Weekly Review
This week we had a voluminous output of graphic messages on “War and/or Peace” concluding today, 9/11/22. I am so moved by the volume of engagement we are seeing that I must try my best just to get out of the way and let this community sing forth!
As of this moment at dusk, I am still poring over the 100+?? designs submitted to our weekly competitions, trying to examine each and every person’s work here, and see what it is they are doing creatively. We are happy to say that the resounding tenor of our community is towards Peace as an all-pervasive, popular theme. At the same time, there were some powerful comments and meditations on War. Some of the best and most creative messages showed that war and fighting instinct could not only be destructive, but rather positively applied towards personal struggles or sublimated as dedication to inspirational causes. In this context, fighting for what one believes in, takes on a whole new application.
We invite you to examine the workings of our protocol generator by simply going through these designs and allowing them to sink into your system. There are many different angles of understanding represented in this body of work.
The master document containing all graphic submissions can be viewed here:
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-SWxSQQ6bw25DaGfKn7yRxZP1ZzRHC3CNeIGZSw_8-k/edit?usp=sharing
It is still evolving past publication time due to the enormous increase in output we have experienced over the past month. This is a great problem to have, however, it is weighing on our curators and we need more help!!! If you are driven to be a part of a growing new business that unleashes your own productivity in new ways, utilizing the tools of tech and blockchain, join us NOW! We are easy to find. Start with our website: https://commdao.org/
Simultaneously to our graphic output this week, we received another 14 essays on “Memories of Hometown”! Get ready for a journey through time! 3 wonderful essays have been selected from this round of entries. We are also including 2 from our original bid for articles on memories that are still unpublished from Commlink 25.
This input has all been from our African based team that continues to show its determination to speak and have its voice heard with the written word! Keep up with Editor Dr. Alina Okun’s growing database which now contains 60,000+ words and promises to be quite an anthropological study with profound implications for increased international collaboration:
https://www.notion.so/pulsar-innovation/Community-DAO-ebaaa160c93040dd8c85b88af7a1ade0
We will be sending out release questionnaires to our writers, in the near future, for the imminent book being produced by Dr. Okun on this fascinating research.
Anticipation of Ravencoin’s volcanic rise in value in the wake of the imminent Merge of ETH from a Proof-of-Work to Proof-of-Stake foundation, set for next week, has energized our community, too, though once again making Commlink more expensive to produce each week. The price of Ravencoin is skyrocketing. Last week, $100 could buy 2900 RVN. This week, $100 got you about 1600. And speculation from top Ravencoin social media advocate, Leon_Ravencoin, who has been posting a plethora of links and trending research, is suggesting that Ravencoin is going much higher:
Our partnership with Alterverse continues to evolve as we were shown fly-thrus of the Commtower as it currently is being built out in Sky City. Hopefully, we can post clips of the space in the next few days as we continue to build momentum with fellow protocols built on Ravencoin to utilize the immersive space for an extensive NFT marketplace/gallery, one of the earliest to utilize Unreal Engine 5.
Finally, just a couple of words about community in a decentralized context. There are recurring arguments about the paradoxical nature of conjoining the centralizing force of community with a move towards diffuse control, more individual freedom/liberty and a spreading out of energy. This can get confusing. And we have spent many hours tracing all of these arguments in previous issues of Commlink. The best thing to say, perhaps, is that community building and decentralization are not in conflicting domains. They are in different dimensions or categories.
Community is the extra thing or length that you would go to in order to secure a better world beyond just yourself and your family. From a business perspective, community is always highly desirable but often missed by selfish motives and shallow schemes to team build for just another dollar. It always works better when the goals of a community are sincerely aimed at benefiting the whole, dedicated to a noble purpose. And for this reason, community signifies something that requires more than what one would need to do for oneself alone.
Community involves a sense of power in group solidarity. Its authenticity can be elusive, which is why the best of communities advocate for a basis of voluntary kinship. Communities cannot be forced. They must grow like plants, organically, and sometimes, chaotically.
When cast in this manner, community is simply a way that we can achieve decentralization in economic and political areas, or any worthwhile goal, by working together.
We hope you enjoy the wonderful memories and designs we have collected for you this week. Our community is growing and we have more fun each week! Come join us!
Best,
Dow
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My Favorite Memories of My Hometown
If you pause to consider it, one amusing aspect of memories is that you can't think about them without feeling them. An event becomes a memory as soon as it occurs. Our memories are the source of everything we learn, know, do, become, and who we are. We keep in mind how to communicate verbally and in writing, how to identify what we see, and other everyday skills. Without memories, we can still breathe and our bodies will still work, but beyond that, memory is necessary.
When the word "memories" is used, it typically conjures up images of nostalgia, as in "The good old days" or "I remember when..." However, memory experts who have studied the brain's workings tell us that forgetting things we once knew simply means we have lost the mental connections that connected that memory to our mind. Even when you can't connect to it, the memory is still present somewhere. Many of my ties have been lost.
