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‘The curriculum needs to be more relevant to society,' she said, pouring forth on the university's defects. ‘The lecturers were more dedicated to work then than they are now. They used to reward excellence, but now people read to pass. They no longer read to know. We turn out graduates that cannot meet with world standards unless they do their own work privately . . . I think the teachers stifle creativity. Some lecturers don't allow you to do your own thinking . . . the timetable doesn't give you time to do your work. You lose interest when time is squeezed . . . they fix lecture times to suit their own personal schedules. It's not easy to plan your time.'

Faith showed me the English department's library. Housed in a room the size of a small classroom, the shelves lining the four walls contained fewer books than I will personally accrue in my lifetime.

‘There are recent books that you cannot find in the library,' Faith said.

‘How do you get hold of the books you need?'

‘We had classes on
The Color Purple
and they told us to write an essay about it . . .' Faith paused disdainfully. ‘I have not seen the book.'

Lecturers were reduced to photocopying literature and selling it to students. They devoted significant proportions of their time and mental energy trying to supplement their measly incomes. Teaching students is no longer the sole focus when the department struggles even to afford a handful of new books.

‘We should make deals with publishers to give us access to books,' Faith said. ‘But lecturers don't do that. They're not interested.'

Faith said the lecturers give themselves priority access to the department's sole computer. It has a constant power supply, but only the faculty are allowed to use its Internet twenty-four hours a day. ‘They say it's for writing their papers, but
we
need it too,' she complained. However, university life had its positives, Faith insisted. Since attending UI, she had learned how to write poetry, and had quickly outgrown her childlike diffidence and gone on to become student president. ‘I didn't know I could be a leader until I came to UI,' she said. ‘I saw a need. No one was contesting the election, and I thought, “Do I just leave it to anyone who wants it, or do I make a difference?” I was scared of failure but I decided to conquer that fear.' After graduation, Faith hoped to be a professional poet, writing essays and dramas ‘for the people', but she doubted whether living in Nigeria would allow her to realise her dreams.

‘It seems that Nigerian writers who make it are from the diaspora. I want to write a book, but I'm scared. Will I be able to publish it? People don't seem to want to read books by Nigerians living in Nigeria. Do I have to travel abroad for people to like my work?' Faith was referring to successful US-based writers such as Chimamanda Adichie and Helon Habila. She cited Kaine Agary's
Yellow-Yellow
as a book that's similar to Adichie's but didn't enjoy the same publicity. ‘If Agary had published the book in the US, Nigerians would have taken an interest in it.'

Faith wasn't sure how successful she could be within Nigeria when people can't afford books. Adichie's award-winning
Half of a
Yellow Sun
costs
1,500 – half a day's salary for some. ‘Because of that the reading culture is poor. People say, “I don't have enough money to eat . . . you expect me to spend
2,000 on a book that I will finish in three days?”' Faith wanted to leave Nigeria to pursue her writing ambitions. Her dream was to take the GRE exams and get a master's degree in the US. Achieving that, however, was a mountainous proposition both financially and in light of academic standards.

In my student days, my plans and ambitions were unfettered by any sense of limitation. I felt able to do anything, travel anywhere, pursue any line of work. Age has reduced my hubris and eroded my optimism to a more realistic level, but Faith appeared to have bypassed all that, and had the anxieties and resignation of someone much older than twenty. Tears collected in her eyes when she told me that a cult member had thrown acid in her sister's face after she refused to date one of his friends.

‘Do you want to get married soon?' she asked me out of the blue.

‘When the right person comes along,' I told her. ‘Do you?'

She looked down at the ground. ‘I've not seen an example of marriage that makes me want to settle down. People have so many expectations from other people. We don't know how to manage with what we get. We see Hollywood movies and we expect to get what we see from them. But the reality is hard.'

We strolled along the campus's spacious open-air corridors. The optimism of the 1960s still lingered in its modernist architecture. A bespectacled student called Ifisayo joined us and showed me around their halls of residence, built in 1948 but not expanded to accommodate the country's swelling student population. Two students occupied rooms that had originally been singles, while four people were herded into twins. Ifisayo shared his single room with two others. During the day they stacked their mattresses on top of one another to create breathing space and a chance to sit at his computer.

‘Private investors should build student accommodation,' Faith suggested.

The balconies were strewn with laundry lines and old stoves where the students cooked food if their floor lacked a kitchenette. We stared out over the courtyard. Undergraduates were chatting happily, carrying the burden of their financial worries lightly. Nearly all of them spent their spare time raising cash. A few of the girls walked around campus with a triumphant, coquettish bounce in their stride. They're the ones who are flown by politicians and corporate Big Men to Abuja and Lagos to accessorise their parties and provide sexual services. A weekend and a few blow jobs later, these girls return to campus wearing fancy clothes and fresh hair weaves. The majority of students find other ways to raise cash: making beads, baking cakes, selling mobile phone recharge cards, typing and photocopying for colleagues, printing and designing fliers, travelling across the country to beg wealthier relatives to assist them with their
50,000 annual tuition fees.

