go. She said, "I already have a boyfriend"! 

Madison, WI

Out of the dark night

My life is a complete irony. The last two years had been a roller-coaster of emotional pain, a mosaic of emotions. Pain and pleasure in the same body, I never expected America could be so painful. Tola said things would get better. 

For a sustained period, I lived with a constant pain in my chest, lack of sleep, excess sleep, lack of appetite, feeling of sadness and lack of interest. It was a complete mental breakdown.  I could no longer hold it. I booked an appointment with a doctor. 

The doctor asked questions about suicidal thoughts, appetite, and insomnia. As a Muslim and working class, suicide was the last thing to cross my mind, though time and again I pondered going back to Nigeria. Preliminary examination in an online chat was extended to a physical meeting. The doctor made his diagnosis. Like a malfunctioning gadget, tubes and wires were fastened to my chest. The ECG machine displayed the flashing movement of my system. Afterwards, I was booked for a two-week therapy session subject to renewal.

I was in a dark place, and it showed in my work. Keen observers – among students and professors – noticed a change in me, which affected the quality of work and teaching outputs. The final assessment from my students and the grades from my professors were unmistakable about that.  I ignited resilience and managed to get As in all my classes though! 

I experienced the worst of winter. I experienced loneliness and isolation in their darkest form. There was a time that I spent two days without speaking to human soul because there was no one to talk to. People here travel in winter break. Nobody in Nigeria called and I decided to give everyone a space until they first reached out. America has so much space without people. Abundance is a commonplace without the people to rip it off.

I was separated from my family. I was going through ordeal: emotional pain, unmet desire, cruel separation, push and pull of migration. Worse was that I knew the term for each of my feeling. I had a voice for my condition, so I knew exactly what was going on. I interrogated my decision to come to America, whether the pain is worth it. 

But what was pleasantly surprising was that I was toeing a line walked by several other immigrants before me. My experience is a private collective. As I spoke to people and read books by immigrants, I realized I was the new arrival to the league. Two years ago when I came to the US I found out I was black. Everything I experienced had been experienced by someone else. From winter blues to isolation and loneliness and going back to Africa to feel the tangible deteriorations in your living standards. It is a common knowledge among immigrants that one month in the home-country can quickly wipe out the gain of ten months. This starts the process of your naturalization, the foreign land snatching you from your homeland. You become a visitor to your native land. You need to be somewhat stupendously rich to be able to maintain in Nigeria the basic comfort you have in the US. On some days, for instance, I can live without spending a dime, which is totally impossible in Nigeria for the same amount of comfort. 

Each visit to Nigeria gives me clarity. I am trying to make America and Wisconsin home. I particularly like our city, a small, quiet university town in the Midwest. The people are warm, willing to help, and especially welcoming to immigrants. 

But I somehow feel I do not belong. The thought of winter makes me shudder. Everything comes to me differently the way I see them and relate to them in Nigeria. Here, a home is just a place to sleep. There is no deep and intimate connection between history and memory, something you can remember from childhood, an uncle or neighbor who used to sit under the tree in-front of the house. There is no chatter of the children outside. There is a total absence of elements that constitute a home, roots that run deep into eons of legends and myths. 

My perception of things back in Nigeria is different from my relationship with things here in the US. And this proves more real during a visit to Nigeria. Living in two time zones, I worry and dwell over things in Nigeria, always picturing my people, what they are doing at a particular moment, where they are sitting and what they are saying. Quite unlike how I dwell much about events in Nigeria when I am in the US, I don’t think about events and life in the US with similar passion and intensity while in Nigeria. 

Home is no more than a place to live, in which I can move houses at a drop of a hat. My existence is a collection of papers, two pieces of luggage and a backpack. This excludes neighbors, fond childhood memories, the neighborhood kids, the majlis, the small small Islamic cultures and everything that builds one’s formative experience, which jumpstarts me into the world of instability of belonging. 

In one of our numerous discussions about the challenges of diaspora living I have at least identified two things: on one hand, there is one group of us juggling infrequent stability, those who have belonging in one place through marriage but are separated physically because of residency and distance. On the other hand are those of us suffering from acute instability of belonging. We are so rootless, with nor marriage or kids in either country. Any which way, we suffer the double bind of cultural and personal displacement. 

Such a difficult process. In our journey across geographies, every stayover or layover adds to your pleasure and trauma. Moreso if you are a Muslim. Take for instance the ritual of daily praying or fasting and the memories in it.