I recently went to my hometown. Some people might refer to that time as my formative years, but in reality, pretty much every year of my life has been formative in some manner. I will be dead, at least legally, once they stop being formative. In any case, my visit helped me make many mental links to memories that I had previously believed to be lost—or at the very least, forgotten. However, since there were no memories left to serve as a reminder of what I had forgotten, I was unaware that I had forgotten many of those recollections. It was like unearthing items I had forgotten I ever owned.
I'm from Ibesikpo Asutan Local Government Area in Akwa Ibom State. Due to a religious conviction, I can only go home for the holidays—December specifically—because my parents are constantly afraid that we'll experience some sort of disaster. My memories are therefore concentrated in this time frame.
I silently flip through the pages of my mind, imagining happy faces, a preacher on the platform, stars in the sky, and a baby in a manger. Fireworks decorating the sky, harmattan haze, a parade of masquerades, a bustling market, and a smiling trader counting the dwindling naira notes are just a few of the scenes that blend into one another. I reach up and take a whiff of the air, feeling it tingle with happiness and filling it with a myriad of scents and sounds. A radio is playing Mary's Boy Child by Boney M on my writing desk. This song leads me to a sea of memories. Ironically, I didn't listen to this song until Christmas. I'm sure you don't either.
When I was a child, Christmas would start with a dusty atmosphere and firecrackers going off in the air. I can still hear the usually loud traditional fireworks grating against my eardrums. Here, we refer to these bad boys as knockouts, which, in my opinion, is a much better name. Being awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of knockouts was annoying yet beautiful. Especially the feeling it gave my parents; they would snore and whisper, "Is that a gunshot, hello?" I could hear their heartbeat beneath a heaving chest as they listened once more, their eyes widening in shock and their breathing speeding up. Sometimes I'm surprised that they are scared too.
They could only find peace when they saw tiny fireflies lighting up the night sky, and Dad would mutter something about how my brother and I shouldn't be like naughty street kids. We call them “agberos.”
My grandfather built the home where I grew up. It had two addresses because it was so big: 6 Udoma and 20 Enwe Street. It was a family home, but it was also unique. It was the first building of its kind in the neighborhood, and when it was first constructed, the men on that street and kids like me both marveled at the main structure's height of twenty-two feet above the ground. I used to imagine climbing the roof to stand at the top of the house and raising my hands to see if I could touch the clouds because I thought this house was only a hand's reach from the sky. I didn't like heights, though.
We were already strikingly similar to street kids in that regard. To ensure there was a plentiful supply of knockouts for the celebrations, our Uncle Iniobong made trips to Aba. Usually, he purchased them from Aba along with a few other items to sell during the Christmas season. The esa (Varanda) is a big room in the family home where he occasionally called us to arrange a display. But that was the time when knockouts were accepted. Those were the good old days. There was one particular one among them; I can't recall their names, but they were of various kinds. Since it had a red dot on its head that resembled a raisin, I'll call it a cupcake.
"Fuk Utong."
It was amusing to watch him run toward us with his thin body and legs that looked like cockroach legs. No matter how loud he screamed, I usually laughed and never covered my ears. Because the sound was the main draw of knockouts, I could not afford the discomfort of hearing loss.
“Boom!” After the cupcake blew up, Aunty A or Uncle B would show up and berate Iniobong for his impressive performance. He would make a joke, laugh it off, and then put an Italian shoe or an Aba-made Christian Dior shirt up for sale.
He would persuade them, "Original ke ado," with a powerful mouth and bright teeth. It didn't take me long to figure out that he was one astute businessman.
HARMATTAN NOT SNOW
The harmattan in this part of the world, despite its harmful impacts on health, does have some advantages. For instance, the low temperature is adverse for mosquito hatching, lowering the incidence of malaria. The terrible heat is relieved by the cold wind. It also results in some stunning sunrises and sunsets. All in all, we adore the Harmattan season; it is practically an essential component of the holiday season.
Everyone can snooze soundly at night by covering up. Additionally, local farmers have a belief that anytime there is a strong hurricane, it signals a favorable growing season. This is so that the farmlands can be composted and fertilized by the wind that the harmattan season blasts down.
In Uyo, Harmattan is the holiday climate. When you hear the word "ekarika" (Harmattan) in this region of Nigeria, you know the season has arrived. When spoken or heard, this word casts a spell almost immediately. You will experience a variety of physical sensations, including salivating, throat dancing, rumbling in the stomach, and the smell of Christmas, which would travel to your nose on the harmattan breeze and include the spicy scent of fresh stew, the flavor of goat meat pepper soup, Nigerian Jollof, and the musty aroma of ekporoko (stockfish).
Second, the harmattan cut my lips and caused them to bleed. It was fortunate that I didn't have to use my mother's lip gloss. I had never tried strawberry before, but it had a strawberry flavor. I licked it several times, each time being let down by the flavor. Strawberries were rated as the best fruit by my friends who had tried them. Sweet. Yummy. But this strawberry-flavored lip gloss tasted like sugared snail slime, and the smell was funny, something between milk and lizard dung. My heels were cracked too, partitioned with white striae encircling nests of crusted skin. I enjoyed chewing on these pieces after peeling them off.
EKPO MASQUERADES
The Ekpo masquerades used to be a component of the holiday magic. I long for them. In those days, a procession of them would travel down Enwe Street in the days leading up to Christmas.
