Social Intelligence - Part Four: Managing the Dining at PBGS With Change

Making My Own Rules and Managing Risks in the Face of Disappearing Opportunities: How I Single-handedly Changed and Improved the Quality of our Meals as Acting Dining Hall Prefect in my Grammar School days.

INTRODUCTION: 

When I became a boarding student in Form Four or Class Four, I never for once thought of being saddled with the responsibility of managing students' feeding in less than two months. So, when my friend Alfred, then the Dining Hall/Food Prefect, invited me over to the Dining one afternoon and told me of his intention to put me in charge of Food and Dining, I was in a state of shock, knowing full well that students riot on school campuses are most often food and feeding-related. He was a very smart student and was about to travel to Lagos to sit for the General Certificate of Education examination, popularly referred to then as the GCE. Then, I was quite younger than he was. I had a lean frame. Besides, I was new to the boarding system, and the last time I was in a leadership position was when my Headmaster at my Primary School made me the Mail Boy - going to the Post Office to drop up and pick up mail, that's it. This time, the DP assured me that he gave me the position because managing Dining Hall and Food is not about size, but being intelligent and, at the same time, being able to command the respect and trust of the student body. By the way, the instant DP succeeded a gentleman, who is presently a Barrister and Senior Advocate of Nigeria.

For me, starting was not easy. The Deputy Dining Hall Prefect was a Form Five student, in the same class as Alfred, who handed his responsibility over to me. As expected, the gentleman was very uncomfortable with the power that I wield. I was acting in the position of the Dining Hall Prefect, and he couldn't do anything to eject me or override my decisions, even though he was my senior. Besides, I was doing a great job that he and the Dining Hall Prefect couldn't have attempted or imagined, as you would see later. There was also the Stall Prefect, who was a Form Four student like me - the one who manages and takes inventory of the foodstuffs in stock. He is the one who contacts the Bursar about what we need. He has about three junior students assisting him in the Stall. On the other hand, it is the responsibility of the Dining Hall Prefect to ensure that the Kitchen staff (Kitchen women as we called them) prepare our meals. Also, he supervises the sharing and organisation of the Dining Hall during meals. And now, I am in charge of all that. Unexpectedly, my friendship ballooned. Some of my Day-Student friends would always come over to my "corner" (that's my room) every morning to have their breakfast. It was fun. And I was doing a great job.

At the end of the First Term, there were still plenty of foodstuffs left in the stall - food pantry - unused. So, on the last evening of that First Term, the Food Prefect and I went to the Stall to take inventory of the unused foodstuffs. As I watched, he divided the leftover into many portions for the top Prefects in his class, all Form Five Students. I received a bag loaded with rice, milk, a can of tomatoes, Sunlight Soap, and Margarine. It was huge. I took it to my room and shoved it underneath my bed. The next day, I took the foodstuffs home with me for the Christmas break. When I opened the bag or discharged the contents, my Mom wasn't amused. She told me to take them back to where I brought them. Initially, she was very adamant about her demand. I assured her that it was part of the leftovers in the storage - I didn't steal the food items, I assured her. (Saying it as if it is the tradition). I sat down and explained to her how I got my share. But she wasn't really comfortable with the whole story. It was that experience of the leftover that prompted me to make some drastic changes in the quality and quantity of food or meals that we serve our students in the following Second and Third terms, when I was at the Dining Hall.  When we returned for the Second Term after the Christmas holiday, it was business as usual, but this time, my involvement took a dramatic, but more commanding and assertive tone. 

THE MAIN STORY

Initiating Drastic Changes, without Ceremony

The Watery Stew

One evening after a meal of rich food, I went to Mama, the Head Cook, and asked her a very naive,  but never-before-asked, question. I was simply curious about the watery nature of our rice stew, and why it wasn't as thick and juicy as that of my Mom at home. So, I put the question to her, why the stew is always watery and not as thick as my Mom's own. As I was about to complete my statement or question, all the Kitchen women stopped what they were doing and stood up to stare at me, not able to make meaning out of what they had just heard. Mama beckoned to them to calm down. She asked me politely: My 'Pikin" (for my child), how many of you does your Mom cook for at home? Just me and my immediate elder Sister, I responded. Then, she threw a bombshell; "your Mom’s stew is thick because she has plenty of tomatoes and onions to prepare her stew for just you and your sister. I cook for about 450 of you here every day, and I have to ensure that all of you have enough stew to eat your rice." At that juncture, I interjected and asked her politely, yet naively, if it is the shortage of tomatoes and onions that make her stew watery. She said yes. Then, I asked "if I give you more tomatoes and onions, your stew will be better and thicker? Mama stood up and said, "Yes, my Pikin". And she walked away to the inner room. (By the way, Mama has been with the Grammar School since the very first day in 1959, and more than twenty years later, she is being told that her rice stew is not thick enough.)  

