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At the airport. It
is the peak travel period. Every available flight has been booked.
There are thousands of intending travellers all desperate to be on the
next plane. On the line for the last available flight are harassed
travellers, children, pregnant women, the aged and the physically
challenged. It is absolute mayhem as touts, family and friends jostle
to secure tickets for relatives and other travellers. Just when things
could not get more chaotic, a traveller walks in with a retinue of
security aides and assistants. His aides walk straight to the counter,
shoving aside other travellers, and demand a ticket on the flight for
‘oga’. A few travellers protest, but the majority simply look on,
either too tired to protest or thoroughly intimidated by the new
arrival’s security escorts. He gets his ticket and proceeds to the
check-in counter, totally oblivious to the other travellers who had
been at the airport for hours. His look of deep contempt says it all:
do you know who I am?

It is a public
hospital. Hundreds of sick people are waiting to see the few doctors
available. Most of them have been there since dawn and have no idea
when or if they will be attended to. From those with the classic
symptoms of malaria to others with more serious ailments, the wait is
endless. Some of them seem on the verge of death, but they all wait
stoically. There are children with temperatures hovering dangerously
high. A few patients are in wheelchairs, with their relatives hoping
and praying for a miracle. The air is choked with the stench of
disease, despair and death. In this turmoil, a woman walks in with
nurses and other medical personnel in tow. She doesn’t look too ill and
has the air of someone who can afford a private hospital. But why waste
money on private clinics when you can get treatment free of charge at a
government hospital where you have friends? So she is moved ahead of
other patients and enters the consulting room to see a doctor. The
patients who have been on the line for hours do not even bother to
complain. They know it would make no difference and are afraid of being
victimised by the hospital attendants, who can make their files
disappear or move them to the back of the line. When the woman emerges
from the consulting room, she looks haughtily at the other patients and
strides off importantly. Her countenance says it all: do you know who I
am?

At a petrol
station. Tanker drivers are on strike because a policeman shot and
killed one of them over N20. There is immediate shortage of petrol and
diesel. Black markets have sprung up miraculously. The lines of
vehicles are kilometres long. You have been sitting in your car for
several hours with no food, a bottle of water and little hope of
getting any fuel. The pump attendant you gave a generous tip last week
won’t even answer your greetings today, or even look in your direction.

Just when the
cacophony peaks, a convoy of vehicles forces its way to the pump and a
phalanx of uniformed escorts takes over and demands that their vehicles
be served. Some motorists honk in protest, but even the usually
boisterous taxi and bus drivers only grumble beneath their breaths and
do nothing. They have no idea who is in the dark tinted SUV, but
suspect he must be important to have mobile policemen as escorts. When
the intruders have had all their tanks filled up and screech out of the
petrol station, the VIP does not even bother to look up from his
newspaper, but the smug smile says it all: do you know who I am?

It is a very busy day in the bank. It is month end, and workers are
anxious to draw their salaries. The ATM has broken down, so every minor
transaction is being done manually. Then transactions slow down to a
trickle and finally stop. The ‘network is down’. While all customers
are waiting for the network to ‘come up’, a customer walks in, sizes up
the situation then walks straight to the manager’s office. Shortly
after, he walks out with a conceited look on his face. He makes a point
of casting a look of disdain at the waiting customers. Without saying a
word, he says it all: do you know who I am? While we are at it, do you
know who I am?

Just as you are
leaving your house on this journey, the first one that accosts you is
the house boy. “Abeg, sir, my mother no well for village. I need to
send am money, sir,” he says. You pause and scratch your memory in
search of what you gave him money for the last time: was it his mother
or grandmother’s burial? You have officially lost track of the various
domestic fleecing excuses. Last month, it was his sister, the month
before that it was his wife. Reluctantly, you peel unbudgeted naira
notes from your wallet like you are flipping through an uninteresting
annual report. “Thank you, sir,” he says, and you catch a glimpse of
smile. You don’t respond as you enter your car and tell the driver,
“Airport”.

At the estate gate,
the uniformed guards give you multiple salutes, and through the
wound-up window, their “Happy weekend, sir!” and “Anything for your
boys, sir?” filter in. They don’t lift the barrier; they wait for you
to shake body. Uniforms here are for begging or robbery-many for arm
twisting. You have already paid your estate dues, but you come home
late sometimes when they are the kings of the gate. They have the power
to make you spend the night outside your estate once it is past
midnight. You reach for your wallet as their salutations increase, as
if you are a newly minted army general. Tuale sir! Their dark goggles
and forest-green uniform remind you of ugly things you would rather
forget.