Our life is intimately linked to our devices. As you move across times zones, so does the change in time follow you. The time change competes and tries to override your sense of timing and ritual in your point of origin. The experience is inscribed into your memory, which then tries to destroy or bastardize your sense of stability.

Instability of belonging means you are in a continuous state of transition, never able to put down roots, even if it means you are travelling back somewhere in an unspecified distant future. In the end, majority of people I spoke with have a plan of going back to where they come from. Wherever you move, you are starting all over again. For your intermittent or infrequent visits, the latent awareness of “going” sits in your subconscious. Arriving and going requires logistics and preparing. I have to buy new stuff to start over my life anytime I visit Nigeria, which I then have to get rid of when travelling back to the US. This continuous state of change and transition entails incredible amount of flexibility and minimalism. 

My life is screwed up, but this is my choice. And like Tola said things will get better. Things get better with each visit to Nigeria. I went to Nigeria and cut off the wires that caused the sparks. Sadly, in all of this, people think I am enjoying. Everyone thinks I am printing money in the US! 

Far from home

It's winter. Everywhere is white. We are copped up into our den. Those who could travel did travel. My plan to go to Texas fell through. 

In the past months I signed up for International Friendship Connection program, Getaway 2023. The event happens every year at Twin Lakes, Manson, Iowa. Iowa is a neighboring state, five hours from Wisconsin. As someone who loves travelling, this seemed an interesting idea. 

I needed to explore new places in America. I did not travel during my Fulbright year. For many reasons. One, I instinctively knew that I would be back in the US after the Fulbright year. That says that I would have more chance to explore when I’m back. Secondly, I was trying to save money for the expenses into graduate school. The end of my Fulbright year meant the end of my time on the US government payroll and privileges. Everything fell on my shoulders. Unlike before, I had to pay for my ticket now while flying back to the US from Nigeria. I had to pay for visa and other documents processing fees needed for graduate school.  It was only sensible to save the money for these upcoming expenses.

Arrangement was made for the Getaway event. Five schools from the Midwest were to be in attendance: UW-Madison, Iowa State, University of Missouri, KC; University of Nebraska, and the University of Minnesota. 

Dinner in the dining hall

I had no idea what the event would have looked like, but it seemed exciting to be away from home. It was even more exciting that one would be traveling to rural America, away from the modern comforts to live for some days in a cabin. Americans were excited to be away from their modern comforts. As it turned out, however, the only difference from your home was that you are away from home. There was the internet, though not fast, and almost all the amenities that run in an American home. 

I was assigned to a car belonging to the Walkers. Dillion and Kaitlyn Walkers are a beautiful couple. We became friends in the fall of 2022 shortly after my return from Nigeria. Our car had four passengers. Two Americans, one Russian and myself a Nigerian. The Walkers came and picked me up. We drove to the Russian and picked him up. The Russian, Mr Nurlan, is a funny guy with a critical mind. He is carefree and casual, a non-stickler to any American political correctness. Nurlan asks a lot of questions, is critical of faith and is blunt with American social issues. 

For many days my Gambian friend Majula had been excited about my adventure. She had been excited because she wanted to see how things should pan out. She kept egging me on to pack early. I assured her no worries. I travel light. 

Friday afternoon, I ate my lunch and packed my bag with a pillow, sheet, and blanket as the instructions for the trip warned us. These are unavailable in the cabin. I sat in the living room waiting for our pool car's arrival. Everything happened within seconds. 

Majula found all of me funny. She asked teasing questions and made funny remarks. What was so amusing to her about me was that I didn’t look like someone soon to be traveling. She was excited because I was leaving my comfort zone. It’s brave of me to have left Nigeria and come to America. Blind to this fact, she didn’t consider me naturally adventurous. Moreso, in her vision, I am not adventurous with food, to which I agreed. At every dinner Majula would present a dessert. She is stricter with American food culture and has installed this in the house. I declined her dessert offer, saying I am not interested in all these accessories of life.  

The Walkers had arrived. We were supposed to eat our dinner on our way. The ETA to the camp was around 10PM. We broke the journey at Dubuque. I asked if we could get Asian or Mexican restaurant. It was my hope that I could get something that aligned with my palate. We got into a Mexican restaurant. We ate rice, relaxed a little and continued with the journey.

