I remember my first year in the Secondary School hearing seniors ruefully murmur “when men were men!” Often the phrase filled me with wonder and I would ask myself “How were men, when men were men?” Were they taller and bigger? (I recall the stories of giants from ancient manuscripts) or were they simply braver, more honourable and chivalrous? I would remember the folktales and lores, passed down through the generations, of ancient warriors and their great exploits – how they faced danger for the sake of honour and uncertain glory. Added to these, were stories of seniors of my alma-mata who had accomplished all sorts of feats. I must admit that some of their stunts were relatively infamous in nature, yet they were all spell-binding and got our ears tingling and our imaginations leaping. It filled our chests with pride and our thoughts with fertile imaginations of possibilities, knowing that one day we could be the hero of tales to come. After all, they had lived in the dormitories in which we now dwelt, slept on the beds we now occupied and walked the corridors we walked – partly to pave the way for our accomplishments, same as we intended for those to come. Those were the days!

 

The past always tends to have a mystique which makes it more fascinating than the present. But I don’t think I am mistaken about Nigeria’s special past when I recall the pride with which I watched, still in my pre-teens, the FESTAC 77 show, or the All African Games which constantly had Nigeria coming out on top, or the Rangers football club with the tallest keeper “in the world”(Emmanuel Okala) and its charismatic captain who, as far as we were concerned, was leadership embodied (Is it the same Christian Chukwu of today’s fame?!). It’s amazing – but we really had stars - the kind that you find in heroic comics and cartoon shows! I can’t quite remember her full name – but we had a female crusher in the game of tennis. I mean she literarily crushed everything and everyone that came her way (Serena Williams couldn’t have coped with her). Her surname was Majekodunmi. Watching her play was a delight and I still can’t remember those days without recalling Yinka Craig’s famed phrase “Oh! What a volley!”As much as I liked and had come to expect it, I often wondered “Mr. Craig can’t you think of something else?” Yet …those were the days!

 

I remember the huge respect and awe our school teachers commanded. They were feared, revered and loved – why? Because they knew it all! They were our mentors. I mean, each student found the shade of purple that suited him best. If you couldn’t flow with Mr. Jegede, probably Mrs. Chukwuma would do the magic. The fact is amongst the teeming number of elite academia in the Common Room, you could if you searched hard enough find one that struck a chord with you: accent, moustache, fashion, walk and all other eccentricities in tow! Our teachers – they were simply the most decent and disciplined people in the world! We loved them and got our parents to love them as well. Together we formed a tiny community - everyone decent and respected. Money was not a differentiator, people made enough to get by and to provide a sufficient threshold for the self-fulfillment and pride that we all so dearly need. Those were the good old days!

 

I can’t quite remember how, but I do know that after school we had ample time to play and gossip …and still got homework done (Why can’t my children pull off the same feat in today’s world of glitz and breathtaking technology?). I don’t recall more than a handful of times when my parents needed to really get involved in tutoring me around knotty concepts. For some reason, my teachers were sufficiently involved in their calling to engage their students and awaken them both mentally and intellectually.  

 

Innocence! The word still exists in the dictionary, but I wonder if you still can find it outside of the toddler cohort. As I write, I think back to when I was ten and attending an oral interview in preparation to being admitted into Secondary School. I remember a little middle aged Indian lady asking me as she filled my form “sex?”, and I gaped at her. You see, at that age, I was just coming to terms with that word and this lady (a complete stranger for that matter!) appeared to be asking me if I had had sex! My gape turned into a long stare! After some milliseconds, which to me seemed more like minutes, the lady smiled with comprehension at my confusion and graciously rephrased the question, “Are you male or female?” To which I gulped the appropriate response and escaped as soon as I could. Looking back, I can’t help wondering why she couldn’t have answered that question herself. Well, I guess I was quite a tomboy in those days. I mean playing cricket and football with my brothers was just down the alley for me. Ah! Those were the days!

 

I hear the National Anthem playing. The amazing thing is that it does not do much to stir patriotic zeal in me. Is the problem with me or is there something about it that makes it engage less of my soul than it should? I mean, the use of the phrase “Oh Compatriots!”for some reason makes me think of the Bolshevik revolution in Russia. I must confess that listening to the famed classic God Bless America does more to fan embers of emotional attachment in me, towards a country with which I have no ties or permanent association, than my own national anthem. I often recall the first anthem “Nigeria we hail thee!” Whatever did they say was wrong with it? Call me old, inflexible, unable to move with the times if you will, but there was something about that anthem that truly made Nigeria appear worthy of being hailed. It took one to heights and vistas of unadulterated patriotism. Like I said, call me staid if you choose, but the truth is the new just doesn’t sound as good as the old!

 

I think of what the economic downturn has caused generations of Nigerians. There was a time when you expected to be born, bred and nurtured in your local community, and other than for the more adventurous of us, this was quite a good deal. But today unborn children are begging to be born in Dublin, New York or Sidney! You probably don’t get to see your childhood friends once past the age of 21, as everyone makes a tee-line for Lagos (the cosmopolitan jungle) or some country abroad. Nigerians can be found in the most remote and unheard-of places on the globe. The only region that I have not heard of a teeming population of Nigerians appears to be in the Arctic. I am yet to see a naturalized Nigerian Eskimo emerging from an igloo! But who knows … anything is possible with my dogged, resilient brothers and sisters.

 

T.S. Elliot, in the Four Quartets, said,“We shall not cease from exploration … and the end of all our exploration will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the very first time”. I must say, indeed, that knowing what I know now, I truly miss the decency and simplicity that characterized those old days. They engendered a robustness of soul and spirit that made for truly civilized people – not the materialistic, coveting generation that is predominant in today’s Nigeria. God help us to recapture something of the old for our children and children’s children. 

 

Granted I am getting older, and the issue may actually be my fascination with the past i.e. the days when men were men!I would understand, dear reader, if you were to advise me to wake up from the past and launch into the future, if you scolded me about trying to put new wine in old wineskin or insisted that life today is faster and more efficient. I, in turn, would patiently and demurely listen to your logic – and still only ruefully respond “those were the days!”  

 

 

 

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