The vendor never
begs, but he never has change whenever you pay for your newspaper. So
you end up buying more than you want. You make a mental note to hold
the exact amount next time.

By a bend on the
road, a gang of crow-looking policemen raises their hunting AK47s. Boys
are not smiling and your heart is already residing in your mouth. You
might be lucky today and they won’t ask for your NYSC certificate if
you present all car-related papers. Nigerian Police are the smartest
when it comes to vehicular documentation. Sheepishly, you smile at the
one with eyes the colour of palm oil. OC Inspector is sitting far away
in a corner. “Oga sir, we dey here o. Happy weekend, sir. Your boys are
loyal, sir.” This is their version of Akwoba ada ba! You straighten up
and say you are loyal too, even as you curse his village chief, the
midwife that birthed him, etc, under your breath. The biggest beggars
in town are not budging because it’s Friday and weekend has begun.
“Oga, you no appreciate us standing here under the sun protecting you?”
You detect a small threat in his voice and you almost want to yell and
ask where they were hiding when armed robbers were doing Macarena down
the road the other night with Pump-Action. As you move further, a
gigantic cathedral rises from the corner. Bigger than Ogbe stadium,
larger than Madison Square Garden. It is still under construction but
very soon the speakers will be calling for donations and beggars will
waylay parishioners/pedestrians with God will reward you abundantly,
sir; God loves a cheerful giver, oga.

At the three-way
junction where confusion reigns supreme and you have to veer off to
Ikeja, a Yellow Fever traffic warden curls his fingers round a driver’s
squeezed naira note. The baton on his left hand waves you on. He is
only interested in okada riders and danfo drivers. At the junction
where Anthony kisses Maryland, the light is bound to put a full stop to
your journey. This is where Beggar’s Lane thickens. Many beggars here
just don’t beg; they trade goods for your alms. This is more dignifying
than outright begging. The white handkerchief is the product of choice.
You already have more hankies than a certain Pentecostal pastor, but
you say, “At least, he is working for his money” and buy one more. The
light is green and you pray that the driver won’t be caught in-between
the amber and red which will send a LASTMA official jumping on your car
hood like a Hollywood stuntman. You arrive at the airport and as your
driver helps retrieve your luggage from the boot, he clears his throat.
“Oga, I no get transport to come work on Monday,” he announces. “But I
just paid your salary!” you yell. “Oga, my father was not well; I
bought him medicine, abeg, sir”. You have no choice, if you want to be
driven on Monday.

“Arik or Aero, sir?”

“Neither,” you tell the tout but he won’t go away. He wants to help
you with your hand luggage and you say no. He is persistent and follows
you to the counter. “Oga, you no go do weekend for me?” You ignore him
to face the surly ‘Airport Counter Queen’ who says you are late and
won’t budge in giving you a boarding pass except you shake body-again.
And the scanning man threatens to seize your travel-size toothpaste
except you do weekend for him. You are sweating; a walk on Beggars Lane
is arduous. You arrive in Abuja safely and call your politician friend
whom you will be begging for a government contract, but he says he is
in his godfather’s house begging for a second term in office. This
Beggars Lane is endless, you say. “I beg your pardon,” he says.

Banking has become
an almost indispensable part of our lives. These days, our banks have
become more than just financial institutions that help manage our
finances; they have also become essential components of the image we
strive so much to project. This might explain why some banks are
considered all-comers, others considered exclusive; some perceived as
for the older demography while others are seen as catering to the young
and dynamic. Thus, it came as a huge shock to me that my bank-regarded
as new generation, exclusive, belonging to the young and dynamic-would
require over a month to transfer my ATM card from one branch in Lagos
to another, also in Lagos.

When I first
elected my bank to serve me in all the financial capacities they
claimed to possess, it was with a thrill, a sense of achievement, that
the right company had been voted for and I had made a noble choice.
Their branding was – and maybe still is – second to none in the
country. Their policy contained everything that I could require from a
financial manager. It was to be the beginning of a date with destiny. I
met members of this exclusive domain and they all had wonderful tales
to tell about the organisation. The bank’s front men and women that I
came in contact with had huge disarming smiles that sucked me in. I was
sure everything was grand and the future of my financial worries was
secure.

One of the things I
was quick to learn was that, to enjoy certain benefits of this
wonderful group, I had to be a card carrying member. To this, I
obliged. This card was a wonder to behold, and it performed tasks that
seemed nothing short of magical. From anywhere in the country, I could
interact with the folks with the huge smiles, consult with them, and
enjoy financial liberation even without being in the same state with
them. This wonder card is called an ATM card.