After my encounter with  Mama and her Kitchen colleagues, I went straight to the Food Stall. Luckily for me, the three junior students assisting the Stall Prefect were still there. I asked them how many cans of tomatoes they provide for stew each day. They gave me the exact number. Right there, I told them, starting from tomorrow afternoon, you guys must start adding half of that quantity of tomatoes and onions for every stew - a 50% increase in content. They all said okay, senior. That became the standard until I left that School two years later. The best is yet to come.

Separating Stones From Rice

One evening after a meal of rice, I did not find a single stone in the rice (To my Nigerian audience, they know what I am talking about). So I went to the Kitchen to thank Mama and her staff for doing a good job removing every stone from our rice. When I got there, they were doing some cleaning. I stood there, but Mama was not there. One of them called out, and when Mama responded, the lady who called out said, "he is here again." Mama came out and said, "How are you doing, my Pikin?" I told her everything is okay, but that I came to thank her for the good job she did this afternoon, separating every stone from the rice she prepared for us.

Mama came closer to me and said, My Pikin, "we did not remove any stone from your rice today." I was in a state of shock. Then, who did? I asked. "Nobody", she replied. I was still looking perturbed, then she said, "The type of rice you gave us to cook today does not come with stones." "It is a different brand of rice, different from the type we cooked for you the day before yesterday." Still, in a state of shock, she told me to follow her to the Food Stall. (Normally, Kitchen Women do not go to the Food Stall, but this time, Mama and I broke the rule and we went inside.) She said, "This bag and this bag have stones in them", pointing at two bags of rice. Then she said, holding the side of a different bag, "This is the one we cooked for you today. It has no stone in it, and the same with that over there." Pointing at another bag of rice not yet been opened.  And she walked out of the Stall, leaving me in my adolescent world. I grabbed a red pen or marker and marked the two bags of rice with stones.

I went to the Dining Hall to fetch the Stall Boys. Inside the Stall, I instructed them never to take rice from the two bags with red marks. And they replied, Yes, senior. And that, my friends, became the rule - the beginning of rice meal without stones at the prestigious Pilgrim Baptist Grammar School, Ewohimi, founded in 1959. The year was 1980.

There was no ceremony, no consultation, no deliberation, and no permission from anyone. It was an opportunity I didn't want to fly by. Also, there was no objection from anyone, not even the Food Master, when he was told weeks later. (I will come to that later). 

In hindsight, I was unknowingly using my privileged upbringing to measure the quality of meals my fellow students deserved. And I did that while in an acting capacity as the Food/Dining Hall Prefect. By the way, the Boarding System started when the Grammar School was opened in 1959, with Mr. George Washington - an African American - as the founding Principal. Then, I was not born. Years later, I was to change history effortlessly and unannounced. The best is yet to come. And I was in Form Four, and in an acting capacity.

Changing and improving the Quality of our Meals and Preempting riots and Protests in the process. 

Before I accepted the post, I already knew that most of the disturbances in Grammar School are feeding-related. I also knew that once a rumour of student protests started to circulate in my School, the Food Master did not always spend the Night in his Official residence at the Staff Quarters. I made up my mind to preempt, by every means possible, any form of student protest or riot. To achieve that, I have to change and improve the quality of our meals, without adding to the feeding budget. Because of the leftovers that I experienced at the end of the First Term.

After spending just a month in the Boarding system, I knew that students do not like APC/Tablet, which stands for Yam and Stew. I also knew that their favourite meal is Rice and Beans, otherwise known as AROBELE, followed by Rice and Stew, and Beans and Pap (cornmeal), as well as Bread/Egg/Tea in the morning.   

What I did was simple: APC was reduced to twice a week, and rice and stew were increased to five times a week. And Arobele - students’ favourite - was increased from twice a week to four times a week, leading to a drastic reduction in Yam and stew, as well as Eba and Egusi soup. I did something else. I realised that each time we serve Bread, Egg, and Tea in the morning, we always have tons of bread left over. What I did was to have two extra loaves of bread on each table. Given that we have four students at a table, each student would then have a loaf and a half in the morning, instead of one loaf as it was in the past. 

Again, there was no deliberation or consultation about the decision. No question and no objection from anyone. The Stall boys loved it. And the Kitchen women loved it. And the Deputy Dining Hall Prefect didn't really know what I was doing or how I was running the kitchen and the Dining Hall.

Once, I was reliably informed that students were planning to riot over some inarticulate grievances, and I made up my mind to take feeding out of it, if at all. The very night the riot was to take place, students were fed with Eba in the afternoon, instead of just APC. And in the evening, instead of just Rice, they were served AROBELE. So, on that particular evening, they were caught unaware. Rice and Beans, aka AROBELE, did the magic. That was it. No ground to grieve. After the meal, students just went to class and later on went to bed, without a sign of grief or resentment of the Food Master/Bursar or the Principal.

