I know this is is a deviation from my usual reflections upon life and my emerging perspective at any given point, but this article was so troubling that I couldn’t help but share/save it. The article makes clear that all-too-many black and Hispanic folk are reliant upon fixed assets as their only indirect generators of wealth. We’ve gotta diversify, guys. Clearly something’s going wrong here.
NJNious
“Wow, you’re really going through a lot of changes at the moment,” Rolf said as my very first consulting interview (with the Monitor Group in Joburg) came to a close. Having noted the recent focus on Africa on my resume, the attempted career transition from the nonprofit to the for-profit world, as well as the upcoming move from Joburg, Rolf had hit the nail on the head. Even during my interview, I had struggled to compress the hurricane of rationale that has caused so many swift changes recently into a succinct forecast for the future. But in flying from South Africa back to the States, I can’t help but note the glaring metaphor of the storm’s eye, resolving to harness this opportunity to reflect before the worst of the natural disaster is upon us.
One of the most formative episodes of my newfound trajectory occurred only a few months into my experience living in SA:
It was one of my first times in downtown Joburg. A heavy sun brightened the sky, as dozens of steel towers peered over us – mere portraits in the gridlocked traffic below. We had been frozen for a good ten minutes, and the grandiose angle provided by our tiny four-door and the delivery truck in front gave us very little perspective on our immobility. As we waited for the unknown obstruction to find its way off the road, a halting screech, musically resolved by a subsequent crash, caught our attention. I looked through my window, as the shiny BMW to my right eased away from a small Mazda, revealing a tiny dent in its rear bumper. Before I could refocus my attention on our lethargic progression, my gaze was captured* by the nearly two dozen men who swarmed the miniscule accident scene. Very quickly, hands and cheers shot in the direction of the cars, each offering its own take on what had occurred. When my mind had registered the snapshot of these same able-bodies lounging on the sidewalk a moment before, I hadn’t anticipated their immediate absorption into the role of unsolicited legal advisors. But what better did they have to occupy their time? A handful of them had been holding signs requesting work, and it was mid-morning, mid-week, in the middle of one of Africa’s largest, wealthiest cities.
From that moment, the centrality of wealth and opportunity to so many conflicts became undeniable. My perspective as a Political Science major had narrowed my view to the social, cultural, and political causes of conflict – often with the economics factoring in as a peripheral insightful at best. However, the ability to evade acknowledgment of the perils of stalled economic viscosity crumbled in front of my very eyes. A few months before, I had watched Paul Collier’s TED talk on the potential of economic negotiations and immediate employment to help prevent relapses to internal conflict, and it was as if seeing the idle minds, able bodies, inequalities that day had imbued his framework with meaning.
As I began to understand high-level political progress devoid of tangible changes in people’s daily lives as better recipes for relapse than for reconciliation, my immediate career interests began to shift. Having lived in a developed world, dismissing those desiring to pursue lucrative work opportunities as purely self-interested and indifferent to the world around them was effortless (especially given the unfathomable number of stories of corporate greed that substantiated this belief). Coupled with the frequent news updates about the staggering unemployment rate in the U.S. in the wake of the recession, the fiscal realities of living in SA became less and less maneuverable, laying bare the major role in job-creation that enterprises play in a society.
Hence, consulting. My perspective on the work itself is that, in developing countries at least, it can be an opportunity to augment a company’s economic impact on a society through job creation, increased retained earnings that can spread across the economy, or simply the injection of revenue into governing budgets (thus potentially increasing the provision of social services). And beyond traditional corporate consulting, for those firms that also provide services to the social and public sectors, there is an incredible opportunity to deepen the impact of these organizations, resulting in measurable changes on the ground. There are also a handful of companies doing great work at the “bottom of the pyramid,” leveraging the resources and expertise of for-profit entities to hone in on the needs of the poor and provide goods and services that also improve their quality of life. (Think Mohammad Yunus’ idea of a “social business” in Creating a World Without Poverty.) “Sustainability” has also become a recurring theme in international development work these days, and it would be delusional to believe that good intentions alone – without deliberate thought regarding financial sustainability – will suffice to carry great initiatives from “idea” to “implementation” or further even to long term impact. At least two of the firms I’ve applied to have clients working in this space (across both the social and public sectors), and I can only imagine how much value that work could have brought to them. Now, is this a highly idealized view of the type of projects consultants can work on? Of course. But anyone reading this knows that I have rarely been anything short of an idealist.