The Ekpo had charcoal-painted black bodies and black faces. They were said to be the ghosts of our ancestors. These ghosts wielded razor-sharp machetes and scraped the surface until sparks of fire began to fly. They would roar and sing. They vigorously stumbled from one end of the road to the other, and I believed I could dance more effectively. The Ekpo would make kids cry, but I never did. I was perplexed by the mystery of the Ekpo up until the day I witnessed one approaching a woman with a machete.
It started to follow the woman on her heels, but she eventually stopped, grinned, and gave it some naira notes. Do the ghosts amass wealth? I couldn't grasp it. Then it hit me: these were regular guys.
Without a visit to my village, Christmas would not be complete. There are reasons why we hardly ever visit there these days. The air in the village had special freedom and purity to it. It felt wild and savage to run in vast open fields and wander a forest, listening to the eben leaves rustle beneath your feet, hearing the call of the bomonkuku (Birds), and beholding the glorious sight of the wine tapper — a man monkey on the mystical palm tree. I got to understand that the EKPO MASQUERADES in Akwa Ibom State's traditional IBIBIO society have the following names and significance:
EKA EKPO: The seven faces of (Mother Masquerade) represented supreme power.
AKPAN EKPO (First Son of the Masquerade) signifies youth and aesthetics.
ABAIKPA EKPO (Girl Masquerade) symbolized youth and virginity.
AFAI EKPO (Wild Masquerade) stands for insanity and madness.
IMUM EKPO (The Dumb Masquerade) was a symbol of the voiceless in society.
ETE EKPO and ATITIA EKPO (The Father Masquerade and the teacher Masquerade who instructed other members of the community)
AJARA IKPA (The Leather Wearer) was a symbol of the gorgeousness in the community.
INYION EKPO (The Crippled Masquerade) It symbolizes suffering in society, and it was always limping when on parade (ibid).
ORIGIN/ RITUALS
Because of the stories we were told, we never got too lost. My mother used to warn us about the bush baby, a creature that hid in the bushes and preyed on children who got lost. Most of the time, we played on the veranda of our family's bungalow, another home in the village, which was a respectable blue-painted building perched on the ground like a sage chief. My father took us to visit my grandpa, who was buried at the front of the compound, as he put it. Reading the epithet, he pointed to the stone slab covering his grave. I had no idea that a man could go by so many names. The seventh generation before him also had their names on the stone.
My brother and I both had our full names called out by my father, along with the names of the generations before us.
He tugged and pinched his earlobes, saying, "This is where you come from, remember."
Despite being fourth in line to whichever throne existed, I had no idea that day that we were of royal blood (my father had three siblings before him). This realization gave me a strange but enjoyable feeling. I gave it careful consideration. It's my property, right? Wonderful. I nearly wanted to take long strides and pounce my chest like a small King Kong. The only problem was that the throne must have passed to another family for some reason because there was no crown.
I've been to the village a lot, but I've never been to the river where my name comes from. The bush rat is my other regret. I have never caught even one. People who my father would have referred to as "street children" made fun of me for it, acting as though catching one was a trophy-worthy accomplishment. If so, I would have never received an Olympic medal for bushrat traps.
TRADITIONAL FATHER CHRISTMAS
I once had the opportunity to meet Santa Claus, also known as Father Christmas. In December 2003, it happened on Christmas. I was unaware of the legend that he traveled through the sky in a sleigh loaded with gifts for good children all over the world pulled by reindeer. Maybe it would have prevented my misbehavior.
My brother and I were taken to Mr. Biggs by my uncle on the 24th of December. Our third visit there was coming up. This time, Father Christmas was present, sporting the customary red and white Santa suit and an impossibly thick beard on his chin. I reasoned that Father Christmas couldn't possibly be real. The person I saw on television was fair, but this person was dark, and the white beard on his face seemed strange. I questioned if this was a different iteration of him.
The little children received gifts from Father Christmas after enjoying meat pies, ice cream, and sausage (at that time, these items were much less expensive).
I called him "an impostor." The Santa I saw on television was not the same as this one. This one will sometimes get your money just to buy himself a meal.
OUR VILLAGE GOAT
Usually, we kill a goat, bird, or cow the day before Christmas, not a turkey. A goat was once beheaded in front of me. My cousin had called and asked me to visit Saviour. The goat was brought in from the market the previous day by Okon, a different cousin, and a few other young men who resided on the property. It was a tawny-brown Red Sokoto with a goatee and mongoloid eyes. It was left there as a sacrifice for Christmas after being fastened to a guava tree. The two executioners, Itoro (cousin number 2) and Iniobong, would seize the animal's neck once the moment was right.
Dauda would put his weight on it because he was bigger than the other man. Iniobong would catch it when it began randomly kicking its hooves in the air. The work was hazardous. A free hospital visit resulted from one error to another. It nearly cost a man his life. While the goat struggled, bleated, and cried out to the deity of goats or his goat ancestors for assistance, while the horns were also a problem, there was little to no movement at that point, thanks to a properly knotted head. It was saying, "My wife, maww. Mehhh, my brand-new calf.”
