Oladeinde Olawoyin

Oladeinde Olawoyin

The Yoruba Vs. Igbo festival of hate on Twitter ‘amuses’—and I use that loosely because there is nothing amusing in what appears a dance rehearsal for a looming Armageddon—as much as it scares me.

I grew up in the midst of Igbo friends, and my hypothesis is that while there may be few exceptions, those who share similar experience (inter-tribal relationships/friendships from childhood) fare better in their understanding of our multi-cultural society than those who don’t: the experience has a way of broadening one’s horizon and providing more nuanced understanding of our (ethno-religious) complexities.

The Igbo-Yoruba hate fest is “amusing” because, if you look at the bigger picture, it’s so pointless and self-destructive, considering the amount of energy people commit into such negativity that benefits nobody but the ruining elites. What’s most scary about it is that, more than any period in history, we are dismissing it as mere “online banter” while there are signs it may soon spill to the streets.

Sadly, there are politicians waiting in line to harvest from it too—and are probably sponsoring it as we speak.

To be sure, I have always campaigned against the brand of politics built around stereotypical bullshit and (ethno-religious) bigotry; and I have warned about the dire consequences of such in the past. Where necessary, in cases of historical misrepresentation and fallacious generalizations, I have always argued that clarity should be made.

But in recent times, on Twitter especially, what we have seen across divides are sheer bigotry, brainless stereotypes, generalizations and extremism.

If we don’t halt this descent into the Golgotha, it’s never going to end well.

Two of the most important figures in my career in the last decade–Ogbuefi Ben Figo Ezeamalu and Nicholas Ibekwe–are Igbos. And that’s partly why the Yoruba Vs. Igbo hate festival amuses as much as it scares me.

Ben’s mission in my life and career, it would appear, is to dismantle that dirty myth that journalism and poverty are Siamese twins; and that you’ve got to be dirt poor to be considered an “ethical” journalist. So, at every important juncture, he opens doors of opportunities for me, dropping my name where it matters, telling people about my craft, and believing in my (writing/reporting) talent even far more than I do myself—long after he left the organization that we both worked.

If I ever escaped poverty, Ben would have played a huge, inestimable role.

Nicholas, on his part, does so too and goes further to blur the line between work and family life, providing for me the most important shield in my lowest moments of emotional need, going beyond the ordinary with advisory interventions in other affairs outside the official, serving as a guide in many important matters of life, family, and everything in-between.

But long before I met both men, there was one non-academic staffer named Bola or so (can’t vividly remember that name again) at the Unilorin Senate Building, who made life somewhat difficult for me in my days in Ilorin, all because I needed her help to claim my unpaid grant/award/bonus that was delayed as a university scholar. Her character and the heap of insults she hurled at me—despite that I explained how important the award money was to my studies/studentship-are better forgotten than imagined.

She was Yoruba and Muslim, like me!

Yet in that same varsity, I met Alhaji Liad Tella and Prof. Mahfouz Adedimeji, the duo of whom boosted my confidence and showed me how I could fly anywhere in the world on the wings of sentences. Like me, they are both Yoruba and Muslims (and Iwo-born, too), and they rank easily as some of the best people God has sent my way in this turbulent journey called life.

But if “Bola”—in her insecure world of self-inflation—was a motormouth who considered helping vulnerable people (by simply doing her job well) an abomination, Onyekachi, an “area brother” back in Afromedia, was the quintessence of bestiality. We joked, quite often then, that Onyekachi was Gehenna itself—cunning, brutal, menacing and merciless. He was Igbo.

Yet in the hierarchy of useless entities, Onyekachi would rank somewhat lower than Agboola Abiodun, the most irresponsible of certified dingbats. Abiodun, an empty-headed lout, came into notorious reckoning for being such a nuisance that tormented anyone who as much as cared about their studies. I had a history with him, but the details are better left unsaid here. He was Yoruba.

Puzzling, confusing… urgh? Nah.

In ThunderBolt (Magun), a Mainframe/Tunde Kelani flick, the late Baba ‘Larinde Akinleye provides quite an insightful exposition:

“An evil man gives a bad name to his race even if that race contains a host of angels. A race is a race; a man is a man.”

*Oladeinde Olawoyin, a journalist with Premium Times, and public affairs analyst, posted this piece on social media