After a three-hour drive, we arrived at the Twin Lakes Bible Camp. We parked our car, checked in and went to our room. If the Getaway event was lined up with activities, like what you experience at NYSC camp, our room brought back those memories in a torrent rush. The room was lined with bunk beds.  The camp, like the NYSC, is far from home, brings together strangers from college campuses, set of games to enjoy, new friends to make and build connections. Upon arrival and signing up, we dropped our luggage and went back to the main building to play one of the games on the schedule for the night. Just like NYSC experience, the camp was quiet at midnight. 

Bunk beds, each room hosted eight people

The camp was up at 6AM. We took turn using the bathroom. I stayed behind and prayed. I then followed the rest to the Bible Study, after which breakfast was served at 8AM. Every step of the program reminded me of the NYSC. I was smiling. But my friends couldn’t relate. I told them briefly what NYSC is. It's like AmeriCorps.

Lots of winter games after breakfast. We played Toboggan on the nearby frozen lake. Others played ice-skating, but it was extremely cold outside. So, I remained indoors.

During the day, I stole my way back to the room and prayed for the day’s prayers. Once, Nurlan was with me in the room. I asked Nurlan if he had ever seen Muslims’ prayers. He has seen that countless times. in fact, his father was a Muslim. He used to pray with a small carpet. 

I sneaked some apples into my bag with the hope to eat them if I couldn’t eat the food provided at the camp. Luckily, I could eat fruit and potatoes and tea or coffee at the dining table for breakfast. For the lunch, there were chicken and rice and fruit and vegetables. Obviously, the organizers thought about the diverse community of faith and cultural background. I survived intermittingly on crunches and drinks to supplement my diet.

The Madison team

Saturday was a day full of fun. We played soccer, climbed rock, and I watched others play basketball. One of the best moments for me was the karaoke night. I met Venessa Porto, a young lady from Ecuador at the University of Nebraska. I liked her song. 

I met other Africans. One from Adamawa, a Nigerian- American born to a Yoruba woman and Bachama father. Africans from Gabon, Ghana, Congo and Rwanda. The first time I met anybody from Rwanda. 

Sunday morning. We were back at the Bible Study. We sang, we listened to stories and off we went to breakfast. The Getaway event was wrapping up. We had our family group discussion. We packed at 11Am. Off we drove back to Wisconsin, another five-hour journey.

Madison, WI

My wife: mother of the future US astronauts

“I was ashamed of myself when I realized life was a costumed party; and I attended with my bare face” - Frank Kafka 

It’s hard to pin me down. It’s hard to understand me. But if you have even a remote awareness of a concept called “minimalism” you will begin to make sense of my life. I have just had a conversation with one of the girls that blink on my radar.  What I found was amusing!

It appears I am living way below the societal expectations, and in some ways, if you know me, you can almost be sure I don’t give a fuck about how the world sees me. I am chaos unto myself, but I have some little personal principles that guide my life. One of them is that I live a minimalist lifestyle. And if you know me you can tell I live a very simple lifestyle. I’m cheap to maintain. I really don’t cost much because I have known how hard it is to earn. A few days after we started living with my roommate, my roommate remarked that my life is simple. I opted for fasting and daily home workouts. I opted for fruits and an organic lifestyle. When my roommate presents drinks at dining, I hardly take them. He knew I dismissively called them accessories and that I do away with unnecessary accessories.

The simple things I buy are simple but not cheap. They’re of top quality, especially things to do with the internal system – the food, water, pharmaceuticals and where to sleep.  And I worried a lot about the quality of the air I breathe. Now that I am not in Nigeria, about the air that people back home breathe. These small but important things are what defined the good and qualified life. They’re what set you apart from reduced humanity and social death, even physical death from accumulated harmful effects. I have expensive tastes for things that nurture internal human soul. But who cares about theories! 

I live a very authentic life. I present to you my authentic self, especially in my WhatsApp circle. To be sure, what you read on my WhatsApp are mostly my true thoughts. They can be hidden in jokes but they are my true feelings. They’re from the bottom of my heart. One more thing to be sure about is that you hardly get a hundred percent truth from my mouth. Once, a senior friend said I should not be called “Saddiq,” a sobriquet of my name that means “the honest one”. While I was not entirely dishonest, he said, I was not also straightforward. My lies are not harmful lies and the truth they hide would not benefit anyone. “You’re a kind of ambiguous character”, he said, which makes it hard to tell when I am lying vs when I am telling the truth. I occupy this liminal space between banter, joke, logic and reason; between religiosity and secularism; seriousness and unseriousness. Even my mother struggles with this fact, including all the women I have been in relationships with. I’m fluid that defy pinning down and categorization. “Keep being fluid and unpinnable until you lose your quest”, one of the girls said.

