Ibadan Theater
I miss Nigeria — always. And most of all, I miss the people. Their mentality. Their vibrant and wonderful culture. Remarkable people.
I lived in Nigeria for over twenty years, among people from different tribes, cultures and traditions, in a society full of color and diversity.
Over the years, I picked up a bit of everything — from the Yoruba, Fulani, Hausa, Igbo, Efik, Uruan, Ijaw, Bini, Ibibio, Anang, Anyema, Baushi, Eket, Etung, Igala, Idoma, Nupe, Oron, and many more. I carry a small piece of many places inside me. Ten of those years, I spent in Ibadan — the great Yoruba city (if we accept that Lagos belongs to everyone).
Ibadan has some five million residents. But for anyone who knows what a city should look like, Ibadan is more of a mega-village — with sprawling rural houses, rusting brown tin roofs, surface drainage, even more surface sewage, and a unique garbage distribution system: scatter it evenly, everyone will be able to enjoy the garbage equally. Fair system
Nevertheless, there are efforts at urban development. One such project was a new theater, which later would be rebranded as a cultural center. The building was designed as a semi-circle, meant to host shows and performances.
Schröder, a 61-year-old project superintendent, German by blood, and as you might expect — punctual, disciplined, meticulous, and a bit obsessive about construction technique. He loves teaching his teams how to build "properly." One of his brightest protégés is a foreman named Adewale.
One day, Schröder explains to me, they had to build a curved wall beneath a winding staircase. The stairs rose from the first floor to the second, hugging the rounded outer wall. The task: build an inner wall beneath the stairs to seal the hollow space below.
“That's how the plan goes,” says Schröder, always loyal to the blueprint.
Being a man of method, he showed Adewale how to lay each brick at a slight angle, forming a perfect curve that matched the outer wall. It had to be done just right.
“And then,” says Schröder, “I went for my Schlafstunde.”
A Schlafstunde, for those unfamiliar, is a sacred Germanic ritual — the holy afternoon nap. Schröder observes it every day at 1:00 PM sharp. It's a tradition he has faithfully kept for decades.
Before he departed, he asked Adewale who would handle the wall while he rested.
Adewale proposed Babatunde — for two simple reasons. First, Schröder held Babatunde in high regard for his skill. Second, Babatunde was the only one still on site.
Given Babatunde's reputation, Schröder agreed — but stayed a few extra minutes to demonstrate. Together, they marked a curved line on the theater floor with a thick pencil. Schröder laid down a few bricks himself — carefully, at just the right angle.
“Do you understand?” he asked. Babatunde nodded and laid a few bricks. Schröder, satisfied, vanished to his Schlafstunde.
Babatunde got to work with enthusiasm. Brick by brick, layer by layer, the wall rose in graceful arc — a thing of beauty, a tribute to Ibadan's future theater.
He worked quickly — not just for Schröder’s bonus (though that helped), but because he had to be home early. His daughter's future in-laws were coming over, and he was expected to entertain — with very bitter kola nuts, of course. A proper tradition. A sign of a sweet life.
At 5:00 PM, Schröder returned and was astonished. A perfect wall stood before him — awaiting only plaster and paint.
Pleased, he called Adewale and praised him for the superb work. Adewale beamed with pride. He knew a bonus was coming — for him and for Babatunde. Of course.
Then Schröder asked, “Where is Babatunde?”
Adewale shifted awkwardly and replied:
“Ahhh… Masta… we have a big problem here, Masta.”
Schröder raised an eyebrow. “What problem?”
Adewale cleared his throat. “You see, Masta… Babatunde is stuck. He’s behind the wall. Under the stairs. He can’t get out.”
And that was the end of the story.
Except that years later, I happened to visit the area again and wandered toward the old theater. And to my surprise — who did I find running the place? Babatunde himself.
I was thrilled by his promotion.
I asked if he could get me tickets for the next show. Babatunde said politely that there were no tickets available for the next two weeks.
Later, he confessed: actually, there were no tickets at all. There was no activity whatsoever.
The new governor had decided not to complete the project begun by his predecessor. The new governor would not let the previous governor enjoy credit for building such a nice theater. No way. He is not a sucker!
Thus, in the meantime, Babatunde uses the theater as a goat pen for his herd. In front of the building, he grows cassava. And occasionally, he chews bitter kola nuts — to keep life sweet.