My uncle Iniobong, the astute businessman, was suddenly a skilled executioner and goat beheader. On Christmas Eve, he held up a long, sharp knife that gleamed in the sunlight.
Wham!
It's likely that this goat had a stone in its neck. A loud bleat rent the air as it resisted the knife.
Wham!
I came to understand that tiny, softer elements like flesh, muscle, and blood, instead of stones, are what give a neck its shape. My veins are filled with blood that is the same color.
Further bleating, Wham!
I heard nothing more. The head, which had horns, half-open eyes, and a mouth that was still bleating while sticking out its tongue, dropped to the ground. Saviour laughed as I turned my face away.
"After you eat it and lick your hand, do this one as a baby would."
This fact made me cringe. It was real.
I tore flesh rather than merely eating it. I chewed them to death and whined about how they stuck to the crevices in between my teeth. I rudely shredded them with my teeth after sucking their oil-marinated meat juice. I never considered the fact that the goat was a living creature and that it had to die before it could get to my mouth. I was paralyzed by this reality. I retched after feeling my stomach turn.
Don't vomit here, o. You will be the one to do it one day, and so be it. Fear not. The Savior said.
Iniobong grinned.
'Eyen mmongeba.'(21st-century child) With a smile and some oddly lovely fish teeth, Okon remarks.
Eyen mmongeba, or Milk Kid. The word annoyed me. A simple term that might refer to anything from a spoiled child to an indulgent infant who likes to crap in his trousers and call "mummy" to clean it up. My face would swell and turn red, my hands would form a fist, and I would punch if Okon were my size. However, since he was 10 times bigger than me, I couldn't punch him. I could only keep clenching my eyelashes as tightly as I could to display rage.
He said, "Good meat."
The others said, "Very good," with their lips split and a grin or a chuckle on their faces. Iniobong showed a makeshift BBQ he had created, which was actually a metal drum with rusty iron bars serving as the grill grates. Under the surface was firewood.
As he approached the BBQ with a bloodied head in his hand, Iniobong stated, "I go roast the head there." I followed him with Saviour and Iniobong. Within a few hours, I would come across this goat, headless and rotating on a rotisserie while being covered in soot and darkened by the fire below. It was smoking its way to paradise.
Over the course of the following few hours, I was offered some of the goat flesh that they had just killed, and I eagerly accepted it. The rich flavor of the meat muffled my thoughts of the goat's grisly demise.
I still haven't put a knife to an animal's neck because I think it's "just plain cruel," in my own words. However, I prepare and consume them, which is hypocritical in another sense.
VILLAGE CHURCH DRAMA
We attend church on Christmas Day. Attending church to hear the sermon about the birth of Jesus—the Savior of humanity and the Son of God from the holy womb of Mary—and his birth in a manger is essential to celebrating Christmas. Here, the church feels different from the one I'm used to in Uyo.
In the village, the role of church children is important. Together with us, my aunt Jemimah—who is now Mrs. Moloku—would plan a small play for her church. She went to Christ the King Church, whereas my brother and I went to Winners' Chapel and countless other churches that we alternated between every Sunday, depending on which aunt or uncle we followed. We took on a variety of roles for the play. My brother was one of the three wise men, and I was Joseph. Mary was a particular girl. In case the intended performer for the church theatre production missed all his lines, Aunty Jemimah was smart enough to have a backup child.
I'm certain the infant wasn't Jesus but a cotton-wrapped chubby girl doll instead. I had questioned her about the availability of boy dolls or baby boys. I don't recall her response as she laughed. When I consider the catastrophe that would result from our Holy Virgin Mary dropping the actual Baby Jesus on stage in the middle of an act, I can only shudder. Unwise move. This time, I did a pretty good job of remembering my lines, and the audience was still really supportive.
They remarked, "The boy is talented."
She nicknamed me Pom Pom and said, "You did well, Pom Pom." The name's origin is unknown to me. They applauded and clapped as the pastor spoke a little bit about kids.
The Bible often uses phrases like "God loves children" or "Children are the Lord's heritage." This would go along with a protracted Christmas sermon. Love, giving, and sharing were the order of the day. Soon after my performance, I sat and observed the pastor while closely examining him. What would he ask God for this Christmas if he had the chance to? He had just narrowly avoided dwarfism when he said, "Ah! some height," but I felt that he was still too close to the earth.
The Great Feast followed the church. My mother would cook rice in drums and cauldrons while working with the many aunts and uncles living at 6 Udoma Street.
Just like Jesus did with his followers during the last supper and feast, we would come together as a true family. Eating together had a distinct vibe that helped us become closer. It was a gesture that appeared to convey: We are related. We are a unit.
It was a wonderful pleasure to watch us all devour bowls of rice and pieces of meat in unison. Uncle Goddy, my father, and my aunts would occasionally tell jokes and stories. The young children would giggle and occasionally add something, especially my chubby brother with the pink face. It would just be the two of us laughing nonstop for the rest of the day. One family.
My childhood was lovely. As we become older, we start to lose the naivete, freedom, and carelessness of childhood. We assimilate it just as we assimilate other life-related changes. However, whenever I have the chance to reflect on these times, I realize that there is happiness lost in the past that I will never be able to recover. While remembering these times makes me happy, the certainty that I would not be able to go back to them every day causes me to become as frozen as a breeze on a harmattan morning. The memory of my hometown is not the opposite of childhood, but it means that we do not experience this every day.