A major feature of
the card is that it has an expiration date. Upon the near expiration of
my card, my bank began rigorous campaigns enjoining me to pick up
another one and run with it for another term. It took a while for me to
budge, for I had become too preoccupied with other things to bother
much about expiration of tenures and such matters. But, I eventually
got round to it. As if sensing my tired state, my bank informed me
through one of the ‘smiles’ that I didn’t have to go to the designated
centre where it all began. I could go to a closer one, fill out a form
and have my new and improved card sent to me. I rejoiced at this and
followed the laid out procedure to the letter. It has been over a month
and I am yet to receive my card. This suggests that it takes quite a
while to transfer a card from Ojodu to Yaba.

I have made phone
calls and registered complaints on websites. The people who were so
willing for me to be a card carrying member of their association,
welcoming me with very wide smiles and making me feel like the most
important person in the world, now put me on hold for four minutes; and
still no one returns to attend to me. Every visit to their Yaba centre
meets with a casual, “We are sorry. Please, come back”. With that, I am
discarded, as the smile that was once flashed at me is tuned on at the
instance of another unsuspecting poor unfortunate soul.

When the campaigns were being made for me to align myself with them,
I was promised a financial heaven on earth. Now, they are sorry that I
can’t get everything I was promised. The situation is just not that
easy, they say. The tasks before them are herculean and they also have
resource issues. I am expected to understand, bear with them and
exercise patience; in hope that, someday, I will be remembered and
issued with my ATM card. Until then, maybe I can distract myself with
the unfolding drama of the coming elections. Funny how there are some
striking similarities between my bank and the guys jostling for my
votes.

It is essential for brands to present attractive offerings that will add value to consumers’ experience.

The present market
realities have made brands adopt strategies aimed at engaging consumers
and also building brand loyalty. The lifestyle of the consumer should
be given utmost priority in service delivery.

Brand offerings
should be able to deliver creativity, excitement, and entertainment, as
it fosters physical and emotional connection with the brand. Today’s
consumers are dynamic and vibrant and they want a brand that can fit
into their lifestyle and give them worthwhile experiences.

In fact, consumers
now want to create the brand and own the brand. They want offerings
that meet their desired taste and the brand they can use as a means of
self expression. This supports the “MSP” i.e. Me Selling Proposition
standpoint, which places a renewed focus on the consumer.

This is perhaps the main rationale for DSTV Mobile’s offering of ultimate mobile TV entertainment for the consumer.

When DSTV Mobile
launched months back in the Nigerian market, it was readily accepted
because it represented entertainment, information, and value added
services to consumers. Hitherto, they watched DSTV in the comfort of
their homes, but with DSTV Mobile, television is in their hands. This
is one visible way to build brand loyalty and followership.

A unique selling
point was a free trial for the subscribers, which is key to creating
value. The strategic intention is to align with the needs of the
upwardly mobile and constantly on the go consumers who desire to have
fun and excitement as they move on in their pursuits.

DSTV Mobile is on
both MTN and Glo networks, making it easier for subscribers to have
first hand information and knowledge about happenings around them. This
is a vantage way to connect and build brand loyalty.

Brands remain
vibrant and relevant when they focus on key consumer segments; it has
become imperative to meet the expectations of today’s consumers with
ideas like DSTV Mobile. The consumer culture is rapidly changing and as
a result, brands should adopt strategies to remain relevant.

Brands should also
identify key gaps in the lives of their consumers and bridge these
through innovation and value service. Nigerian consumers have a passion
for football, including foreign football clubs, and this is one area in
which DSTV offers enormous benefits.

Through the mobile
television in their hands, and as long as they are connected to DSTV
Mobile, they cannot miss any of the exciting matches. DSTV Mobile makes
subscribers optimise the quality of their viewing time and also get
premium content and programming on their phones.

Consumers are
attracted to brands that simplify their lives. This is one thing that
DSTV Mobile has done so well. Subscribers will not only be loyal to
such brands, but will ultimately create a community of brand loyalists
by enlisting others to share the same experience. This makes the brand
stand out as one of the very few that matters in the marketplace.

Any brand that keys in to the lifestyle of consumers ultimately creates an enduring experience for them.

With about 70 per
cent of Nigerians falling under the age of 35, the youth of our country
form a sizeable and important voter demographic. Given the right degree
of mobilisation, we can easily become the most powerful voting segment.
But to be powerful, we must all make a conscious decision to unite. The
recent calls for youth focused debates present an opportunity for this
sort of unity.