Most of the students just assumed that the Principal and the Food Master had decided to improve the quality of our meals. Not knowing that one of them is engineering the drastic changes. (My diligent collaborator was not even the Stall Prefect, but his unofficial assistant, who was then in Form Three. (A fine Customs Officer at the time I left the country, years later).  But something unusual happened the following morning.

A disgruntled student, disappointed that no riot took place, went and dropped the School Bell inside the School Well (underground water storage). And without the Bell, you cannot organise students or the School. There was complete paralysis of activities the following morning. It was around 9 a.m. that one of our students sighted the Bell inside the Well, located by the Dining Hall. With the School Bell found and retrieved, the order was restored, and the Principal was able to organise the morning Assembly meeting as usual. 

That afternoon, I came to the Dining Hall a little bit late. As I walked in, I was met at the entrance by the Food Master. He came to me and asked: You must be Alex, and I replied Yes, sir. Then, he said, "They told me much about you." He shook my hand and said, "Thank you so much for all that you have been doing here in the Kitchen and Dining Hall." Then, he took me to the stall and told me that he had removed the bags of rice that came with stones and assured me that he would not supply that type of rice again. The feeding patterns and the quality of the meal stayed that way until I graduated from school.

I was a Form Four student when it all happened. I was as old as the regular or average class four student then, so you should be able to figure out my age.

Leadership success is this: you must first have the ability (insight)  to know and understand that something isn't right. As a guide, do not start by asking yourself if you can change it or make the situation better. Start by finding ways to make the situation better, be willing to ask a question, and confront rejection. 

On the other hand, if you are not in a position to implement the changes, look for others who are better situated than you to implement the changes. And if you are right, as I have always been, you do not need to do much convincing. It is about moral judgment, believing that your conscience is pure and the truth is in your favour. It started by never failing to ask a question. Above all, be willing to learn, be gracious about accepting corrections, and be prepared to stand your ground if doing so is the best approach. It is about common sense and taking action.

Social Intelligence - Part Three: Saving the EDSU Graduating Law Class of 1992

Making My Own Rules and Managing Risks in the Face of Disappearing Opportunities: How a Timely intervention preempted a planned Student Riot, thus saving graduation in the process.

YOU CAN SKIP THIS PART AND GO STRAIGHT TO "THE MAIN STORY"

My coming to Bendel State University (BENSU), now Ambrose Ali University, Ekpoma, Nigeria, in the 1988/1989 academic year, nearly did not happen. Maybe it was meant to be. I took the Joint Matriculation Examination (JME) administered by the Joint Admission and Matriculation Board (JAMB) in 1988, and, as tradition is, went to my first choice University – BENSU - to check my result when it came out. My score was 249, which was lower than the 256 points I got on the same exam in 1984. By the way, I did not choose BENSU that year, even though my cousin, who was then a final-year Political Science student at the same Institution, did everything to ensure my admission. In a similar vein, that Score was lower than the 265 points I got in the JME of 1985. That year, my only choice of University was the then the University of IFE. I travelled to Ife, hoping to become part of the Great IFE that year, based on my high score at the JME. But it was not meant to be - they did not offer me admission. Not necessarily because I did not do well or meet the 250 general cut-off scores, but on the basis of the quota application. They told me point-blank at the Admission Office that my score did not meet the cut-off scores set specifically for Bendel State candidates. He said something else to support their decision that I do not want to repeat here. When I started to cry, the gentleman asked me if I wanted to transfer to English instead. I declined. I cried, and cried, and cried. But no one could perceive the inner pain, the turmoil, or had a clue of the self-hatred that I was going through. Why can't I get into the University of my choice when I want to? I dried my face, took some pictures, and joined a ride to my cosy apartment in Benin City, blaming no one for my admission misfortune, but myself for all the hard choices I am making. 

What made my situation most complicated, as was the case in my previous JME, was that I did not choose another University - no second and no third choice - just IFE.  Similarly, concerning the program or the course I want to study, my only choice was Law, and Law only.  In other words, I have no alternative School, and no alternative course, as permitted by JAMB. Call it foolhardy and plainly dumb, you would be very right. That was what made it very difficult for my friends to help me secure admission. I stubbornly took that decision,  confident and trusting that the JME Preparatory Class I took at the University of Benin, Ekenwan Campus, would do the magic for me.  It did, but not for me. But for other candidates who did not choose the same University of IFE as I did. For them, it was admission galore. Almost all of them who were comfortable choosing other Universities - and who, in fact, scored lower than I did - were all admitted that year. 

So, in September 1988, when the JME result came out, I went to BENSU, as expected, to meet with the Admission  Officer.  The guy I met in the office told me he is not sure I would make it. Based on that information, I went back to Benin City, supremely confident that I would travel to the US or England for my University education. Luckily for me, by the second week of November 1988, I got a Visa to travel to England. My flight was to be on January 10, 1989. Unknown to me, a few days after my visit to BENSU, in September, my name appeared on the Admission Board as one of the successful candidates. 