Now some of you may ask, “If you’re so interested in social businesses, development, and economics at the moment, why not work for the World Bank or some other research institute?” The unabashed answer is that my preferences and natural skills lay elsewhere, and I think Yale made that clear. While I certainly could research and write in near exclusivity, my inner drive for measurable results would only ferment frustrations about the lack of practicality for the work. On the other hand, the intensity of prior academic experiences as well as the research experience from curriculum development at ALA would similarly ignite irritation if my work lacks grounding in research or intellectual stimulation. That’s why, I think, consulting will be a good hedge, especially as the constant focus on the analysis, synthesis, and communication of information play to my natural strengths.
Others of you may wonder, “Has Ngozi (or Joel) sold his soul?” My response is, “not quite.” At the end of the day, though I certainly continue to heed my good friend Joe’s advice to “Do good. Don’t just do well,” one of the lessons ALA has imparted to me (the hard way) is that you need to save yourself before you can save the world. And though upon a first glance, that last sentence may suggest that my understanding of salvation is restricted to the realm of salaries, I actually think of it to include the acquisition of transferrable skills and the broadening of horizons, perspectives, and opportunities. (Now in full disclosure, any of you who’ve heard my frustrations with ALA will correctly note that part of this newfound realization is also a retaliatory response to consistently patronizing comments about the value of the work we did at ALA by people who were far less intelligent and were much better paid in the organization solely due to their prior for-profit work experiences.)
While the past few paragraphs may seem to have glorified the potential of management consulting and the private sector, I certainly don’t intend to neglect to ponder some of its notoriously soulless objectives. If left to its own devices and incentives, conventional capitalism will never resolve the world’s most pressing issues; one only need look at the rapid development in Singapore and Qatar to see the underbelly of a one-dimensional approach. But in an increasingly globalized world with an abundance of research on the potential of deliberate efforts to bridge the gap between rich and poor, the ease of following the path of least resistance for the entirety of one’s career appears evermore guilt-ridden. For me, I’ve embraced a path of greater resistance in part because minding the gap between rich and poor has become less and less about developing an awareness of the issue of poverty. (Awareness alone is akin to television ads guilting us to save poor African children – the emotion fleets just as quickly as the toll-free number fades off the screen.) In my case, developing an understanding of how organizations, agencies, and companies strategize and operate effectively and sustainably will hopefully lead to greater insight into the types of social enterprises or CSR initiatives I hope to support or launch in the future.
After two years of grueling reflection, the first half of the hurricane has passed, and these remarks stem from its eye, just before the difficulty inherent in the second-half’s winds prepare to take me head on. But in navigating your own future paths and steps, I do implore you ask yourself, “Which similarly disorienting storms of rationale have I fought with recently?”
Looking forward to reconnecting with many of you Stateside, and looking forward to keeping in touch with all of you who’ve now been added to my annual reflections on life e-mails.
NJNious
(Prepared remarks to address to the African Leadership Academy Class of 2011 – June 16, 2011)
A blank page. That was how I conceived of the start of my two year journey at African Leadership Academy. Despite the authenticity of stories I used to construct a persona wiser than I myself believed, and despite the half-truths I deliberately stretched to lead you to believe that my time on this earth hovered around thirty years, the reality was that our shared commencement of experiences at ALA was just as significant a beginning for me as it was for you. See, you came to ALA in search of an ideal school that superseded conventional wisdom, while I followed my idealism. You came to ALA in search of a deeper and broader African identity, while I followed my global citizenship. You came to ALA in search of transformative leadership for Africa, while I followed my mere intrigue in the question. Nevertheless, our intertwined fates led us to this place at this moment in time, and while no speech of mine can vivify all of the challenges you faced in your two years here, what I can do is highlight some of the dilemmas I grappled with as a recent college graduate and hope that when you soon find yourself similarly faced with a blank page in life, you’ll be more akin to a painter standing in front of a blank canvass, guided with a vision of how she will ennoble it with her own work of distinction.