A number of
electoral advocacy groups have recently sprung up across our country.
From non-profit initiatives to the release of inspirational songs such
as The Future by Nigerian photographer/singer, TY Bello, the clarion
call for youth agency in the April polls is slowly but surely
reverberating across Nigeria.

Following the
footsteps of the recent governorship debates held in Lagos, civic
organisations are also calling for youth focused Presidential debates,
where our nation’s young people can question this year’s candidates on
how they plan to tackle problems facing the youth. These are good
developments.

In past elections,
disillusioned by rigging and voter intimidation, many Nigerian youth
watched the process from the sidelines, allowing the imposition and
selection of candidates that we had little faith in. This year,
Nigerians have been promised a free and fair electoral process and
young people registered in droves. Given the sheer number of registered
youth preparing to cast their votes in April, young people need to be
paid the homage they deserve by this year’s Presidential candidates.

The reason why
Nigerian youth have hitherto not been taken seriously by Presidential
candidates is primarily because we have never come together under a
united front. Unity amplifies voices and gives teeth to demands for
better welfare and accountability. It also connotes seriousness and
commonality of purpose. This year, us young people must come together
and speak with one voice.

Many Nigerians have
wondered if the recent revolutions in Egypt and Tunisia can be
replicated on our soil. The word ‘revolution’ often conjures images of
violence, bloodshed and war. But there can also be ‘mental revolution’.
There is no need for bloodshed if united voices can communicate the
same message effectively to our country’s aspiring leaders.

The mental
revolution we need is one that recognises the power and right of
Nigeria’s young people to make demands. It should also recognise that
for youth to be taken seriously, we must strive to understand and fully
participate in the issues that affect us. In unity, we should then ask
for these issues to be addressed. Most importantly, the mental
revolution should recognise that Nigeria’s youth have the capacity to
be the most talented, creative and entrepreneurial of young people in
the world. Any administration that seeks to diminish this potential
through ill-conceived policies will either be voted out of office-or
not voted into office, in the first place.

The message from
Nigeria’s youth to the 2011 Presidential aspirants is simple: we will
only vote for the candidate(s) who we believe can best tackle the
challenges facing young people.

Nigeria’s youth will only be taken seriously when we recognise the
power of our collective voice. Now is the time to ask our Presidential
candidates what concrete plans of action they have laid out for 70 per
cent of our nation’s population.

Last week, five
children from a family in Imo State lost their lives when their home
went up in flames. This happened after a keg of kerosene bought by the
mother of the house exploded. The woman herself survived, albeit with
severe burns all over her body.

Tragic as this
incident was, the affected family does not hold the dubious distinction
of one with the highest casualty from kerosene-related explosions. Last
month, Hope Adeleke, a policeman serving in Delta State, lost all
members of his family – six children and their mother. The woman and
her children got burnt while she was in the process of refilling a
lantern.

For some months
now, explosions linked to adulterated kerosene have been spreading
death and misery across several states in Nigeria. The epicentre of
this tragedy, however, appears to be Niger Delta states of Edo, Delta
and Rivers. Parts of the southeast have also been affected, as
unscrupulous traders mix chemicals with either diesel or kerosene to
increase their profits from selling the products. Within the past two
months, some 45 cases of kerosene explosions have taken place in Rivers
State, accounting for 15 deaths.

It is no small
irony that the section of the country most affected by this tragedy is
the oil producing part. But that is possibly due to the fact that there
is an abundance of products that could be used to adulterate petroleum
products in the area, as well as the presence of hundreds of illegal
mini refineries. The defence minister recently said the government was
aware of the existence of 300 illegal refineries in the Niger Delta.
The military joint task force has, indeed, been destroying these.

But that has not
done much to prevent families such as Adeleke’s from falling victim of
this macabre trade. It is also glaring that other government
enforcement agencies have gone to sleep over the issue. Instead of
rolling out robust measures to identify and penalise those behind the
criminal activities, agencies such as the Nigerian National Petroleum
Corporation (NNPC) and the Department of Petroleum Resources (DPR) have
done little other than offer platitudes to Nigerians.

A well-publicised
statement from the NNPC advised Nigerians not to patronise fake
purveyors of adulterated fuel and only buy the products from trusted
sources. Which would have really worked well had the corporation taken
time to explain how to identify these fake purveyors.