I spent Christmas in Benin City in the company of my girlfriend. For the New Year celebration, I travelled with my family and friends to their country home at Uromi in Esan (Ishan). I came back on January 2, 1989. As I was getting out of the vehicle at the Motor Park, I bumped into Joseph, the Senior Clerk at my firm. He told me that I have a “special letter” waiting for me at the office.

I have worked with a firm of Auditors and Chartered Accountants since my graduation from Grammar School. And I was at the Management Consulting Unit, headed by a British-trained Chartered Accountant. Joseph was the Chief Clerk at the firm. During that period, I was working on a project at the University of Benin Teaching Hospital (UBTH) with four other guys. Three of the four guys – Uncle Matt, Brother Patrick, and Brother Musa – went to School in England. I brought up this part of the story for a reason. As Joseph was about to go, he told me that he had sent the letter to UBTH, thinking I was still there with my team.  

Breaking Point: Travel to London, England, or Accept Admission to Study Law at BENSU!

The following morning - the 3rd of January 1989 - I went straight to UBTH, not to collect my so-called special letter, but to tell my colleagues that I am leaving for Lagos for my flight to London, England, on the 10th. When I arrived, all my guys were already at work, and it was a happy reunion after the two weeks of Christmas break. When they gave me the letter, it had a strange look. 

I could figure that the letter is the same stamped self-addressed envelope that I included in my application package to JAMB for the JME.  I opened it, but couldn't fathom exactly what it was about. Luckily for me, one student from Auchi Polytechnic, who was doing his Industrial Attachment at the Accounting Department at UBTH, was in the room. He took the letter from me and said, Hey, men, congratulations! You've been admitted to study Law at Bendel State University, Ekpoma. And my mouth dried up instantly. The letter came directly from JAMB, informing me that BENSU offered me admission to study Law. 

That is totally rare. You don’t stay at home waiting for JAMB to send your admission letter to you. As soon as you see your name on the Notice or Admission Board at your first-choice University, you commence registration immediately, because it is generally assumed that you will be coming to the University every now and then to monitor the admission process and check for your name. That I never did that particular year. Besides, it was a big surprise to my colleagues at work, as well as my friends and family members. None of them was in the picture this time about my admission or JME preparation. I did not tell anyone that I took the JME. I just didn't want anyone to be part of my series of JME missteps, sorrow, and sadness any longer. But at that moment, joy and confusion enveloped the room.

I sat down, totally confused, and didn't know what to do next – accept the admission or travel to England? That was the question. Uncle Patrick, the guy who fought relentlessly, but without success, for me to get into the same BENSU or UNIBEN in 1986, pleaded with me to accept the admission. Adding that going to England is replete with uncertainties. He added that I might not be able to get through with a University education over there successfully, the way I thought. Brother Musa echoed his view, stating in his thick British accent that a bird in hand is worth two in the bush. Uncle Matt - my mentor and comrade in crime - spoke last. He asked me if I knew what the Old Boys Network is. I told him no. He said, leaving Nigeria now will create a vacuum in your social, political, and business life in the years to come in this country. In his summation, your University classmates and buddies will be there for you to hang around with and call on professionally and otherwise when you want to get things done in the future. Their wives and children are the ones to party with you, your wife, and your children. They are your brothers, and that is your base. He added, Positions and opportunities may come and go, but Ol’Boy Network stays. Somebody like you, my friend, should be very close to home, not necessarily for the sake of your family members, but for the realization of what myself and every one of us in this room has seen in you and cherished; what we have grown to accept and love about you - big dreams, innate intelligence, ability to command respect and attention, and above all, your respect and trustworthiness.  Accept the admission, Alex. Please. Get your degree; you can always travel after your program. And he concluded.

That was it. It was unanimous: all four colleagues, whom I look up to as Big Brothers, and who relate to me as their equal over the years, not minding the age gap, told me to accept the admission, and put the travel on hold for another day. 

In hindsight, it has always been my dream to get my first degree in Nigeria. In other words, if I had wanted to travel out, I would have travelled long ago in 1984 or '85. 

Just a recap: It was a hard decision to make. I have my visa that Bendelites spend thousands of Naira to obtain, and here I am about to let it go and go for my bachelor's degree, which I was certain, if I stay away from the "journey just come" attitude on our campuses. I joined my class in January 1989, because I didn't know I was offered admission until January 03. Luckily for me, BENSU postponed its Matriculation from November 12, 1988, to January 06, 1989, following the students’ riot on November 10, 1988. That riot led to the indefinite closure of the University on November 11, a day before Matriculation. I was lucky; my admission did not lapse. In other words, the riot of November 10^th saved my law degree in Nigeria. 

