It was winter in Europe. Freezing and punitively cold. Only home, Nigeria, was on my mind as I cut short a research visit to that sinfully developed continent.
I found my way into the beautiful terminal building of one of Europe’s busiest airports, Amsterdam Schipol airport. It was my second time at Schipol so I easily navigated my way to an area designed and designated for laptop users.
My phone and gods had conspired against me. The device was dead like dodo due to a charging port problem. Before leaving Europe for home, I had tried to fix it against warning from my African friends. “Olu, it’s damn too expensive to fix phones here. Wait until you get home. For the moment, I’ll give you a spare phone to use.” Jacinta Edusei, my lovely Ghanaian friend had volunteered advice and help. I had Jacinta’s spare phone but I wanted access to my phone badly. The city centre was the place to seek help. I found a Lebanese owned shop. Surprisingly, the phone repairer was a Nigerian of Igbo extraction.
Our accent gave us away to each other without much ado.
“Bros, wetin do your phone?” He asked turning the phone over twice.
“Oh boy, na charging port wahala oooo. And I need the phone bad bad.” I replied.
Without looking at me, he gave me a bill.
“Your money na tuwenti yuro.”
Twenty Euro to repair charging port problem? In my mind, I screamed. Unconsciously, I calculated twenty euro in naira. It was a lot. I thought of what that amount could do in Nigeria. Nobody told me to speak to my legs. (Note: the phone problem was fixed in Nigeria at Olukayode Shopping Complex, Akure at the rate of one thousand naira, which was less than €2.). I was whistling as I left the yeye Lebanese shop.
I used Jacinta’s phone throughout my research visit. But I had to return the phone as I left for home, Nigeria.
Back to Schipol Airport. I had arrived hours ahead of boarding, which is my practice on such trips.
I plugged my laptop and connected to airport WiFi. On Facebook, I quickly connected to my wife and friends.
I was the fourth person there and the only black at the table.
Quite some minutes later, I was alone as the others had left to board their flights.
Then I noticed it.
A winter jacket lying on table; forgotten and abandoned by its owner, who had obviously hurried away to board a plane to who knows where.
I remember the owner. He had managed a dry, winter smile at me when I joined the table. I knew he’d left to board his flight too. There’s no doubt.
Yet I waited, keeping watch over the jacket. Then I picked the jacket about one hour later. I searched it.
I found Euro notes and coins, SEVEN CREDIT CARDS, and the owner’s educational and workplace ID cards. All of them very important to life and sanity.
I didn’t think twice.
I picked my hand luggage, my backpack together with the jacket and found my way to the nearest KLM Information Centre.
An Indian lady attended to me. I told my story.
She praised and thanked me profusely. I took it in.
When it was time to handover the jacket, I hesitated. With deadpan seriously, I told the attendant that I would be handing over the jacket under one condition.
“Please tell the owner that a Nigerian found it.”
In her eyes, I saw flippancy. But I was not done; I had the advantage and nothing was going to stop me from using that advantage to maximum effect.
“Many of you have this impression that Nigerians are generally dishonest and crooks. Just tell him a Nigerian found it.”
“Would you do that, please?”
I could see that my message had sunk. She smiled happily at me, nodded her appreciation with a promise to fulfill my wish.
I walked away from the KLM Information Centre at Amsterdam Schipol Airport with my shoulders higher than the airport terminal.
Nigeria is 60 today as an independent country rescued from British colonial rule.
Happy 60th Independence Day Nigeria
God bless you my country.
I won’t join others to curse you.
My mouth will only bless you. I promise that every opportunity I get, I will stand firm in seeing to it that you’re bettered. I do not mind standing alone for you. I won’t be a part of your myriad of problems, I’ll rather be one of the solutions.
We can fix Nigeria only if we could fix the Nigerian person. On that position, I’m unwavering and implacable. I’ll be selfless in my service to you and Nigerians. My watchword remains the motto of my secondary school, the iconic Methodist Boys High School, Lagos; the second secondary school in Nigeria.
That motto in Latin is: Non sibi sed allis.
That motto in English is: Not for us but for others.
So help me God.
God bless you, my beautiful country, Nigeria.
MBHS 95 Alumni Association 