But no one captures the descriptive energy of my personality so eloquently as my girlfriend. “I know your type”, she said years ago, “you’re honest, but you also like to pretend to tell lies”. Once, another girlfriend in Kaduna said I played too much. Another one, still on my radar, said “I know your shenanigans”. Not once, friends and potential in-laws said I played too much. This is because I am moving in ways understood only to myself.

So, this girl on my radar called and said I was not dressing well. Her remark bordered on admonition and disdain but was more of a suggestion because she offered to help me with my dressing problem. She acknowledged I was low-key, I was self-aware; she added in the same breath, “as in you’re in the US and you’re not buying designers”.  

“But my library is well-stocked”, I said. If she meant I was stingy, I spend fortunes on books, books that I can borrow from the library. But I still buy them to build my library for a planned book donation initiative to Nigerian university libraries in my retirement, including in my Alma Mata where I stole books from the shelf to save them from decay. Besides, I still have shoes and caps and shirts that I bought last year which I never used. So, why waste money on things that I should not use for the whole year? In addition, here in the US, you don’t want to impress anyone. She said it’s not to impress anyone, just to feel good about yourself. I agreed. I told her if this was what she meant then I hardly bought shadda for my clothing even when I was in Nigeria. I opted for “yards”, and tissue white yards for that matter except for the dirty nature of the environment that forced me to abandon the practice. To feel good, I dress light and use perfume with celestial scent. I am also very active in the process of my tailoring, to make sure the thread used on buttons and drawstring are of the same color. For each set of outfits, I spend a deal of time on the internet trying to work out great aesthetics. My tailor complains bitterly about my narcissism. Girl erupted into laughter and said I still don’t understand. 

I was not telling her these things. These were the thoughts running in my mind and I thought she was within the intellectual range. I have a natural disgust for vulgarity and lacking in social graces and taste. 

I noticed a remarkable difference when I visited Nigeria last summer. People dress ostentatiously. The American foolishness started getting into my head, obviously, for I was dressing casually, appearing in jeans and a t-shirt for some outings. 

Obviously, this girl sat down and had a conversation with herself about her future in my life. And she realized, as per her standard and taste, I needed to upgrade. But here in the US, like I always believe, the standard is in your bank accounts and zip code. You would be shocked to see how rich people like to appear! I have rich families from Nigeria as well, rich even by the US standard, whom I know how they live!  

The 7th child of a director in a federal agency, I honestly believe there are people like her who dress ostentatiously without the will to impress. What was amusing was the lack of knowledge of the alternative dressing code, that there are people who can afford to but chose for a minimalist lifestyle. The girl, for the life of her, cannot goddam make sense of what minimalism is.

Here, ladies and gentlemen, is the mother of the future US astronauts!

Madison, WI

PS

What you read here is but fiction from the figment of my imagination. Take it seriously at your own peril! 

The last straw...

I travelled to Nigeria mid-year. For summer break. And for the end of my Fulbright year. After a long time out of the country, I was full of joy and excitement. Major heartaches happened, but thankfully no incidents of bereavement of the loved ones. 

I had already missed everything that meant so much to me. In addition to that, there are some important and difficult personal stuff that required me to be in the country in-person, including fulfilling the Fulbright requirement, and renewing my papers before returning to the US. 

But people warned me that I shouldn’t return to Nigeria. I was one of them few years ago, telling my friend in Malaysia not come back. But five years ago is different from the present, or even a year ago when I first left. So, truly, I had no idea how worse the country was. 

Fast forward to my departure, I was still elated. I was going to reunite with my roots. In addition to meeting my family once more, my visit to Nigeria marked a significant crossroad in my life whose intensity I only later came to fathom. 

I had taken for granted the ease of the American life. Basic things of life suddenly disappeared from my life in Nigeria. Now that I have experienced what a good life was, everything became hard. I couldn’t bear the brunt of the Nigerian life except it’s extremely necessitated by choicelessness. Nigeria is progressively getting worse thanks to the inept policies of the Buhari’s government. Almost every day is worse than the previous day since the start of the administration, from security to economy to education... I also experienced small ugly feelings that consoled me and provided me with a justification for my intent. 