In order to find the solace of reason to be able to etch my blank page with meaning, I had to first turn the page on a daunting chapter in my life. It was only two months before coming to ALA that I had completed one of the most rigorous academic experiences in the world. In May of 2009, I left Yale with an incomprehensible diploma, an average GPA, and grave concerns about the value that I had gained from the most intense four years of my life. Having finished with nothing more than a diminished sense of self-worth and few transferable skills, the questions I pondered were similar to some that may haunt you in the coming months: what was the worth of that experience? Did I make the right decision in going there? Would it not have been better to have remained where I was before, even if the countless accolades that I received only affirmed mediocre achievement? One analogy that weighed heavily upon me then was that of a runner in a marathon. Imagine that you are a runner and you finished the race toward the middle of the pack, only finding out after the fact that, given the cards life dealt to you, even if you had trained constantly for the past twelve months, you would never have been able to compete with the top-ten runners. The thought can be so unsettling that it calls into question your entire sense of motivation. I keep some form of a journal, and I remember writing at the time,
“It makes me wonder, what does the runner do once the race is over? He rests, of course, but how does he train again? How often does he reconsider his path, his steps? When he laces his shoes for his first jog after the race, does he question why? I’m not referring to the winner, who’s filled with exuberance over his latest victory, but instead the one who struggled and (maybe) finished in the last pack. Does he question his worth? Does he question his passion? Was his mistake inherent in pursuing the glory of the marathon, rather than the mundaneness of the morning jog? Or did he know that he wasn’t destined to win? Did his fulfillment rest in his placement on the podium? Or did his achievement arrive with his first step across the finish line?”
I eventually resolved that even if he had been nowhere near winning the race, it was far better for the runner to have run the marathon since he ultimately became more disciplined in and conscientious of the skill needed, and I decided to leave the other questions unanswered, choosing not to allow truly probing questions to succumb to the expediency of my frustrations at the time.
And so began the blank page. The first thing I did was add a stroke of black. From the exterior, black was the most apparent manifestation of who I am – an unmistakable child of the African continent. And though it may seem laughable here, it wasn’t until college that I had even begun to actively embrace this most salient identity. Growing up in the United States, black wasn’t just a box ticked in the diversity section of an application, but rather was a label running deep with paradoxes. Outside of the black community, the designation connoted a limitation of life aspirations and the presupposition of intellectual inferiority; whereas inside of the black community, questions of authenticity always emerged if you didn’t “talk black” or “act black” or attribute every minuscule problem that face black America and Africans to either systematic or active discrimination dating back as far as slavery and colonization. It wasn’t until college that I encountered dozens of Africans and African Americans willing to add nuance to this discussion. And I came to Joburg and found the same – in scores of students from all over Africa and in similarly educated African and African American colleagues and friends – all of whom provided a reaffirmation of that black identity – a “black-firmation,” if you will. But at ALA, the stroke of black had to run deeper. For me, it doesn’t just symbolize an identity, but it bookmarks the abyss I found myself in upon arrival. Before we began to teach you, the leadership “curriculum” handed to us at the time was little more than a blank page. Hence, for me, the black stroke earmarks the countless cups of coffee I drank in order to research and structure a two-year curriculum. But for you, as two-year veterans of the African Studies program, I trust that the sort of questions you’ll grapple with regarding your African identity will be very different from mine. Nonetheless, let me urge you: if anyone you encounter ever suggests that, because of your background or origin, your ideas do not deserve the same degree of intellectual equity, do not entertain them. Let me repeat: do not.
I picked up that formerly blank page and, in addition to the stroke of black, found it covered with a tint of green. This tint was also twofold, denoting both my status as a greenhorn in the world of teaching and also the increasing proximity to my Nigerian heritage. Despite my very limited teaching background, I entered the Academy as the youngest member of the faculty – quite literally – and, after getting extensive guidance from some of the more experienced teachers like Ms. Holland, Ms. Davis, Ms. Gater, and Mr. Rubin, I ending up finding myself leading the school’s flagship department. Now, I’m not telling you this story to boast any accomplishments – I know I certainly could have dealt without the gray hairs it caused me – but rather, I tell you this story to underscore the ALA’s founding belief in the power of youth. I never imagined that I would be doing this in my early 20s, and armed with what we’ve taught you, I can only imagine what you’ll be doing in yours.
