1000 miles away from Lagos

This is the aspect of my job that doesn’t involve spreadsheets, stilettos, boardrooms and whatnots.

I daresay it is the aspect I enjoy most, too. Not just because I get to explore the exurbs and the kind of nature you rarely get in the city, but because I get to witness and shoot moments that define the stories I write. It is usually thrilling, and I’ll tell you more.

In my line of work, it is not uncommon to curate stories on communities that have been alienated from the reality of decent existence. These are the ones who do not know what it means to benefit from the largesse of representative democracy. Ask them what they think about good governance, and they can’t relate; because they have never experienced one.

They thrive on communal support and feed off crumbs of goodwill from their representatives. Occasionally, they receive acts of benevolence from CSOs that are committed enough to see their needs and generous enough to extend support. Commendable, but this is not enough.

So that morning, before setting out to capture moments for your next story, you’d expect to meet a people so blinded by their needs that they can’t exude any modicum of happiness. You’d expect to see their sorrows written on their foreheads because their reps have chosen to be irresponsible. However, what you meet is completely different. So picture this. You are speaking to the Baale of one of the communities in question, and he tells you he doesn’t want to fight, he only wants to plead with the government to do right by its people. He boasts briefly about using his funds to build a health centre in his community, and you nod in awe. He is not angry; he is just dissatisfied and hopeful.

The Iyalode picks the story from that point. She narrates how difficult it is for pregnant women to access quality healthcare. She looks sad and worried; yet after telling her tale, she still invites you and your team for bushmeat and palmwine.

In another part of that same community, you sit with three young men who boast about the wells they’ve dug in time past for communal benefit. However, they beg you to tell the government that they could use a borehole because the wells dry up fast and people are left to walk far distances to fetch water. After the brief talk, they package some products from their harvest for you to take back into the city.

On your way out, you meet a group of kids playing ten-ten. They pause their play when they see you, and one of them summons the courage to ask you for a picture since you are holding a camera. Smitten by their cute little faces, you too can’t resist.

As you drive out of the village, you see the smiles plastered on their faces and the hope dancing in their eyes. They wave and tell you to come back again, but only with good news.

At this point, you know it is left to you, the storyteller, to tell those who care enough to read your story, that these people are nothing like you pictured.

They are nowhere near defeated, and their sorrows have not formed piles of trash in their hearts.

They expect better from the government, but the little they have mean so much more. Regardless of what they lack, they live.

©IyanuFatoba