I launched into the preparation for my return to the States few days after my arrival even though I was not entirely ready for the choice life threw at me. In the first journey I knew I would be back to my roots. I was hopeful. I was not indecisive. I knew home was Nigeria. But home for now, my mind reasoned, is no longer Nigeria. Everything this time represented something lurking beneath the surface. It was intense and emotional. 

Never had I got myself thinking so deeply about my life. 

Childhood friends no longer live in the same street we grew up. They either married and left the neighborhood or have left the state entirely for the livelihood, which left me almost lonely, or living with people as convenient mates. I am also creaking from heavy responsibilities on my shoulder. So, I had to leave, nonetheless. 

The first journey was totally unlike the second. I was a visitor this time, running around and getting things done as though I was on a borrowed time. Bewilderment set in my eyes when asked about my place of residency. I get confused momentarily before I reassured and countered my imagination. Time and again I asked myself: Am I not Nigerian anymore? 

I emptied my closet and distributed its content. I took down my personal library, picked the few books that I wanted and donated out the rest. These are books that formed my intellectual formative years. I had plans for them for the later years of my life. I took out my jotter containing my personal notes, social media and bank accounts details and login credentials. 

The string of these “casual” actions depicted my life tittering on the borderline of “before” and “after”. I don’t see myself giving up on the good life any time soon. My current life is my answered prayer. I have worked and prayed for it! But I have found myself agonizing for it when it finally set to happen. It is one thing to prattle about relocation, quite another thing to come face-to-face with the reality. It is good to recognize and accept this fact of life that we give up something in order to gain something. To be able to make this decision requires uncommon courage and strength. 

The full weight and enormity of what was going on fell on me when I finally set for the airport. The car arrived. My mother and siblings followed me out for goodbye. The siblings were jubilating, but mother and I were aware of the silent mood in the air. Her heart was heavy. My eyes were brimming with tears. I was emotionally breaking down, but I managed to control my tears. My siblings went back home. The jubilation died down. My mother stood there. She stood there forever. We were exchanging silent words. She couldn’t leave. I just realized other than my mother I had no one to cry for me. I entered the car and avoided her eyes. I didn’t know if my friends noticed my tears, but I want to believe they had seen it and only let it pass. 

Off we zoomed to the airport, leaving my mother behind, where my situation became more pronounced. The car parked, the two friends came out, brought out my luggage. As we shook hands and the steward loaded the bags on the trolley, the touch of finality of it all coldly dawned me; nothing could be repeated. I was leaving everything behind. Every step I took into the Departures is the last one. 

After some minutes in the departures lounge, we were called for boarding. Our plane jetted off to Abuja for the onward journey. I sat very pensive and emotional, thinking of my mother, thinking of my life! My shoulders convulsed. Something broke in me and made me stronger immediately afterwards. This was not silent tears. A member of the cabin crew came over me. The woman led me to a private room and asked if I was OK. I was going back to the States! 

This painful decision is not entirely for my own sake. It’s for the siblings to stay in school. For my own kids and their mother when they come! On top of everything else, I shouldn’t be blind to what blessing this represents knowing how Nigeria is! 

Madison, WI

The common good: the politics of happiness and aesthetics of American spaces

I am greatly fascinated by spaces: the built environment and the influence it has on the social and cultural practices. I am deeply in awe of the aesthetics of beautiful places, of great designs and functions. For a while, therefore, I have been thinking of how to streamline my research interests into the aesthetics of spaces, behavior, design and décor and the overall wellbeing of the individual and wellness. I also discovered that there is a whole field of study called Happiness Studies!

Away from heavy theory and philosophizing, I want to venture into the glamor and intrigue of space and social practices. Talk about the aesthetics of landscape architecture and design: the wholesomeness that results from the combination of land policies and planning.  Coming to the US, I was intrigued by the politics of affordance factor of the built environment. So, I decided to audit a course in the Department of Landscape Architecture last spring.

The class helps me find expression to some of my deepest feelings about the environment. I came to have a clearer understanding of my own city. To be sure, most of us would regard Kano as a modern city, but it’s a premodern city like most African cities. First off, Kano has warren and narrow streets designed for communication rather than the free highways and wide streets meant for movement and transportation of a typical modern city.

