Fairytales in Calabar
Most Oyinbos — the peeled people — had already flown back home. It's Christmas time, after all, and most Oyinbos prefer to be home for the holidays. Even if they'd rather stay in Nigeria, their wives prefer them home, or else. So, they go. That’s the system.
But for me, this was always the best time to be in Nigeria, and especially in Calabar, Cross River State, for two main reasons.
First, the Calabar Carnival — the most dazzling street carnival in the world.
And second, I feel at home in Nigeria. And like any person, I prefer to be at home for Christmas.
It’s early evening at the Metropolitan Hotel in Calabar, Cross River State, Nigeria. Perfect time to head down to the Fairytales Bar to check if any of the usual characters are already around for the Carnival.
They call it Fairytales Bar because the regulars, especially during Carnival season, always have some wild fairytales to tell — usually after a few shots of cheap whiskey and palm wine.
Metropolitan Hotel is regarded by all, as the top place in Calabar, for the VIP guests, and at this time, December, there are always some interesting personalities staying in the Hotel; which most of the year is nearly empty.
Fairytales Bar sits to the right of the lobby entrance. Inside, a few characters are already babbling, mostly blowing hot humid air. As the drinks go down, the talk gets louder.
I greet them with "Mokom-O" — that’s something like “Good evening” in Efik, just in case any of the folks around are Efik, one of the major ethnic groups around Cross River, closely related to the Uruan people of Akwa Ibom.
A few Nigerians and two Japanese acknowledge me in their own ways and gesture.
One familiar face stands out — Chief Balafama from Bayelsa. I met him last year. He jumps up as if he’s been waiting all day just for me.
“Listen,” he says, “we just found one Oyinbo madam — very badly injured.”
“Looks kiku patapata!” (completely dead), someone in the corner adds. “Big wahala!”
“We took her to a local bush doctor,” the Chief continues. “Maybe you should go and see.”
Now, just because I am Oyinbo (peeled person), doesn’t mean that the patapata Oyinbo and I know each other. Or that we are cousins.
Still, it becomes a mystery. Everyone in and around Metropolitan hotel and beyond is wondering: How come an Oyinbo madam just appears here in Calabar? And how she got so badly hurt?
“Let’s hope she recovers,” I tell the Chief. “She’s in good hands now.”
Chief Balafama is an Ijaw Chief from Bayelsa. Some Ijaw believe they descend from one of the lost tribes of Israel.
The Chief is highly educated with some degree, from some university in London, with heavy emphasis on London.
His education was made possible by his family's status. His father was a general in the Nigerian army. After the 1985 coup, he became the military governor of Ondo State.
Such a position provides plenty of opportunities, and Balafama's father grabbed some of those opportunities, just to be on the safe side.
As Chief Balafama recalls his father’s glorious career, he keeps fueling himself with cheap cognac, a Star beer — which is an excellent beer, if any neighbor asks — and a small bottle of palm wine. These liquids help him open his heart, his mind, and his mouth. Especially his mouth.
Turns out, the Chief is impressively intelligent. Or in simple terms: he has a good understanding capability of the reality around and of life on Earth. Maybe palm wine is a drink of intelligence.
Although Chief Balafama is Ijaw, the Chief expresses deep sympathy for the Igbo. He tells the bar: Even his father couldn’t understand why the Yoruba and other southern peoples — the Ijaw, Edo, Ekoi, Ibibio, Efik — didn’t unite with the Igbo to form an independent southern state.
He’s referring to the brutal Biafra war that left many scars on the Nigerian hearts and souls. “The world doesn’t know the truth about that war,” he says.
“Nobody knows the truth about anything,” someone mumbles from the corner.
“True,” the Chief nods.
Then one of the Japanese guests — apparently tipsy from Star beer — begins to tell a story. His cook has six children. Every Sunday, the kids peek at him through the curtain. One of them, just two years old, can barely talk or stand. Suddenly the Japanese man opens the window — the whole gang scatters in panic.
Only the two-year-old is left, frozen.
“What are you doing here?!” he asks the toddler.