These were only a few of the memories I encountered while strolling through my mind back to my hometown. Truth is, there are a ton more, and while I treasure each and every one of them, I frequently wish that I could go back in time and start over.
MASTER KG SINGS: “No matter where you go remember the road that leads you home”. Yes I remember, and, surely THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME.
My Sweet Hometown
I once visited my hometown named Nya Odiong. My grandparents live there, and my father decided we would visit them.
It was a three-hour journey owing to the fact that the roads were bad and sloppy. Nya Odiong is a big village. All the houses that were made of mud the last time we visited had been changed to cemented houses except for some mansions owned by the very wealthy and influential people in the village. My Uncle, being the village head, has his house decorated with some ancestral drawings and paintings to signify his position.
There was no single road in the village as the streets were muddy and wet due to the rain. There were hens, goats, sheep, and dogs roaming around like they had no owners.
I could barely see a single soul on the streets. My father once told me that the villagers were mainly found on their farms working.
I saw some boys and girls sitting under a tree playing, and I was surprised to know that there was a school. However, comparing my own school back in the City and the one I saw, I was grateful for how lucky I was.
My grandparents welcomed us wholeheartedly into their home. They hugged me so much that I thought my bones would break. My grandparents first served us the drinks and snacks they sold across the road. Many people from the neighboring houses came around to see us as they tagged us the "City Dwellers." I felt very shy when they kept touching me and making sure they didn't stain a bit of me.
In the evening, we went for a walk in the fields. The green mustard plants with their yellow flowers grew everywhere. A cool breeze was blowing, and I felt like I was in paradise where the dust and noise of the City seemed far away.
The first five days in my village were full of memorable experiences. My first experience was when my cousins and I went to a school field to watch a football match. Like every other match, the spectators arrived an hour before the match commenced. The different thing about the match was the presence of the village Elders and my uncle, who was the village head, were given special seats in front while the villagers stood. The village drummers were at the extreme of the field drumming while some girls around my age danced to the rhythm.
The whole scene was more interesting than I thought, and I was beginning to enjoy the atmosphere with my cousins around me.
The most exciting thing was that I met new friends. They introduced me to many of their friends who seemed interesting as well.
After the football match, my uncle took us to his palace, and a sumptuous meal was prepared and served to us by the maids. The maids looked all lovely and homely, and I complimented them so much.
My second experience was the first day of the masquerades festival. My grandfather and I were in his shop attending to a lot of customers.
After a few hours, my grandfather sent me to deliver some goods to a friend, which I gladly did.
It wasn't up to five minutes after my walk when I bumped into a group of masquerades parading the streets. I was so shocked being in such a situation that I took off my heels into the nearby bush. Unknown to me, that was where the masquerades dungeon was situated.
I ran as fast as my legs could carry me until I was sure nobody was chasing me again. Feeling relieved, I decided to rest a little bit, but I got carried away that I stayed longer. I got startled when I saw more masquerades coming toward me and a man who was saying some incantations, bewildered to see me there. I got more terrified that I ran out through the same route I came in from, but I wasn't followed, luckily.
My third experience was the palm fruit harvesting week. It was a week my grandfather described as very important in the lives of many villagers as that was their source of income.
The first day was hilarious as we were woken up by the sound of the town crier's drum to announce the commencement of the harvest. My grandmother joined several other women and headed for the farm. My cousins and I followed closely behind as I was so excited and couldn't wait to experience the harvest.
My cousins made sure nothing hurt me while on the farm watching the harvesters do their work, making sure they were fast enough to finish up their task as the palm fruit trees were uncountable. My grandmother did the job of picking the fallen fruits while the able-bodied men carried the bunch of palm fruits.
I was astonished at the way the villagers made sure no fruit was left behind. It dawned on me that it was really their main source of income. My cousins plucked wild fruits for me, and I saw lots of bush meats scurried off for safety.
We played lots of games on the farm, and my fear of wild animals was taken away. We joined my grandmother in picking the fallen fruits, and I didn't feel tired of the company of all the villagers.
We finally left in the evening to eat a well-prepared meal by my grandfather.
My visit to my hometown was a more exciting and adventurous one than I thought. The love and care showered to me by my grandparents was overwhelming and was one of my best experiences so far. Also, unlike in the City, the villagers lived relatively close to each other and shared everything together. The peaceful atmosphere and the culture in my hometown were such that I haven't forgotten about my different experiences. There is no pollution, and the air is fresh and very clean. Interestingly, some thick forests are close to my village. Wild animals are commonly found on the outskirts of the village.
The village is bounded by a river that leads to several states in the country. My village looks more populated during summer when the children and grandchildren return to the village for holidays.
I enjoyed my stay in the village and would love to visit once again.
My Home, My Pride
A place where we were born, a place where we were raised, how can I ever forget thee? My home, my pride. Home holds a lot of memories and reminds me a lot about my childhood and its experiences, but now home is empty and lonely. Everyone has left for the city in search of greener pastures. Oh, my sweet home. No place would ever be like my hometown.