THE MAIN STORY

So, when I eventually came to BENSU as an admitted and matriculated student for the 1988/89 academic year, I was already a "Big Boy" - behaving and dressing as if I had been overseas for years. Knowing the decision that I took regarding travelling to the UK, I made a resolution to stay away from the Girls' Hostel, Student Unionism, and membership in any club or association. Above all, I made a vow never to spend more than four years on the Faculty.

And it was so, until this particular Thursday afternoon, about the last week of October 1992, a few days to our final exams and a few weeks or months to the twice-postponed resumption date at the Nigerian Law School, in Lagos, Nigeria. That was when I had a chance to meet with Joe. Joe is a friend and a fellow Law Student, as well as a member of the Student Union. In fact, being the Speaker of the Student Union Executive Council is not a small job. 

Pre-empt a Planned Peaceful Protest with Fiat

Indeed, it was a chance meeting, but one ordained to happen by God. I was working towards my Hostel when I saw Joe, a classmate and a member of the Student Union, representing the Law Faculty at the Student Council. He was in a rush, heading towards the Student Union Secretariat. I confronted him as if I had a premonition of what was in the offing. His response was as I thought. They are having an emergency meeting at the Secretariat to finalise what he described as a planned peaceful protest the following morning from the campus to the market square in the city.

My response was fierce and blunt: it is not going to happen. Okay, my friend, the protest is not going to happen. There is not going to be any riot or protest, or match, whether peaceful or hostile. It will not happen. I repeated my lines over and over and over, to the amazement of my good friend, Joe.

I reminded him that we have completed our entire syllabus, not just for the semester and for the year, but for the entire bachelor's degree program. I made him understand that I do not want to spend a day longer than four years in this town for any childish decision taken by professional students. He replied that the decision has been concluded and the meeting he is about to attend is just to finalise the logistical aspect - the route, time, and handling of errant students during the protest. When I heard that, I was furious within me, but resisted the urge to verbalise my anger. 

I took a deep breath and looked straight into his eyes, and made the following declaration: In the history of students’ unionism, no peaceful protest has ever ended peacefully. There are always miscreants here and there, ready and willing to capitalise on the vexing situation to vent their anger on innocent drivers, businesses, commuters, and public and school properties. And at the end, the Police are always invited, tear gas and bullets are freely used by the Police, students are apprehended and arrested, and followed by indefinite suspension of the entire student body. Then I paused and pleaded with Joe to go back and tell the Student Union President and the Executive that the peaceful protest should be confined to the inside of the University Campus, and to support his motion with what I have been telling him since the beginning of this discussion.  Also, they should invite all the leaders of the different associations to address the rally, for legitimacy purposes. 

Most importantly, I reminded my friend that our final exams are about to start any day and he shouldn't do anything to jeopardise our chances of proceeding to Law School.  Joe is a tough dude, intelligent, outspoken, and boisterous. He is an active and quintessential Student Unionist. But at that moment, I was talking to him, not as a colleague, but as if he were my junior Brother or a subordinate at the workplace. My demeanour was that he had to do it and do it successfully, without excuse. We shook hands on that and parted ways.

Instead of going to the Library, I went straight to my room to pray for a favourable outcome.

About three hours later, there was a knock on my door. It was my guy. He was pensive but supremely relaxed. He handed me the Flyer, said I will see you later, and went away. He did it. The protest is going to be peaceful, and it is confined to the student centre, close to the Boys' hostel. And it is happening that very evening, instead of the next day. 

They invited all leading members of the different associations within the University to address the student body as I suggested. As expected, it turned out to be a huge rally. The President of the Student Union made a long speech, followed by the Man-O-War President and others. In the end, all of us dispersed, without any fracas. I went to bed thanking God for his intervention. But there is a big surprise in the offing.

The following morning, it was Professor Aihe (the Dean of the Law Faculty) who took Law Students by surprise. It was on Friday morning, and students were greeted with the exam schedule for the semester, starting the following Monday and ending in two weeks.  We have been studying for the past weeks, and most of us are tired and want to get done with our Bachelor's degree and get out of the University. But there is yet another big surprise in the offing.

A week later, the Nigerian Law School, Lagos, came out with their resumption schedule for the 1992/1993 academic year, making the first day mandatory for every successful student. As it turned out, the resumption date at the Nigerian Law School is the Monday immediately after our final exam on Friday. In other words, our exam ends on a Friday, and the following Monday is the beginning of Law School in Lagos. The resumption date was postponed twice to give Law Faculties across the nation the opportunity to graduate their students due to protests and riots over the year. 