The child replies, cool as ice:
“E no be me.” (It wasn’t me.)
Two years old. Already knows how to lie without blinking. Na-Wow!
Child psychologist Michael Lewis conducted a study on deception. He instructed Three-years-old toddlers not to look at a noisy toy while the researcher left the room. When asked, most denied peeking — and their facial expressions gave nothing away. In short: for survival, most children lie. And lie well.
Nietzsche once said, “If people said to each other’s faces what they say behind their backs, civilization would collapse.”
By and large, all in Fairytales agreed that survival instincts are guiding us. Deceiving is natural and telling the truth is educational and cultural.
Sitting beside Chief Balafama are two distinguished gentlemen, also in town for Carnival. The Chief introduces them: Professor Amobi and Ogah Maduka. “Ogah” means “Sir” in Yoruba.
Someone orders a round of cheap cognac and a plate of Ukang Ukom for the table. I take a sip of Star beer.
Ukang Ukom is an Efik delicacy — made of unripe plantain, cow foot, and sometimes cow head for a truly fascinating dish of the Efik people.
“You must try it,” Professor Amobi tells one of the Japanese guests. “You might enjoy it — or you might need a hospital. Let’s see!”
“Thanks, but we’re not hungry,” replies the Japanese, politely.
Professor Amobi teaches history in UNILAG (University of Lagos) for 36 years. He wrote seven books that none was sold against a single Naira. The Professor is articulate, and he is regarded as a very good teacher, and nice person too.
He is teaching the same courses for decades and sometimes he changed the courses names. Very important! to avoid repetition.
The professor sits barefoot on a low chair, massaging his toes and between, to get rid of fungus or whatever else he has over there.
This habit has a clear message: the professor holds himself in very high regard and expects others to respect him accordingly. If any of the guests feels the urge to vomit, it is advisable to vomit outside, to avoid unnecessary insult and stay polite.
Ogah Maduka, Amobi's friend, studied at UNILAG too, with Amobi, and they are about the same age. Maduka is a mechanical engineer and started working for a high-tech company in London. With a big emphasis on London.
Maduka made his career in the 'real world', as Professor Amobi calls those who make their career outside the academia.
Chief Balafama's 18-years-old son is torn about what to study at the university. The Chief wants his son to make the correct, smart choice. After all, this is the most important decision in his son's life.
So Balafama is asking the professor for advice, and the professor advice is to get advice from Ogah Maduka.
The professor said – "frankly, Ogah Maduka learnt more than me, since he had his career in the 'Real World' and so, he understands better what will work well for your son." I was teaching in the university all those years, and most of the time, the same course. Boring.
Ogah Maduka provides a long and systematic answer; "this is the most important decision a young person make. At this age, most kids actually "know everything" and therefore they can easily make bad choices."
"The most important rule, is to study for a degree that shall provide good income, or in simple words, money. And if not money, then dollars."
“He should get a degree that’s in demand worldwide. Something practical: medicine, engineering, computers — applied science. Not just any degree.”
"Your son wants to have a good life! Correct?! Like everybody else!"
"He has a better chance for a good life, if he has enough money!"
"And he has a better chance to have enough money, if he has a good job!"
"And he has a better chance to get a good job, if there are demands for his skills!"
Maduka adds, “All Degrees cost about the same — accommodation, food, transport, tuition — doesn’t matter the subject. But not all degrees have the same market value. Your son should choose one with high market value.”
“But he doesn’t know what interests him,” says the Chief.
“At this point,” Maduka answers, “what interest him is not important. First, he should get a degree that will feed him. That will feel his pocket with few Franklins, later he can study whatever interest him.
“A degree is like a key that opens doors for opportunities. Your son needs opportunities. That’s the whole story. Think about it.”
Anyway - Maduka says – "universities these days are a bit funny, and in the end, you wonder if you learn anything. This is why the most important is the correct degree!"
“To understand facts and data, you need intelligence. Good understanding capabilities. And that’s not the same as knowledge."
"And wisdom? That’s something else entirely. Wisdom is when your decisions lead you to your goal." "But our decisions are influenced by instincts, desires, emotions, beliefs — and those can easily overpower reason."