Our hometown is where our roots lie. That is where our ancestors were born. My roots lie in a colossal town called Onitsha in Anambra State, Nigeria. Onitsha is what can be referred to as the "Nigerian New York." This is because of the similar features it has to New York in terms of job opportunities. It is a place where a person can better his way of life financially.
Onitsha is a very large and heavily populated town primarily known for the gigantic market called the Onitsha Main-Market. This market happens to be the prevalent market in the whole of West Africa. It is mainly because of this market that the town has some characteristics identical to New York's. One of these characteristics is job opportunity. The market includes people who provide services such as computer repairs, mini-perm kernel mashing companies, car mechanics, paint producing mini companies, and many other small businesses.
These companies provide jobs for many inhabitants of the town. Because of this, people migrate into the state and converge around Onitsha. The market also hosts other sales such as electronics, meat, fish clothes (both foreign and homemade), agricultural products, cars, books, building facilities, and many other items. They are gotten at a very cheap rate because of the large quantities which are needed. These products are bought in Onitsha Main-Market and moved to other surrounding retailers. As each month passes, the market increases its size since many businessmen join in on the sales.
My town has a major oil producing company. This company produces local palm oil, which is in high demand. This palm oil is then used for different purposes. There isn't a part of the fruit that is not valuable, from the fleshy outer layer through the shell to the seed. The air produced from the machines from the companies in the town makes some parts of the town smell like roasted peanuts or roasted palm kernels.
Because of these industries and job opportunities, many people come to my village to make money.
My town is the exact opposite of a quiet town; something is always happening. Most parts of the town are noisy from around 8:00 am to 5:00 pm, which are the official working hours. The streets are very busy, especially around the Niger Bridge, because of the people coming into the town. The Niger Bridge is the only bridge linking the state to the northern states and southern states, and the bridge is located in Onitsha.
My town also has traditional rulers who are conveyed the title "Obi of Onitsha," which means the heart of the town. The bearer of this title not only rules my town but is also confided in by other traditional rulers all over the Igbo (Ibo) land in Nigeria.
The Igbo land is made up of over three hundred town heads called village heads/rulers. This title is very old and sacred, and anyone who holds the title is sure to be an honorable, honest, hardworking, and wise person. It doesn't matter how much money the person has; all that is considered in selecting such a person is the leadership qualities he has in him.
There are also other honorable titles given out to individuals besides the Obi of Onitsha title; one of these is the "Nze na Ozo" title, of which I am a holder. When a person is given a title, he is given a name that depicts why he was given the title. For example, I was given a title with three title names. The first one is "Ezike Ugo nna ya," which means "the pride of his father." The second title is "Ezike Eziokwu bu ndu," which means "truth is life." The last of the three is "Ezike Nne dum eje," which means, "My mother leads me."
In the earlier days, anyone who fails to stand up to his title would be stripped of the title, but now once a person is given the title, he sticks to it even if he changes his behavior for the worse. Title-holders are nevertheless regarded as people who stand by the truth no matter what.
My town also has cultural festivals such as the "New Yam Festival" and the "Masquerade Festival." The two festivals are very well celebrated, but the most celebrated festival is the "New Yam Festival," where we celebrate a good harvest. It is normally celebrated during harvest time. The Masquerade Festival is normally done around Christmas time in the month of December after the New Yam Festival. During these festivals, ancient cultural dances and parades are performed, and they are entertaining to watch or participate in.
My town is one of the few towns in Nigeria where the great River Niger can be seen running through, but it is the only town where the bridge over the Niger River is located. It is from this river that Nigeria got its name. People fish from the river and also go there to relax. The temperature in my town is over 75 degrees centigrade and is generally very hot, but the riverside is cool, so people go there to relax.
My town also has produced great African leaders and heroes, such as the Late Dr. Nnamdi Azikiwe, otherwise known as the great Zik of Africa, who was also the first Nigerian president when he assumed office in 1963. That was three years after Nigerians’ independence.
My town is a very sophisticated place to visit, and I will recommend anyone who is visiting Nigeria to explore my town. I assure them that they will take pleasure in the trip.
How Time Flies
I can't forget it in a jiffy when I was admitted into St John Primary School, Ikot Ntuen Oku. I can still remember the euphoria that bewildered me.
The school environment was Serene and calm, surrounded by grasses and stained walls. I saw pupils running around to help pick biscuit packs on the ground.
Stepping into the headmistress's office with my mum, I was surprised by a task that I didn't bargain for. It was there the headmistress instructed me to stretch out my hand to my ear level. This was a supposed confirmation that I am mature and tall enough to be admitted into the school as a pupil.
After the physical examination, the headmistress asked my mum to pay for classroom stationery. My school uniform was properly sewn and neatly pressed by my elder brother.
Though naive and anxious, the joy of being in school for the first time was overwhelming.
My mum was still holding my hand when the headmistress directed me to a block (my classroom). I was in primary one (1) A.
Finally, it was a kind of mixed feeling when my mum said farewell. I almost cried, but the joy of seeing my equals stopped me.