Our last exam came on a Friday morning in November, and I got to my Cousin's house in Benin City that evening. On Saturday morning, I left for Lagos. On Sunday, I was enjoying myself, wining and dining with my elder Brother, friends, and family members to make them happy. And the following morning – Monday - I was a student at the Nigerian Law School in Lagos, Nigeria. Nothing could be more dramatic.  Sadly, our Sister University was not that lucky.

Lagos State University, popularly known as LASU, was shut down. They went on protesting and rioting the very weekend we were to embark on a peaceful protest, which Joe and I averted. The University was shut down, and students were sent home. At the time the Nigerian Law School opened its doors to new students, LASU students were still at home. When the institution eventually reopened, it was too late for the Law Students to take their final exams and join their fellow law students at the Nigerian Law School. 

I don’t know what would have 
happen if Joe and I did not meet to take action? All I know is that the planned peaceful protest in the City did not happen. And I did not spend a day longer at Ekpoma. I am not going to dwell on what if it had happened. What did not happen is irrelevant. It is about decision-making and taking action. If leadership is failing, it is a function of faculty deficit. It is about wisdom, a creative mindset, and the ability to dream big and take bold action. Call it risk, if you like, that is the beginning of greatness. 
Addendum: The US vs Nigeria in Terms of educational aspirations.

(So, at the time I eventually came to BENSU in the 1988/89 academic year, the 1984/85 JME candidates had graduated, while the 1985/86 sets were in their final year. In the US, it is a different story. If you work hard, nothing could prevent you from matriculating at the University of your choice, or stop you from pursuing the course of learning that you desire to pursue. 

While in the US, I met a Harvard Professor at a Barbing Shop in Boston, Massachusetts, who told me - after much discussion - that if I really want to go back to Nigeria, and hope to enhance my practice or job opportunities in the public sector back home, and at the same time, do not want to spend more money, I should apply to Harvard University evening program. He recommended the Administration and Management Master's level program at the Extension School, under the Faculty of Arts and Sciences. His reason was that in that particular school, I would be able to take eight graduate-level courses in Law, Business, Communication, and Computer Sciences, while still working. 

The program is pay-per-go. In other words, you pay for only the classes you are taking, and there are no school fees to be paid. It is one year of full-time studies - four courses every semester, and up to five years of part-time studies. 

I applied and was accepted. And I drove a Taxi in the City of Boston during the daytime, while I attended classes at night. I started the program in 2001 and completed it in 2003. A few years later, I decided once again to go back to graduate school. This time, to have a Master of Laws degree (LLM), specifically in Energy and Mineral Resources/Environmental Law. Two Universities came up on my Google search - the University of Houston, Houston, Texas, and the University of Denver Sturm College of Law, Denver, Colorado. I applied to both schools, and both of them offered me admission. I went to Denver, not necessarily for academic and related reasons, but to have experience with different environments or weather conditions in the US. Now you know why America is God's own Country. Your educational aspiration is not limited by where you come from or the colour of your skin, but by you and you only. I wasted four good years of my life trying to get admission, without success. In spite of the fact that I had the correct number of credits and was scoring higher than the national cut-off score in the Joint Matriculation Examination. In a similar vein, when I was processing my application to the University of Houston and the University of Denver, the Nigerian factor came up again. My transcripts from Harvard were processed the same day and arrived at the two Universities within three days. It took me one whole year to get my transcript out of Nigeria; otherwise,  I would have graduated in June 2010, instead of June 2011. 

The patient dog, they say, eats the fattest bone. I never give up on the goal that I set for myself, no matter the hardship. It might be slow, but I have no doubt in my mind that the dream will eventually come to pass as planned. I believe in taking action. I confront situations, issues, people, and institutions in ways that people least expect. I do so, not to impress anyone or prove a point, but to satisfy my conscience. That is who I am. It is about doing unto others as you would expect others to do to you. It is about life and letting live.

Watch Out for Parts Four and Five 

Social Intelligence - Part Two: Trip to Nigeria Consulate in New York

Making My Own Rules and Managing Risks in the Face of Disappearing Opportunities: The removal of the "Travelling to Nigeria is Dangerous" sign from the boarding point at all the Airports in the United States of America. 

Introduction: 

She is a Patent Attorney and a good friend. We were intimate. At that time, she could confidently write the story of my life, my dreams, as well as my aspirations. Through her Dad, she became close to this retired Professor who happened to know another Professor who is the Husband of a prominent African American Lady to be honoured by the Nigerian Consulate General in New York City, New York. This Lady - the Special Guest of Honour - was one of the distinguished African American personalities at the Festival of Art and Culture, popularly known as FESTACT, held in Nigeria decades ago. 

My friend knew of the event just when it was happening the next day. She called to ask if I would like to go, and I told her yes, provided I have my invitation letter before leaving for New York - I do not want to suffer any humiliation at the gate in the hands of the Nigerian diplomatic staff over the invitation letter. She then contacted her Professor friend, who in turn contacted his contact in New York. The following morning, my invitation card arrived via overnight express mail. The retired Professor and I drove from Boston to New York City in my friend’s brand-new car.

