By Florence Adedowole
I’m so proud and privileged to have witnessed the late 80s and early 90s. Those were the years before the locusts came; those were the years before things fell apart. Whenever I share this thought with my children, they are always quick to ask what was so special about that time and those seasons without Android phones and social media. I’m always quick to tell them that no one needed those things then. We had relationships; everyone knew everyone. If a stranger came into the community, all eyes would scrutinise and dissect him, making him feel uncomfortable to perpetrate evil actions and intentions.
We had free education, or was it a dream? No. Free and qualitative education devoid of miracle centre gimmicks. Free for everyone, with brand new notebooks and textbooks. We always celebrated with anyone whose notes had double covers, counting them as being “lucky.”
We had pipe-borne water!!!!! Oh my God, what a joy!!!!! You only needed to turn the tap, and the most hygienic, safe potable water would gush out with full force. If you were one of the privileged ones, you had taps installed wherever you wanted them in your house—kitchen, toilet, laundry, etc. Meanwhile, the government had these same taps installed at strategic locations, even in the farthest rural areas. I remember my teenage son asking me where the reservoirs were located; at the waterworks, of course—that’s what they were called then. I could see the expression on his face; he never believed me.
I called my elder sister to bail me out. She’s in her 20s, and she should know, or so I thought. You can imagine my shock when she looked me straight in the face and said, “I’m so sorry, Mummy, but I never fetched pipe-borne water from taps while growing up, only boreholes. I read about them in books, but didn’t drink from such.” I remembered John 11:35 and wept. What a shock!!!! What a shame!!!! We had tap water, or was it in my dream? No. We had tap water. I’m not making it up!!!!
Fast forward more than 20 years: what happened? Ogun aye abi t’Esu? Who did this to us? If we’re not moving ahead, can’t we at least do everyone a favour and stand still? Same spot. Same position. At least no retrogression or reversing at full speed, which my driving lessons termed very dangerous. O ma se oooooo!!!!!
Although our electricity wasn’t 24 hours then, we had the brightest lights illuminating our streets at night, which really helped the security situation. We walked straight home from our church at CAC Igboroko to Egbenren at 3 a.m. after a night vigil. The brightest and best fluorescent lights on our streets—no need for flashlights, no dark paths, nothing lurking in the dark background anywhere. These were lights that needed no stabilisers or UPS, stable when available, until the locust years came in and things fell apart.
We used to have night parties, both as “Aisun” for the elderly during any celebration or discos for the younger ones then. Dancing and making merry till dawn, with no fear of gunshots, abduction, or the like.
Now let’s fast forward several decades. Things fell apart; crashed with a loud thud. Standing still, not making progress would have been better. We didn’t stop at that; we backpedalled with the speed of lightning, time travelling to before the Garden of Eden. These locusts are with us already. Locust swarms can wipe out crops in hours. We need to do something. Report this invasion by not keeping quiet. Keep talking, please. “Bo mi mora, ki n pa e loruko won.” Keep talking about their activities as they affect you and yours.
Scare tactics are also very effective; loud noises, smoke, banging pots, running through the fields. Don’t hold your peace. Don’t stop talking. Don’t allow them to spiral silence you. God bless Gani Fawehinmi and Tai Solarin of blessed memories. This time shall pass. In God we trust.
Adedowole, former Head of Department of Mass Communication at Rufus Giwa Polytechnic, writes from the UK.
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