Reaching the classroom, I met contemporaries who were also administered on the same day. I was still conversing with them when a man walked in. It was later when I learned his name, Mr. Okon, popularly known by pupils as Ette Ikor mmakara.
Ette Okon walked in and welcomed us with a strange smile that looked confusing. He didn't hesitate to state the rules and regulations as regards to school life. It was then I realized the need to be obedient.
At age eight, I graduated from Ikot Ntuen primary school to a secondary school.
Secondary School Experience
My secondary school days were somehow fun because by then, I was able to learn and adapt social skills, and that helped me relate more, drawing me closer to friends.
It was on Monday morning, and the weather was cold because it was the harmattan season. This time around, my Dad volunteered to go along with me for the registration.
I was ready to be registered at Uyo High School, Uyo, located at 299 Iron Road. Reaching the school environment, we were welcomed by a huge mango tree. The school environment was serene and calm, but this time around, the land mass was bigger in size compared to the primary school.
We were directed by the gateman to the principal's office though it was hard to locate. On getting there, we greeted him and two other teachers. My Father then stated why we were there. At the end, my Dad was told what to pay before I would be fully registered as a student. Other things we had to buy were: broom, exercise books, Cutlass, school badge, etc. My Dad quickly bought those things that were needed, and I was asked to resume school on Tuesday.
I woke up on Tuesday morning earlier than I used to because that was going to be the first day to be called a student. No longer a pupil. The textbooks that my father bought for me were neatly arranged inside my new school bag. The school uniform, which was a white gown with blue socks and brown sandals, was also properly pressed. My hair was trimmed to a low range. I didn't forget to go along with my food flask, which I was to eat during break time.
Different thoughts were running through my mind. I wanted to see how skillful my teachers would be. I was to be taught eighteen subjects.
My school was not really far from the house, so my Dad volunteered to take me there.
I felt elated while walking with my father to school. On getting there, I met senior students at the school premises with canes. I also met a Tall Teacher who was ordering us to start running from the gate. He was Mr. Ekong, popularly known by the alias If At All.
I was a bit confused and sad when we started running from the gate but what I expected was the reality of a typical Nigerian secondary school life. My secondary school experiences were never easy, but they were always worth it. I could vividly remember how I was beaten without mercy because I could not complete a portion of grassland given to me to clear. There was also a time I was beaten by a mathematics teacher because I could not solve a math problem.
My University Days
I was admitted into the Department of Communication Arts, Faculty of Arts, in 2014. My university days were wonderful, but the euphoria did not last because of my first semester results. My friend, Abasiama, first broke the news but didn’t disclose how bad it was.
I was a bit reluctant to check the dashboard but eventually did.
On reaching there, I quickly glanced to where my registration number was, only to be welcomed with 3 Fs. I couldn't do anything but cry. I felt like a failure who has been rejected by everyone. That was when it dawned on me that I needed to step up my game. I needed to be more serious about my academics, and that made me more serious in the next academic year.
I had about fifteen lecturers from year one to year four, but there is this particular lecturer that caught my attention. His name was Dr. Nsikak Idiong. He was nice and good-looking, but we were always having issues with getting feedback from him. When he taught, his grammar made you check the dictionary.
Dr. Idiong was a kind man but never played with his shirts. He was fond of wearing big shirts with a big tie and big trousers. He was humble and down to earth and was not ready to fail any student who he came across.
Ibom Plaza, a Place in Africa
You are probably wondering what could be special about a particular place. Not just on any continent of the world but in Africa.
Africa is known to be the home of blacks. A continent that delights in her culture and heritage. People from this part of the world are called Africans.
You would agree with me that civilization has become a necessity in our modern-day society, and Africa as a whole is not left out. This civilization could be clearly seen even in the African environment.
The African country Nigeria is a clear indication that civilization is seen and felt in Africa. You must have heard about Nigeria, the GIANT OF AFRICA.
Nigeria has 36 States and the Federal Capital Territory, Abuja. It is situated in the western part of Africa.
Its culture is a beauty to behold. However, three major tribes exist in Nigeria. These tribes are the Hausas, Yorubas, and Igbos. The country is divided into North, South, East, and West. There are also minor groups like the ijaw, igala, Tiv, Efiks, and a host of others. The Efiks are people from the southern part of Nigeria.
When you are talking about the Efiks, it would be impossible to leave the Ibibios behind. The Efiks and Ibibios share the same history but have a slight difference in their languages. The Efiks are referred to as people from Cross River State, while the Ibibios hail from Akwa Ibom State.
Akwa Ibom State is a state in Nigeria that is believed by many to be named after God. The occupants are majorly Christians, and they speak different languages ranging from Annang, Ibibio, Ekid, Oron, and others.
The Capital of Akwa Ibom State is Uyo. Yes, Uyo City is the center of the state where the popular Ibom Plaza is located. Ibom Plaza seems to be the heart of Uyo City.
Those entering the state for the first time will always have to arrive at Ibom Plaza first. Ibom plaza connects to major roads in the state. There are always things to feed your eyes on.
After you have read this article, you would agree with me that there is life at Ibom Plaza. Ibom Plaza is not just a place or location. It could be a friend and could also be an enemy. There is never a dull moment at Ibom Plaza.