I don’t even know how we can confront and tackle challenges in our cities. But American cities were once like ours, premodern and chaotic, with streets as giant sewers. The streets in Kano are still the giant sewers, collecting dirt and rubbish and washing them away at the rainstorm.

Industrialization presented new challenges to the modern city, which most African cities currently face. Those challenges give birth to the rise of regulatory state and laws such as pollution regulations, building codes, public health and sanitary codes, for what is called the “common good.” The common good would ensure quality of life, air quality and increased life span. The connection is clear between design, environmental planning and good life. Simple environmental policies such as vaccine, antibiotics and water treatment can help double life span.

Beyond the common good, America puts important values on her housing. In the eyes of the government, Americans are not free-floating subjects confined in her territory. From the design of the houses and neighborhoods, America sees a house as a foundation of all virtues and morality.

Cities become ugly and crowded if architects and planners are not in control. Architects and planners are not in control in Kano. The striking difference between modern city and pre-modern city is that modern city grows up, pre-modern city grows out from the affliction of urban sprawl. The criterion for modernity is not on bridges and electricity but on nuances of space that make life easier and more efficient. It’s about control and resource allocation, planning and implementing policies that move people and goods across spaces unhindered.

If you reform the physical environment in which people live, you’ll also change the underlining factor of social relations for good. With careful and efficient planning and social services, people become polite and less susceptible to crime, cooperative and willing to help authorities. Planning also means being security-conscious on how you build the physical environment. High rise buildings are designed in concepts of panopticon surveillance. Therefore, you can tackle social vices by the design of the city. By designing of the city, you can attract business and provide jobs for the people.  The American public policy realized early on that the cause of crime is social dislocation, the solution is building communities.

As our phones are no longer just machines for making phone calls, the idea of modern architecture goes way beyond building a house for shelter against the elements. A modern house is a machine for living, fitted with dwelling requirements and modern conveniences: heating system, internet and landscape greenery. Building a good, habitable housing is not just about expensive taste, it’s about our humanity and the common good.

But pause to answer this question before we proceed, whether as an individual or a policy maker:  When you are building a city, what problems are you trying to solve? I cannot mention one policy for sure that housing department is solving in Kano. So, at individual level, what problems are you solving when you are building a house?

Does where you live look like somewhere you wish to raise your kids? Fire in my mind, I am intentional of where I should raise my kids. I should be able to choose where I live and not be dictated upon me by choicelessness. I work hard in everything to maximize my options.

When talking about African cities in after-class discussion with the Professor, Lagos regularly came up in our discussion. Most of the things he mentioned about modern cities are relatable to African cities. There are crimes in big cities because too much people want to live in the city. Too much population enables anonymity. Because too many people want to live in the city, modern architecture requires that you need to find ways to effectively manage your resources. Build open spaces for people to walk, build spaces for business so people can work, provide a high-capacity transportation system to take them there and public gardens to unwind. The intersection of landscape architecture, social behavior and housing policies manifests in how people interact with each other and with their environment.

City living has some rules. The smaller the population, the cleaner the environment. Crowded living is not in agreement with the convenience of modern city. As everyone wants to live in the city, the city becomes crowded and dense. High-density can usually mean poverty and easy spread of disease.  Density decline is a function of distance. That’s why American houses are detached, separate, standalone, unfenced but private with a specified number of people to live in.

Another great engineering feat is water treatment and supply. How to categorize waters - waste water, rainstorm – treat them and recycle them to the society, effectively making the environment more sustainable. We all want comfortable life in an efficient environment, but efficiency is sometimes ruthlessness. Robert Moses comes to mind in the US history of public works. During this discussion I could only think of the resistance Kwankwaso faced in my state for trying to sanitize the environment. Engineers work in the dilemma of the desire to save the public and the hatred for people, but the benefit of urban renewal is worth the price of dislocation since you can’t build anything without disturbing something. The problem is that city planners only see the problems, not the humans in those buildings. I wish for a more humane approach to dealing with some of these problems in African cities.

As an African newly in the US, I can feel the effects of design and lifestyle in my life. I am sure people in GRAs can relate to the bad side of a highly organized living. The advantage of slums is that they brought people together in a very important human way. They created values of care and solidarity among the residents. This is an important factor in measuring the gross happiness index of the people. The metrics nowadays are no longer about the GDP.

Finally, if Kano city is still a premodern city, American cities in the premodern age were once ugly, infectious and criminal. Where there is a will, there is a way.