I got it at an African Store in the city centre, yesterday.
Do you know how much I got it for?
£7.99 (seven pounds, ninety nine pence).
In Nigerian Naira, using the current exchange rate, that is equal to N3,875.15 (Three thousand eight hundred and seventy five naira, fifteen kobo).
Let me leave off the sheer humiliation embedded in the wide berth between those two currencies, for the sake of my heart rate, and rather focus on my problem for the day which is the garri itself.
I do not know how many Nigerians who trace their roots to anywhere south of the Rivers Niger and Benue that can survive without a cassava-associated staple be it garri, akpu, abacha, eberebe or starch.
What I know is that they are quite few and far between if any, and that I am in no way in that league of human beings.
In fact, one week without garri throws my system into turmoil.
But, just look at. Look at the apology I bought for almost £8. In no time, it will be completely exhausted. My husband will chew it, drink it and swallow it with soup. I myself will descend on it with the diligence of the Knights of Camelot. This garri will be devoured without mercy.
Why? Because it is a necessity.
Even if the price rises to £10/kg, we will grumble, complain, whine and winge. But we will still buy it.
Because necessity.
If I remember my Geography clearly, Nigeria is blessed with a rich belt of rain forests just south of the Niger River with ample amounts of rain, sunshine, humus and humidity to sustain the production of cassava, year after year.
But, I hear with one ear that there has been a garri crisis in the nation in the last twelve months.
Possibly, just possibly, that is why I have to buy simple Ijebu Garri at such a cut-throat amount.
And what have we done about it? The usual of course. Blame the government.
You see friends, there should come a time in our collective political destinies, when we young people decide to sit down to ask ourselves a very simple question: "Why are we not using our number six?"
There are large plots of land in your villa, your Daddy's own.
What if, just what if, you choose to stop whiling away time in Lagos, collect the keys of the villa lodge from Daddy, bind and cast all the witches and wizards that are plotting against your destiny, travel home, gather the area guys that are doing nothing useful with their lives, agree on a daily labour price with them and direct them to plant cassava all over those large acres of land.. What if?
What if you gather them again during harvest time, have them uproot the tubers, peel, wash and fry them? What if you walk up to a branding company, have them design eye-catching bags for your product, package the garri and make a name for yourself, within and outside the nation? What if you rob these Ijebu garri guys of their British market monopoly? I mean, give them some stiff competition?
I bought a pack of azu mangala (roasted catfish) with a broken heart, yesterday. I bought a packet of Ogbono with bleeding ventricles. But, some of you my friends are from Nembe, from Akassa, from Calabar, where you are not very far from quality fish.
Look around and see money littered in your very before. Those fish rotting away in your backyard, if they had been smoked and dried, are worth hundreds of pounds.
But unfortunately, you are watching nollywood.
There are over 200,000 Nigerians living in the UK alone, and we love our food.
That is a market for you. There are also various other nationalities who eat garri. I will leave you to conduct research on that.
Things are hard things are hard, na pesin wey no wan rub hand for sand.
All that time you are using to look for where they buried the spiritual key that was used to padlock your destiny can be invested into packaging crayfish, just crayfish, processing it up to international standard and shipping it to the diaspora while supplying the local market.
Those moments you are wasting trying to find who hid your star under their armpit, can be invested in market research, national and international, getting the appropriate certifications from the relevant bodies, processing your product, writing your name in the sands of time, making money.
But you are on Facebook, quarelling and fighting.
Friend, that government job may never come. But, you've got hands, you've got land, you've got a brain and you've got God.
It wouldn't be easy. Start-up entrepreneurship never is.
But, you can if you think you can.
Ewa na beans.
Coco na chocolate.
Thank you for reading and goodnight.
Comments
Post a Comment