Now, overlaying that black stroke and green tint is a sprinkle of pink. And the pink is really interesting because it’s an aspect of my identity that I rarely speak about. But in addressing you today, I knew that I could not stand before you as one of the few openly gay members of the staff at-large and not discuss an aspect of my identity that seems to disturb, unsettle, and confuse so many of you. When faced with this dilemma of whether or not to reveal my sexual orientation to you, I found myself torn between the seminal readings examples of Don Manuel and Socrates. The Don Manuel in me is saying that it’s better off if you don’t know, as you may not be able to handle it, and the revelation itself could destroy the foundation of the relationships we’ve built over the past two years. But the Socrates in me sees it differently. The Socrates in me says that you deserve the opportunity to interrogate your beliefs when faced with what you may consider to be an unfavorable fact. See, for too long, we’ve danced around the issue. It’s easy to give little thought to our perspectives when we demonize and mystify a group that stands no closer than at arm’s length. But when the face that you begin to associate with that group is one that some of you hate, many of you respect, and all of you know, it completely alters the paradigms of the debate. And now that the cat’s out of the bag, the suspicion is out of your mind, you may be wondering, “What advice can be derived from this?” Well, I’d recommend that you embrace your hidden identities and perspectives, even if they sometimes leave you on the fringes of society. One way to challenge the society around you is by raising difficult questions that force people to see flaws in their logic. And if the mind is unwavering, then I would advise you to appeal to the heart, as sometimes emotions are more powerful than intellect in convincing others to tolerate those of a different religious backgrounds, to uphold the freedom of expression of those of a different political persuasion, and to stop the condemnation of those with nothing more than “a naturally occurring variation in the human condition.”
A stroke of black. A tint of green. A sprinkle of pink. These colors symbolize three distinct aspects of my identity that have not yielded, despite the opportunity for me to create a new persona upon moving here. In essence, the convergence of these three colors, for me, represents an identity reclaimed. These three colors also signify my impact while at ALA – the stroke of a clear structure for our two year curriculum, the tint of having set my own standards of excellence, and the sprinkle of sensible questions that push toward sound reasoning. These are the ways in which I have ennobled a blank page with my own work in spite of the weariness and fatigue of my last marathon. Class of 2011, you are at a very similar point to where I was two years ago. You sit before me today because, regardless of whether or not you won the race, you have successfully completed the marathon, and for that, I commend you. But as you leave this place and as you begin to navigate the ambiguity between given identities and chosen ideologies, societal mores and individual rights, failed promises and hazy expectations, I implore you: never leave any page as blank as you find it.
NJNious
“I wish I could go back to college…” the refrain sounds again. As the melody lofts through my head long after the YouTube clip has ended, my mind drifts to a time that was not so long ago…
…a time when the complexity of comprehension was made simple by the mere depth of research and rigor of analysis.
…a time when the navigability of opportunistic landscapes only required a clearly articulated expression of intellectual curiosity.
…a time when the necessity of deciphering to whom I can or should reveal my full identity did not exist.
…a time when my perspiration was closely aligned with my aspirations.
As the realization settles in that this time is lost, never to be repeated again, Outlook warms my heart with a message flash: “Yale Eline – 10 New Open Yale Courses”. Maybe it won’t be so hard to go back to college after all…
NJNious
It was a contemporary dance class – my second one actually – just four of us, alone with an instructor. From drag runs to spirals to suspensions, we rolled around on the floor and leapt from bare to bare wall, dancing life into the empty space. Our instructor coached us along, guiding us through each move, encouraging us to take greater risks and bigger falls. As my ankles repeatedly smacked into the tiles, and as my arms swung out of place again and again, I realized that our instructor was the only gauge of whether or not we were executing our moves properly. She kept cheering us on, but there was no way for us to know if what we were doing graced any bend of accuracy. As we continued to throw ourselves, I realized that for the first time, I found myself learning to dance with no real mirrors.
As we sat on the floor, rocking our cheeks from side, I couldn’t help but extend the parallel to my life. Before moving to the continent, the mirrors seemed to abound. In my small town, countless accolades affirming mediocre academic achievement led me to believe that I effused excellence. Armed with this confidence, I ventured off to Yale, only to watch my self-esteem crumble as a battered transcript proved the attainment of exceptionality evermore elusive. The excessive mirrors in the Have created a myriad of insecurities, as all my blemishes revealed themselves to me for the first time, narrowing the focus of my vision to nothing but the imperfections themselves.
