LAGOS/ Barbara (Avsi): A different and truer Nigeria against terrorism

LAGOS - It's raining heavily this morning, during rush hour when everyone is in the streets going to work or school. Two hours of chaotic traffic and, at 7:00, you at school on time, to then wait until school starts at 8:00. It is still a bit dark and you take the opportunity to get some sleep on the steps or on the chairs. If it is not flooded, many young people play, running around, in the large courtyard of the school. You cannot leave later and expect to be at school at 8:00 because traffic in Lagos is like a mysterious monster. If you leave at 6, you will arrive at 10; if you leave at 5, you will arrive at 7. But there is another possibility if you want to leave later and arrive on time: instead of using the public transport buses, driven by crazy drivers, not completely sober, you must agree to use the '"okada". The name derives from an old Nigerian airline, for obvious reasons no longer in use, but the name is now given to these taxi-motorcycles: a scooter, a reckless driver, and 4 or 5 kids crammed in, a few in front and a few behind the driver. Rain or shine, he keeps his speed the same. It is another way to get to school.

Since it rained abundantly, the street and the courtyard of the Saint Peter and Paul school in Lagos are flooded these days, and our kids hunt for crabs and fish to round off their meal! When they leave school, they take off their sandals and white socks and walk in the mud to the main road, the older siblings loading the younger ones on their shoulders, so that their socks and sandals are ready to go back to school in good condition the next day.

In September, a few days before school began, as I entered the gate of St. Kizito clinic I saw a little boy with a large tray of "plantains", a special type of banana, on his head. I stopped the car, let him into the clinic and began to ask him some questions. It is not that I stop all the kids who sell something along the way (otherwise I would not be able to get anywhere), but he was close to the gate of the clinic and his little face made me curious. "Hello, what's your name?" "David". "How much do they cost?" "200 naira", (which would be like charging one euro for 4 large bananas for frying). I bought 8, then think about how to fry them, and in the meantime "but do you go to school?" He answered: "yes ". “What grade are you?" "Fifth grade". He was a bit small for his age, and I immediately thought about my schemata on malnutrition and the statistics on children of short stature for their age. I returned to David and asked him to tell me where he went to school, when it began, and he told me that - as I had thought – he was selling plantains to pay his school fees. I knew his school, a hole in the slums of Ilasan, but it was his school, what he could afford. "Did you eat this morning?" I asked him, but he was too shy and proud to tell me that he was hungry. “Keep the change, bye!". He was earning his daily bread, earning his tuition, this great little man!