Was it possible to enjoy student life under the circumstances?

‘Oh yes,' Faith smiled. ‘We don't want to let things take their toll on us.'

‘So what do you do for fun?'

‘If you come tomorrow we're putting on a dog show on campus.'

 

I returned to UI the next morning, a dewy, sun-drenched Saturday. The campus reverberated with the sounds of smacked cricket and basketballs, and tae kwon do groups grunting and kicking the air. I was excited about watching a dog show, although I'm not a lover of dogs. I find little charm in their excitability, funky-smelling fur, hot fetid breath, and eyes that glisten with an irritating mawkishness. It's always been a source of personal pride that Nigerians don't love dogs quite the way the English do. Nigerian canines know their place and, thankfully, are emotionally independent. They trot
around the margins of society without bothering anyone around them, in refreshing contrast to their Western counterparts who will bound up to any random stranger for a hug, tummy tickle or breathless French kiss.

Learning that Ibadan students were partaking in the dog-loving madness should have disappointed me, but after the previous day's tour of the university's decline, I needed confirmation that the apocalypse was at arm's length.

For several years now, the university's veterinary students have held a dog show at the end of each academic year, sponsored by a dog food company. They had ring-fenced a section of the playing fields with a line of colourful triangular flags. At the registration desk I met the lead organiser, a fresh-faced student called Oyelami Oyetunde.

‘Ken Saro-Wiwa was my idol at school,' he told me. He said he enjoyed reading
Mr. B Goes to Lagos
, one of my father's children's books. It was heartening to know that someone as young as him knew who my father was.

‘What do you think of UI?' Oyelami asked.

‘I like it,' I replied. ‘It's nice to see everyone carry on as normal despite the financial hardship.'

‘Well, we have to.' Oyelami smiled.

All the students looked like they were having fun. The hip-hop song ‘Who Let the Dogs Out' thundered out of loud speakers, followed by D'banj's ubiquitous ‘Booty Call' – I must have heard that song at least five times a day on my trip so far. A student danced to it, shaking his arse in front of a female friend who looked on in mock disdain. As their classmates play-fought one another and giggled endlessly, a boy of around seven wandered among them carrying a tray of peanuts on his head. He was so much younger than the students, yet comparatively sombre in demeanour, his instinct for horseplay overridden by his need to earn a living. For him, Saturday was just an ordinary workday.

Nearly two hours after the show was scheduled to begin, competitors began arriving with their dogs at the registration desk. A particularly vicious pit bull, which had lunged violently at a student earlier on, paced around the gated verandah of a nearby building. Thankfully, it was kept on a chain leash.

On the edge of the field, a muscular man with ‘Prosperity' tattooed on his shoulder swaggered about with his large alter-ego of a bull mastiff. I realised then that nearly all the dogs entered in the competition were either rottweilers, pit bull terriers, Alsatians or mastiffs, many of which were tethered by metal chain leashes; there were very few toy breeds about.

‘Why are all the dogs aggressive breeds?' I asked Tobi Opanuga, the dark, stocky event coordinator.

‘I don't know. I think maybe rottweilers and Alsatians are cheaper,' he suggested as the animals growled at each other and salivated menacingly. The white pit bull lunged at someone for a second time near the pyramid of canned dog food.

‘Please, take your dogs back,' a student organiser advised.

‘I'm not comfortable with that,' said a buck-toothed girl, nervously eyeing the dog.

‘Just relax!' her colleague told her with a carefree giggle.

At the registration desk, the organisers recorded the dogs' weight. They did this by first weighing the owner on a set of bathroom scales, then asking the owners to cradle their pets and recording their combined weights. One student crouched cheekily on all fours while his classmates tied a pink ribbon around his neck and lifted him onto the scales. Their fun was disrupted when the mastiff lunged at the pit bull. It put everyone on edge. We eyed the pit bull anxiously as its owner muzzled its white face and held it on the scales. Then a massive Alsatian jerked its head under the registration desk, prompting two girls to scoop up their chairs in panic and step back, tittering nervously.

A crowd of about 500 spectators gathered behind the cordon
lines in the sports field. The music stopped playing, and the MC (one of the veterinary students) asked everyone to pray before the competition began. During the initial confirmation stage, each owner brought their dog to the judges' table to be inspected for pedigree and appearance. I expected the dogs to adopt the fastidious positioning I'd seen at dog shows in Britain, their heads held at a regal angle and their hind legs stretched backwards. But, true to Nigerian tradition, the dogs weren't trained to stand still, let alone pose, which made an entertaining change from the exactitudes of the UK Kennel Club.