My Encounter with Dr. Ozichi Alimole, the Minister-Counsellor in charge of Information at the Nigerian Consulate in New York City, New York.  

At the party, I dressed up in a complete vintage Hausa chain embroidered half-length kaftan made of white Guinea Brocade fabric, tailored in Nigeria. The Professor was also regally dressed in Yoruba three-piece Agbada, Buba, and Sokoto that I provided for him for the occasion.  Though the Professor and I were dressed up in Nigerian attire, we sat among the American guests on the left-hand side, facing the Podium. While the Nigerian guests and the staff of the Mission occupied the right-hand side, visibly and beautifully dressed up in our rich traditional dresses, as well.

As we waited for the party to start, somehow, I became the centre of attention: A tall and elderly-looking African American – a retired Deputy Police Commissioner - and his family members treated me as if I were some kind of an object of attraction. Not only did they admire me and my traditional dress – just a two-piece kaftan - they were touching me and feeling my clothes right there at the centre of the reception hall. The retired DPC later gave me his business card and begged me – I mean, pleaded with me – to supply him and his friends the exact replica of what I was wearing, and at whatever cost. Right there, he gave me the measurement of his waist, neck, leg, and sleeve, and I scribbled them down on the back of his business card, which I still have with me as I type this piece. Initially, I was a little bit embarrassed, but later I felt cool. After all, it was a cultural event, I looked highly distinguished, and at the same time, very willing to display my country's rich cultural heritage to the African American guests.

After about an hour of waiting, the party started, and a gentleman by the name of Dr. Ozichi J. Alimole, Minister-Counsellor, Consul for Commerce & Information, was introduced. And he went on to introduce the Head of the Mission. He was visibly in charge of the event. During the pre-dinner cocktail, and while people were making friends and discussing business, I came face to face with Dr. Alimole. We greeted and shook hands. I actually initiated the contact, knowing that I had a question to ask him. Without much ado, I took caution and social ethics to the wind, and I asked him if he had travelled late out of New York City through LaGuardia or JFK Airport. And he replied Yes.

(At the time of the event in 1999, I was working part-time on weekends, at Logan Airport in Boston, Massachusetts, while studying for my MCSE Certification. Then, at the departure point inside the airport, there was a sign – boldly written and conspicuously placed – stating: Travelling to Nigeria and Haiti is Dangerous. As one who unrepentantly wears the Nigerian toga all over me, the sign was repellent. 

So, meeting a top Nigerian diplomat and challenging him to action, I said to myself, is the best way to start the party. I asked my new friend if he had seen the sign I described above. He said yes. Have you taken any steps to have the sign removed? If not, what effort are you making or willing to make to have it removed? I asked, staring at his face. The man did not say a word. To say that he was stunned beyond comprehension was an understatement. He didn't offer me a further response. He simply excused me and moved on to chat with other guests. And I went back to my seat to relish my drink, satisfied that the journey was not wasted after all.  But Dr. Alimole was not done with me yet.

A few minutes later, as soon as he completed his speech, right there at the podium, he pointed his hand in my direction, signalling that I should come over. I looked back, thinking that he was talking to someone else. My Professor friend sitting beside me said to me, It's you he wants to talk to. I stood up and we walked toward each other. At that point, the MC invited the Head of the Mission to the podium for his speech.

As Dr. Alimole and I walked toward each other, I made up my mind to apologise to him for my hostile questioning. As he approached me, he brought out his wallet, removed his elegantly embroidered official business card, and handed it over to me. Getting closer, he said, listen to me: I don’t know who you are; nevertheless, you are the type of Nigerian I want to be seen with in this place any time we are having an event or function. As I tried to apologise, he cut me off, saying, You don't have to. I need people like you here. (By the way, I still have his business card and that of the Deputy Police Commissioner with me). 

I told him that being a student and the fact that I live in Boston would make attendance financially and logistically problematic, if not impossible.  He was seemingly disappointed that I should turn down such an open, and of course, a rare invitation. That was our last meeting. As I walked to my seat, my Professor friend was beaming with a smile. When I sat down, he tapped me on the back and said: "That was a smart move, Alex; I can see why your girlfriend is so fond of you."

When the retired Professor told the Special Guest (name withheld) and her husband at their New York residence (where both of us spent the night) about the discussion I had with Dr. Alimole, they were very ecstatic. She said I can see you working at the consulate soon. I reminded them that it doesn't work that way; diplomatic appointments are handled at the home front.

Memo to Dr. Alimole and the "one-page memo is the best", as per advice that I received from Dr. Jegede of the Nigerian Law School in Lagos, Nigeria, some years ago.