“Some professors believe God made the world in six days."
“It’s time universities added a compulsory course: Principles of Science. Teach students what science is — and what it’s not. How science is differs from other worldviews, especially religions”
“This small device has a huge impact on the life worldwide. Because it gives instant access to information, everywhere. But the real issue here? Most of the technologies in this mini-computer weren’t developed by the academia — but by the R&D departments of commercial companies.
“Academia used to lead. Now it follows. Still — degrees matter.”
Professor Amobi agrees.
“Some of those commercial technologies,” he says, “are more important than many Nobel-winning inventions. The Nobel committee doesn’t give them enough credit.”
“The Nobel committee is political,” Maduka shrugs. “Forget them.”
The professor adds, “I know many colleagues with a million pixels, but no picture. Lots of knowledge, no understanding.”
Chief Balafama shares that he recently visited South Africa and was surprised to learn that Nelson Mandela wasn’t the only one behind the fall of apartheid — there was also a man named de Klerk.
“I’d never heard of him,” he admits. “Turns out, he was a real hero too — he went against his own people.”
The Japanese engineers sip Star beer and listen. One is from Tokyo, the other from Hiroshima.
“Hiroshima sounds familiar,” says the Chief. “Yes,” replies the Hiroshima man. “My city was bombed. Around 150,000 people died. Horrible.” The other adds, “But notice — after Hiroshima, no more nuclear wars. The horror scared the world. That fear may have prevented global war.” During WWII, between 65 and 100 million people died. But the 150,000 in Hiroshima left the strongest mark on the world’s conscience.
“So, fear of nuclear war brings peace?” Chief Balafama wonders. “Maybe Truman deserves a Peace Prize.” “Maybe, in hindsight,” says the Japanese. “I don’t know.”
By now, the alcohol and palm wine are playing tricks on everyone.
But Chief Balafama is just warming up.
“Tomorrow,” he declares, “the excellent most beautiful people of Cross River State will march in the streets of Calabar — in a spectacular celebration of culture, rhythm, costumes, music, and joy. The world should know about this carnival. If beauty exists — then this is it.”
In Cross River State alone, there are about thirty different ethnic groups — each with its own language or dialect. Among them: the Agbo, Efik, Bahumono, Abayon, Anyima, Iyala, Yalla, Mbube, Mbembe, Etung, and many more. All of them have rich, colorful cultures and unique traditions.
The Calabar Carnival, held every December, was initiated by His Excellency Mr. Donald Duke and later enhanced by His Excellency Mr. Liyel Imoke — both of whom served as governors of Cross River State. The carnival was created to celebrate Christmas — the birth of Jesus of Galilee.
Chief Balafama says, “I believe in Jesus. I don’t believe in juju. Juju can be very bad sometimes. That’s why I prefer Jesus.”
Professor Amobi says, “I prefer science. The difference is — religious people sanctify their beliefs. Once your beliefs are sacred, you can’t be a scientist. Science is about questioning what’s accepted, introducing doubt, offering new ideas — and challenging those too. That’s science.”
He goes on, “Religious people believe the soul continues after death. That’s a sacred belief. But those who believe that death is the end of life — they try to enjoy this one short life to the fullest.
“But if you believe in an eternal afterlife — some kind of paradise — you’re more likely to suffer now in the hope of eternal reward. What’s eighty years of suffering compared to eternity?
“I don’t mind if someone chooses to suffer. That’s freedom. But I do mind when they want me to suffer too, just to honor their sacred beliefs.”
I remember years ago; I was invited to a dinner in Jerusalem — the holiest city in the world. This was before Google Maps. I didn’t know my way around.
It was Friday evening. I drove into a Muslim neighborhood and was greeted with a barrage of stones.
The next morning, I left Jerusalem for Tel Aviv. Took another wrong turn — this time into a religious Jewish neighborhood. Another barrage of stones.
Is there any other city where residents throw stones at guests for missing a turn? And all in the name of their holy faith?