An official of the
DPR, who recently took a bunch of journalists to the site of some
illegal refineries operating in Mbiama, Ahoada Local Government of
Rivers State, was also kind enough to advise the reporters that her
organisation has no legal power to prosecute the youth behind the
operation, especially as it was unable to provide the criminals with
any alternative means of livelihood should their petroleum business be
closed down. Now, that certainly takes the cake in official ineptitude.

At other times,
officials of the DPR have blamed fuel tanker drivers who are members of
the National Union of Petroleum and Natural Gas Workers or private
depot operators. But the import of this blame game is that there is no
government agency actually working to safeguard Nigerians from killer
fuel.

And it isn’t as if this is a recent occurrence.

The Fire Disaster
Prevention and Safety Awareness Association of Nigeria, a
non-governmental organisation that has been working to secure some
relief for victims of kerosene explosions, said a study it conducted in
2002 showed that over 300 lives were lost during an earlier outbreak of
kerosene-related explosions in Edo State and other parts of the
South-South. Many of the victims of the earlier explosion are still
living with the agony and pains of the tragedy. Perhaps our nation has
shrugged off their predicament because most of them are poor and weak.
But, surely, these are the group of people most in need of government
support?

Although elected officials are currently caught up in a frenzy to
convince us to vote for them in April, they should not overlook the
fact that they still have a nation to run. Inability to ensure the
provision of safe kerosene to Nigerians may not seem like an issue
worth focusing on during campaigns. But how many votes can the
politicians hope to get if their supporters loose the all-too-crucial
fingers to fire from kerosene explosions?

My column today
makes what I hope is a non-utopian argument for why social
conservatives are right to welcome the recent evidence that American
teens and 20-somethings are waiting somewhat longer to have sex. And it
pivots, in part, off this post from Dana Goldstein, in which she argues
1) that premarital sex has always been with us, 2) that even if people
are sleeping together more casually than they did generations ago, it’s
just because they’re marrying later, and 3) that anyway, there’s no
need for anyone to feel “anxious about 50-year macro social trends that
have brought about unprecedented gender equality and personal
fulfilment.”

I take up the
first two points in my column, arguing that it makes a huge difference
not only whether people have premarital sex, but how early and how
often and how casually, and that this is what social conservatives
think changed for the worse starting in the 1960s (and has changed for
the better, albeit on the margins, more recently). But I think it’s
worth saying something about the third question, because it’s crucial
to the debate over how we should think about the sexual revolution and
its consequences.

Did the social
trends of the last 50 years bring about “unprecedented gender
equality”? Absolutely. Did they bring about “unprecedented personal
fulfilment”? Well … for some people they did. But it’s very easy to
find indicators that paint a more complicated picture. Female happiness
has dropped since the 1970s, despite enormous female economic gains.
Marital happiness has dipped as well, even though fewer people get
married and it’s easier to leave an unhappy union. And then of course
there’s the impact of higher divorce rates on children’s psychological
well-being, the impact of rising single parenthood on child poverty,
and so forth.

The crucial
question, to my mind, is whether all of the social changes that swept
America in the 1960s and the 1970s are a package deal. Writers like
Goldstein seem convinced that everything goes together – that the
cultural shifts that have made our personal lives more unstable and
(possibly) less fulfilling are inextricably bound to the shifts that
made female equality a possibility, and then more or less a fact. Hence
their reflexive hostility to the idea that anything could have changed
for the worse in American sexual culture: To suggest that the general
welfare might be enhanced if teenage sexual activity were a little more
stigmatized or divorce a little harder to get, in their eyes, is to
implicitly suggest that women belong in kitchens and finishing schools,
rather than boardrooms and the Senate. It’s the slippery slope in
reverse: Many progressives and feminists have committed themselves to
an absolute defence of everything that changed during the sexual
revolution, out of a fear that one concession will cost women every
gain.

Needless to say, I don’t think this is the right way to look at it.
The connection between feminism and sexual permissiveness strikes me as
historically contingent rather than strictly necessary, and the
economic and social gains that women have made since the 1960s seem
robust enough to endure – or, more likely, continue apace – even amid a
reconsideration of some of the social changes that accompanied them.
Yes, an ethic of sexual restraint can be turned to patriarchal ends,
but so can an ethic of sexual permissiveness, as anyone who’s hung out
in a frat house for any length of time can attest. And the fact that
smart feminists like Goldstein feel compelled to act all blasé about
the pornography industry, lest they give an inch to the forces of
reaction, seems like one of the more regrettable aspects of the
contemporary cultural debate.