OPINION LEADERS EXPERIENCE
Ibom Plaza seems to be a place where people from the state seat discuss their grievances. I could recall that someone once said, "if you want to know how the people feel, go to Ibom Plaza."
Media establishments are always ready to ensure they give passers-by new stories to talk about. This is where you see newspapers with different headlines giving the readers enough to discuss.
These newspaper stands are always jam-packed with individuals who are eager to stay updated with events within and outside their environment.
One would wonder if these readers buy these newspapers. The truth is, a greater percentage of them do not buy. They only glance through the headlines. I joined the league as well. I would go there to have a glance at the headline just like others.
I noticed that they did not just glance at the headlines, but they engaged in arguments and shared opinions too. You need to watch them analyze different stories from different angles. If you want to hear people analyze trending issues, go to Ibom Plaza. Well, I got tired of listening because there is never an end to their analysis, so I left Ibom Plaza.
SURVIVAL EXPERIENCE
The present economic situation in the state has caused many to reduce the amount they spend on goods and services. Most people still go for products and services that are lesser in price.
Years ago, I had an event to attend. I needed to get a white outfit for that event. It was urgent, and I had only a little money with me.
Do you know the first place that came to my mind? It was Ibom Plaza. The truth is people rarely admit that they bought anything from Plaza because they might consider the things there as cheap. Do you know you can get an outfit for as low as one hundred naira at Plaza? (This is less than one dollar.) Do you also know there is a market where you can buy food products at Ibom Plaza?
I bet you did not know that photographers are available at Ibom Plaza to offer you services called "Wait and Take." Ibom Plaza is a place you would consider as your first plug for passport photographs if you are in the city of Uyo.
One of the things I recall and would want to point out is that some people do not go to Ibom Plaza to buy things but just to ask for the prices and then walk away. Funny, right?
This happens every day at Ibom Plaza. Traders are not always happy about this, but it's better to tell them that you just wanted to ask about the price and not buy than raise their hopes and not buy from them.
I have noticed that traders at Ibom Plaza put so much effort into attracting customers to their goods and services. These traders are there because they desire to survive.
Apart from traders and buyers, other people who go there to survive are magicians. I met a lot of them during my years as an undergraduate. These people could make an object appear and disappear to the amusement of the audience. It's always a sight to behold. All you need to do is guess right and win.
Commercial motorists are always at Ibom Plaza to carry passengers. You will not have to bother about boarding a vehicle on time because there are lots of them there. You hope that you board a vehicle where the driver is careful and makes sure you have your balance if your transportation requires it.
That reminds me of a day I boarded a minibus at Ibom Plaza. I totally forgot to ask the driver about my balance when I alighted from the bus. So, I reached my destination and asked for my balance. You needed to see how the driver screamed in anger. I had to plead with him knowing that I was at fault. So when boarding a commercial vehicle at Ibom Plaza, it is advisable to talk to the driver about your balance and the amount that you will pay to avoid the usual driver and passenger fight. To avoid issues, some commercial motorists always paste the inscription on their vehicles, "Passengers respect yourself."
EndSars EXPERIENCE
October 2020 would have been like every other year until the Nigerian youths said they were tired of being abused by the Nigerian police. It was like a revolution, a quest for something different. This led to what could be called a "peaceful protest."
When Nigerian youths in other states protested, Ibom Plaza was not left out. Ibom Plaza became the venue for the EndSars protest in Akwa Ibom. Being the heart of the town, it has always been the meeting point and the fastest venue for gathering people from all nooks and crannies.
I could recall that the EndSars protest was indeed peaceful until some hoodlums took over. You would be in awe at what happened. People were disappointed as private establishments were robbed and burnt. Oh, what a pity, a soul was lost that day. No one could really tell if the protest was hijacked by hoodlums, but I could remember my relatives running home and breathing so fast. People ran from Ibom Plaza for their lives.
Where could the youths who staged a peaceful protest have gotten a gun? You could hear gunshots if you were close to Plaza. Everybody wanted to leave Plaza at that moment for safety.
Today, people are still conscious of their safety at Ibom Plaza. You wouldn't want to forget or misplace any of your belongings there because you may not see them again when you return. Many have been robbed at Ibom Plaza, and some robbers have been caught. Now you know why Ibom Plaza could not just be a place but an enemy.
Robbers who are caught leave their fate in the hands of the angry mobs. If the securities did not arrive on time, sadly, jungle justice took place. This went on until the authorities intervened.
Today, Ibom Plaza is a place to be when you visit this part of Nigeria in Africa. You can now call Ibom Plaza a friend. A friend that will link you to your desired destination. A friend that has whatever goods and services you desire. Ibom Plaza is indeed a place to be.
This is my experience in Ibom Plaza, a place in Africa.
Ambassador Report
The history of The Community DAO is not complete without the marketing team not being mentioned. This adds to our goals and aims in the success story of The Community DAO. We'll continue to let the world know more about us through our graphic designs and articles published on different social media platforms. Our last week's engagements are summed up in points found on the leaderboard below.
Leaderboard/Ranking
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Dani_BeeHive
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Yhuddee111
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IAM_KDS