Chief Balafama turns to me and says, “You know I’m from the Ijaw people. One of the lost tribes of Israel.” “Of course,” I reply diplomatically. Though biblical historians claim that no tribes were ever lost. All fairytales.
Still, I wouldn’t dare challenge Chief Balafama. If he thinks you disagree, he might take offense — and no one wants to experience an offended Chief.
He says he’s well-versed in Israeli history — including the story of Ben-Gurion (BG). “Not the airport,” he clarifies.
“Ben-Gurion dreamed of reading Israel’s Declaration of Independence. But I thought the Zionist pioneers dreamed of a modern, liberal democracy with strong rule of law. Isn’t it right?”
“You’re absolutely right, Chief,” I say.
“So why did Ben-Gurion always talk about the Book of Books, about Joshua Ben-Nun, about his vision of Messianic Redemption? Was he secretly religious, dressed up as a secular Zionist?”
He leans in. “Did Ben-Gurion betray your people — the pioneers? Did he build a democracy that’s actually a theocracy?”
“I don’t know, Chief,” I say. “Some say he had no choice. The religious parties pressured him.”
“Pressured him?!” the Chief scoffs. “Are you saying Israel’s independence depended on a handful of Orthodox Jews? Ah-ah! You don’t believe that — and neither did he.
“Repeat a good fairytale enough times, and naïve people will believe it. Most people are naïve — you know that.”
The Chief straightens up. “Ben-Gurion betrayed your people.”
Then he shifts gears.
“All modern democracies allow casinos. We do in Nigeria. The countries that don’t — they’re mostly theocracies. You’ll find Iran, Libya, Saudi Arabia, Turkey, Lebanon, Pakistan, Afghanistan, North Korea, Jordan, Yemen, the Emirates, Qatar, Bahrain… and Israel.”
He pauses, grinning. “What do you say to that?”
He continues, pleased with himself.
“In most of the world, weekends are two days — Saturday and Sunday. But a few countries, like Israel, have only one day. Just Shabbat. Go learn why.
“In theocracies, the state tells you who you can marry or divorce, where to be buried, what you can eat and what you must not eat. My friend — you live in a religious state.”
I ask him, “How do you know all this?”
“I worked in Israel for three years,” he replies. “And as an Ijaw, I had to read and learn about Israel. But I was shocked. You don’t have real civil freedoms. Not like we do here in Nigeria.”
Then he delivers his closing argument.
“You might be surprised,” he says, “but democracy doesn’t guarantee the rule of law. It’s the rule of law that guarantees democracy.
“That’s why your politicians are fighting over the Judicial Appointments Committee — not the Election Commission. Think about it.”
Chief Balafama takes one last sip of cognac and drifts into deep sleep.
“Ka chi foo,” says Maduka. “Good night.” He heads upstairs.
“Ka chi foo,” I reply, and leave Fairytales Bar.
The next morning, Chief Balafama is already waiting in the lobby.
The bush doctor recommends that the injured Oyinbo madam stay in the hotel to recover.
“She’s completely broke — patapata,” says the Chief. “Can we help cover the room?” So, they bring her in.
Now, as the only other Oyinbo in the hotel, there are some wrong expectations that I’ll take care of the mysterious Oyinbo madam.
Sure enough, the hotel manager approaches me and asks if I’d mind visiting her room.
And so, begins a very strange story.
Her name is Ginerva — which, in Italian, means The White Phantom. She’s from Italy.
Even lying there, slightly dehydrated, it’s clear she once had an impressive spec sheet. But now she looks... out of warranty.
She recently got engaged to a man named Dario. She wants to marry him. But there’s a problem. A serious bump in the road.
She has a dream that must be fulfilled, before she gets married. Catholic, you know. So, she must do it properly. According to her, she could not be loyal to Dario until she will put this dream to rest.
Her dream is to be with few original Nigerians, at the same time. Of course, this is a very bizarre dream, no doubt, but with so many people on earth, statistical anomalies and mutations are bound to happen.
And honestly, I see nothing wrong with such dreams, after all, quite a few original Nigerians would be more than happy to help fulfill it. And if that makes more people happy, well then, the world becomes a happier place. That’s just math.