Since moving to the continent, however, I’ve found myself ripped from those external sources of (in)validation. The complexity of navigating entirely new social horizons has often forced me to leap with nothing more than the hope of a graceful jeté; while shortly thereafter, I find myself two-stepping alongside others before slapping gumboots to the rhythm of utter confusion. I feel like I’m never quite sure which genre I am or should be dancing at any given moment, as I rarely find a piece of glass that can place my movement into context.
Oddly enough, it’s through the absence of these conventional mirrors that I seem to have regained my own footing. It was only by being forced to perform with no real preparation or time to gauge my audiences that the uniqueness of my own style and personality has taken center stage. I’ve found a new freedom of expression that reigns unchecked by the embarrassment of over-self-consciousness, and I think I like it. I’m doubtful that I’ll look at mirrors the same way again – ever. Their distortions too easily taint our perceptions of beauty and grace, and their cousins – smoky windows, puddles of water, shards of glass – unavoidably refract their own takes on our appearance. To the extent to which mirrors provide a pure reflection, I plan to use them as guides, but at the point at which they attempt to become restrictive, I’ll have no choice but to continue dancing without them.
NJNious
We pulled from the driveway at a quarter to six. The sun slept behind the early morning sky, as headlights pierced the dust, lighting the path ahead. The day broke an hour later as we reached the outskirts beyond the suburbs, with blue skies sweeping the tips of thin palm trees and lush, green hills leaping and diving in the distance, rising to meet the tar plank beneath us.
We crossed the Ogun border into Ondo state, where roadside markets stood and windowside vendors halted the pace of traffic. Hawkers of all ages dangled their goods in the air and kissed behind them, trying to win our pockets’ affection. Boxes of Gala snacks and baskets of Coca-Cola products floated beside us, while a few bananas, peanuts, and kola nuts made their way to our laps. I was excited by the prospect of tasting kola nut for the first time, as it was a renowned delicacy, traditionally shared with guests. “It’s bitter,” my aunt warned as I hurriedly peeled back the brown skin and revealed the cream-colored nut. I bit off a chunk, and I soon found myself washing down the kola nut with a cold drink and vowing to munch on my bag of peanuts until the tree-root taste was supplanted. “Bitter” had been the understatement of the trip.
Our cruise was paused shortly, as we neared a sedan teetering in a large pothole. We watched as a few shirtless Samaritans walked over to lend a hand. Each of the men gripped the car from below, tightening their perfect biceps as they began to lift. They leaned against the car, as sweat slid down the crevices of their backs into the hardly covered cracks of plum bottoms below. In rhythmic fashion, they began thrusting the car forward, shifting force from their shoulders to their waists…again…and again…and again. The bag of peanuts fell from my lap.
They eventually rocked the car and the traffic around it back onto their journeys. But the speedometer’s needle soon fell again as the stream of cars before us bottle-necked to a single lane. We slowly approached the obstruction on our left – a timber barricade sloping from a small log to a tire on the ground. Just past the barrier stood a few men, dressed in hunter-green pants with rifles adorning the shoulders of their black, button-down shirts. One of our two cars was waved to the side, only to have our driver harassed because of missing license plates and our government documents proving our compliance with the law ignored. The scene repeated itself over a dozen times throughout our journey, typically ending with a smiling officer whose pockets had fattened either with Naira or fresh bread loaves from my aunt’s bakery. (My second cousin riding in the troubled vehicle would later recount to me that a few of the cops outright told them, “I don’t want read paper; just give me money,” with one even offering to make change.) “Merry Christmas,” they blessed us as we drove away.
From Ondo, we flew through Edo, until a billboard welcomed us to Delta state. The sign was soon succeeded by half dozen more, advertising “leadership,” “principles,” and “service” from the 2011 elections salesmen. We ventured onward until white and blue street lights adorned our final stretch of the expressway. After an eleven hour drive, we had reached Asaba. We had reached home.