When I got back to Boston, I decided to assist or collaborate with Dr. Alimole to remove that sign at the US Airports by sending him a handwritten letter. I drafted a three-page memo, stating what to do, who to meet, and how to proceed first in Nigeria before meeting with specified individuals (name withheld) in the US. Later, I edited the letter to one page, following the advice Professor Jegede, the then Secretary of the Nigerian Law School in Lagos, gave me while I was a student at the Law School.

Flash Back - Meeting with Dr. Jegede: We were about three hundred and fifty students of Edo State origin at the Nigerian Law School that year, and only nineteen spots were allocated to us at the newly built Hostel. I took part in the ballot for the nineteen spots but was not successful. A few days later, I gathered from a reliable source that the Old Igbosere Hostel, opposite the old Supreme Court, has a few vacant bed spaces. At Igbosere, eligibility for space was not by ballot, but strictly on who you knew. 

First, you have to draft a letter and have it endorsed by a prominent family member and then send it to the office of the Secretary to be considered for a bed space.  Two of my closest buddies – names withheld – did and were offered bed space. Then, I said to myself, granted, there is no one yet in my family with a national profile, but I will get a bed space with my own last name.

Overnight, I drafted a six-page-long memo, arguing persuasively why the highly respected Secretary should give me a bed space. I later reduced it to three pages. I took the letter straight to his office the following morning. Fortunately, I must say, the Secretary to the Secretary was very helpful and friendly to me. In spite of the fact that there were about ten visitors, mostly students and parents, already waiting to see the Secretary, this dude got up from his chair and asked me, though smiling, "Are you afraid to see the Secretary?"  I said no, Sir. Then he got up from his seat and said, Follow me. 

He walked towards the Secretary's door, opened it, and said, You wait here. He went inside and closed the door behind him. He came out a few minutes later and ordered me to go inside that the Secretary (Dr. Jegede) wants to see me. Then he closed the door once again, but this time, I was the one inside with the Secretary. I greeted the Secretary, bowing my head and touching my knee in the traditional Yoruba style. 

As luck would have it, Professor Jegede - God bless him - did the unexpected: He gave me accommodation right there on the spot. But counselled me seriously as a Father would do, to make the memo or petition one page next time. It saves time. He added, finally, that he read just the first and concluding paragraphs.  Overwhelmed with joy and excitement, I dropped by right there in his office, thanking him for his kindness and professional advice.

Many years later, remembering that fatherly counsel from Professor Jegede, I reduced the memo to Dr. Alimole to just one page. It was handwritten, suggesting the people to meet and what he must do first in Nigeria for the subsequent meeting with the people in the US government to be meaningful and fruitful. Using the address on the business card, which also corresponds with the address on my invitation card to the event, I mailed the letter directly to Dr. Alimole at the Consulate General of Nigeria by registered mail. 

In the US, it is generally assumed, and rightly so, that once a letter is properly addressed and stamped, it is taken as delivered. I did not hear from Dr. Alimole.

However, about one month later, that sign disappeared from all the Airports in the United States. Since that chance encounter at the Nigerian House in New York with Dr. Alimole, about twelve years ago, I have not seen him or spoken to him. Whether or not my letter plays any role in the removal of that vexing sign at the US Airports, one thing remains clear: A First Class Diplomat took a chance with an unknown, but audacious dreamer - a risk-taker, who was not willing to let go of an opportunity to make a change. I was lucky. There was a very senior diplomat who was in the right position to bring the change to fruition. Who, in fact, did perform? And Nigeria was better for it.

Analysis.

Raw sense, common sense, intellectualism; it doesn't matter, as long as the system is made to work. It doesn't matter that I am an American citizen. I am a native Nigerian, first. I was not happy with the sign, and I want it removed. But I do not work in government. Besides, I wasn't in a position to do it. I wasn't in any position where I could counsel or pressure another Nigerian to do it. So, meeting Dr. Alimole was the closest I could go to talking to the President of Nigeria or the Minister in charge of our External Affairs about the sign and its removal. Despite the lively atmosphere at the party, I was not willing to watch and allow the rare opportunity at the Consulate to fly by without taking action. Even if I had to embarrass a distinguished diplomat to accomplish my goal, it is a risk worth taking.  That's exactly what I did - made use of someone else who was in a position to act. It doesn't matter whether he actually performed; the truth is that I made an effort to have it removed. Not just saying the sign ought to be removed, but coming up with ideas (talking points or what to say before the appropriate US Officials), and giving directives on how it should be executed (starting from our Customs and Immigration Departments in Nigeria - the point of entry). That is my definition of leadership.

The American government is ever willing to support you and your cause if you do the right thing or make an effort to do the right thing. I know that much about America. So, I initiated the actions, which Dr. Alimole, in his official position, patriotically executed, without questioning my age, qualification, or experience in government and diplomacy. And that, once again, is my definition of leadership.

Watch out for Parts Three, Four, and Five.