Naturally, she’d have to be careful choosing which originals she gets involved with.
Then she heard about the legendary Calabar Carnival and figured it would be the perfect place to find a few… “participants.” She also really wants to marry Dario — so time is of the essence.
On top of that, Ginerva had been watching TV in Italy. Repeated warnings about climate change. She is worried that very soon the coastal area of Nigeria will be washed by the sea, after the ice caps in the poles will be melted, due to the "climate crisis."
She panicked.
She believed Calabar could soon be underwater. And if she waited too long, she might not find any originals — unless she had scuba gear.
So, she booked a flight to Nigeria. Alone. Before the sea swallowed Calabar.
So, under such climate emergency, here is madam Ginerva, arriving on her own to Calabar, looking for the opportunity to fulfill her dream, so she can marry Dario without any troubling dreams.
The news of her arrival to Calabar spread faster than the speed of tam-tam, because it is a rare scene for an Italian Oyinbo madam to be on her own, asking random people, where is the best hotel in Calabar, or what should be the cost of a taxi to that hotel.
Such questions from Oyinbo madam are a clear indication to everybody, including the original guys, that she needs plenty help. A very significant help.
Coincidently there are some cultists in this area, all are originals, and they have some dreams too, and shall be the first to provide all the required assistance to such an Oyinbo madam.
One of their dreams is to have an Oyinbo (peeled person) madam, that shall come to Calabar alone, looking for originals, before Calabar will be washed under the sea, after the ice caps at the poles will be melted. Climate Crisis, you know.
Later, the Chief said, “This 'climate crisis' sounds more like a 'literacy crisis'.”
So, here is the 'climate crisis', here we are, here are the cultists, and here is madam Ginerva, the White Phantom.
Some cultists are already waiting for her foot to touch the asphalt of Calabar airport tarmac. They immediately approached her and ask her "can we carry your luggage?" and "Do you need assistance?"
Ginerva was touched. Their kindness — their timing — felt like a sign from God. Her God.
“Madre mia,” she whispered. Exactly as she had dreamed.
She doesn’t go into details about what happened over the next three days she spent with the cultists — or how she lost her left ear. I didn’t ask.
She just says:
“The dream is over. I miss Dario so much.”
Eventually, she tells me what happened.
Ginerva tells me that she decided to escape from the cultists' den before the cultist split her body into smaller parts. Because, smaller parts are more convenient for some rituals.
So, she promised the cultists' leader that she wants to marry him. But she must first notify Dario that the wedding is off. This a fundamental rule of her God, if she wants to cancel the wedding with Dario.
So, the cultists' leader agreed to let her go to Metropolitan Hotel to call Dario. But before she left, he cut her left ear, telling her that she will get her left ear back when she comes back.
Looks like a reasonable and fair deal to Ginerva. Even a good deal, considering the alternatives options available.
On the other hand, Ginerva could not explain exactly the reason why one of the cultists cut her right pinky and fed it to his cat. “Such a sweet cat,” she says. “Really adorable.”
But, the most important thing for Ginerva - the Italian White Phantom - is that she came over to Calabar, before the entire area will be washed by the sea, after the ice caps in the poles will be melted.
As they told her many times on the television in Europe. Otherwise, she would not be able to put that dream off and marry Dario with a clear conscience.
She had fulfilled her dream. And now, she could marry Dario with a clean conscience.
“Can I use your phone?” she asked.
She grabbed the receiver and screamed, “Ti amo, Dario!”
“Buona fortuna, madam,” I said, and left the room.
Downstairs, I find Chief Balafama in the lobby.
“So, what’s the story with the madam?” he asked.
“Well,” I said, “if this isn’t a 419, then she might just be the most confused Oyinbo woman on Earth. And if even I’m wrong — she can hold that title until we find someone even more confused than her.
At least, she just successfully fulfilled her dream, at the last minute, right before Nigeria is washed away by the sea, after the ice caps in the poles will be melted.
Think about it, Chief. Think well-wello.”