NJNious
I stepped off the escalator, where a sign stood before me. An arrow directed “Nigerian passports” to the left; so I took my place in the weaving line on the right. As I stood there, a familiar smell seeped from outside through the fridge-sized air conditioner near the wall. It was something I couldn’t seem to pinpoint – a fresh mix of mud and leaves with a hint of must as well. Though I couldn’t quite describe it, I found myself placing it. It was a scent that had filled my nostrils some ten years before when I was a small boy, travelling with family for the first time to visit our relatives in Nigeria. And it was the same scent that escaped my grandmother’s suitcase each time she would visit us in the U.S.
I looked at the line before me. A swath of Nigerians from the diaspora gripped blue and red passports, as a handful of white nuns and missionaries were spread between us. My eyes wandered across the center aisle, where the same sight was mirrored, save green booklets instead, and sans missionaries and nuns. My gaze was suddenly cut short as the entire room went pitch black. A loud cry of disappointment was released from the crowd at the left, while a delirious laugh of surprise erupted from the right. (I may have been the instigator…) A quilt of mobile backlights soon appeared, fading in and out of the darkness, illuminating disgruntled faces all around.
After a few minutes, the back-up generators kicked in, re-powering the immigration process. I looked again toward the left, where flatscreen monitors sat atop stainless steel kiosks, herding the crowd into rows instead of registering their re-entry into the country. I began to wonder why the more modern stalls had been substituted by the aging wooden desks just beyond them. I snicker at my short memory.
I made my way to the desk, where two officers typed my information into a different set of computers. “Welcome, my brother,” said the second officer, handing me my passport.
“Uh, thanks,” I responded, caught a bit off guard. I contemplated the gesture. Was it because I’m “pseudo-Nigerian” that he chose to welcome me; or was it because I’m “pseudo-Nigerian” that I was so surprised?
After grabbing my luggage, I walked through a militia of taxi-hawkers and stood outside. I scanned the crowd, as my eyes locked-in on two gentlemen holding a cardboard sign with bright-orange bands, dangling from their wrists. My ride was there. As we walked toward the van, we passed about four different men, each dressed in sleek, traditional attire, waving large decks of Naira, asking if I wanted to exchange money. I’d heard of micro-finance, but micro-trading? Really?
We journeyed on toward the New World Hotel at Okota, slowly dipping in and crawling out of several cow-sized potholes. As we passed stationary eighteen-wheelers and fought through yellow taxi-jams, I found myself pondering…everything. I wanted to know “what”. I wanted to understand “why”. I wanted to see “how”. I wasn’t quite sure what my questions were, but I certainly hoped that landing on Nigerian soil was the first step toward figuring it out.
NJNious
It’s rare that I choose to pursue a straight guy. As a fully realized gay man, comfortable with his sexuality, it’s often too tedious to walk through those forgotten stages of pondering, exploring, and accepting (or rejecting) with any bicurious men. There comes a point at which the extended time of discovery we afforded ourselves out of necessity becomes no more than a nuisance, prolonging a much desired embrace for which some (occasionally myself included) are too impatient to wait. But it does beget the question: if we veterans of this internal conflict are reluctant to console those currently engaged in it, who will? Isn’t it better that we equip them with adequate resources for this identity journey, as many of us crawled for ages before finding the will to run?
These questions, of course, assume that we would undertake our roles as guides with more hope than the prospect of sharing the breathtaking view when the pinnacles of mountains are reached. It also assumes that we’ll rejoice with them just the same if their own journeys glide over hills but ultimately reside in valleys instead. As a seasoned guide still yet do more than advise a wanderer, I find myself fighting the urge to summit alongside a traveller for the first time in years. Maybe it’s because the two of us have walked hand in hand several times. Maybe it’s because our strides have fallen in step on more than one occasion. Maybe it’s because we once donned backpack gear but hesitated to embark on the trip. Or maybe it’s because I’m delusional.
But is it wrong to want to come along for the hike? Is it reasonable to continually watch from the base while others climb? I’m starting to think it’s not. After all, sometimes the most seasoned trailblazers make the best accompanying guides.
Well, regardless of whether or not you take the steps, I’ll be right behind you my friend. Despite how far away I am, my hand will always rest at the small of your back, ready to usher you in whatever direction you choose.
NJNious
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